the slack daily

Cro-Slackdon.

Will has been gone less than 24 hours.

I have already ceased:

• Showering (I showered last night before I went out. I think. No, I'm pretty sure.)
• Brushing my hair. (That's what fingers are for!)
• Eating. (Protein bar + edamame + wine = balanced meal, yes?)
• Putting on pants. (I did wear my pajama bottoms outside, though. I am not a complete heathen.)

By Saturday will I have donned the tinfoil hat and kleenex box slippers? Only time will tell. Don't forget, BetheMarriage LIVE! (On Ice!) will go on with guest host Oslowe (aka Will, Deux.)

Citizens Against Inaccurate IDs. (CAII!!!!!!!!!!)

According to Jenny the Bloggess, today is Blog Action Day.   Jenny's tackled the issue of Amputee Porn For All, and I don't think I can add more to her well-reasoned argument except to say that my husband has long been a proponent of porn for the less fortunate. 

But today, I'm going to take my own stand, and start my own coalition.  It's called Citizens Against Inaccurate IDs.  Or CAII!!!!!!!!!!!! for short.  Because that's what Ninjas sound like before they rend the flesh from your bones.  (Those are Ninjas, right?)

I recently had the misfortune of having to renew my Driver's License at the DMV. The last time I had to do this it was 2002; my body was about 30 pounds thinner and my bank account was 30 pounds heavier.  I thought that life didn't get better than that.  Until I stood in line waiting to get my picture taken. 

A Mentally Retarded Gentleman struck up a conversation with me.  I'm always thankful when people start conversations with me in public, as I have a tendency to talk to myself, forgetting that I'm not at home in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of torn panties tippy-tapping at the keyboard talking out character voices and plot points while silently wondering where that last pair of sweatpants went. (Answer: they disintegrated.) 

But here I was out in public at the DMV, although still sans pants (I was wearing a skirt as I had already ventured out, so I might as well make a day of it.)  In fact, I was wearing a skirt, a pair of motorcycle boots, and my bright green Lucky Charms "Magically Delicious" t-shirt and someone thought I looked pleasant enough to talk to.  I turned and smiled and he told me that he was here to get his ID taken.  I responded that I was here to get my Drivers' License photo.  We crept up, person by person, toward the front.

Right before I was called forward to get my photo taken, the my Partner in DMV Conversation Crime looked me up and down and said

I bet you are Magically Delicious.

And then he smiled.

I blinked once, twice, and realized I had just gotten sexually harassed by a Mentally Retarded Guy.

My license came out looking like this:

Last week, I went to the DMV.  Yesterday, I got this in the mail:

You know what's wrong with this picture?

It's better than I look on a daily basis.

When I get pulled over, stuffed in my too-tight coffee-stained jeans 'cause I'm too poor and stubborn to buy new ones, a faded and ripped Aqua Teen Hunger Force T-shirt, my greasy hair piled on top of my head and my glasses askew from hitting myself in the eye with the straw from my iced coffee, I'm going to be arrested for stealing that nice Nina Bargiel's pink Mini Cooper and Driver's License.  As I'm hauled off to LA County Women's Correctional Facility, I will scream wildly but I'm the slackmistress! and people will shake their heads sadly and murmur that woman would never get hit on by a Mentally Retarded Gentleman.

When I get out of prison, I will end up having to do fake Amputee Porn to pay my bills.  Thankfully, Jenny's got me covered.

...

When it comes to global poverty - a subject that I know little about (not because I don't care, mind you, but because I prefer to work on issues closer to home where I can see my direct influence, because I am selfish and petty and oh yeah, I like dogs) one of my favorite organizations is Heifer International.   Find out what they do here.  Around the holidays, I have been known for getting people cows and pigs and sheep because honestly, a water buffalo is way more awesome and how many soap-filled gift baskets can one person get?

What a Difference Having Your Jaw Sawed Off Your Head and Bionically Reattached Makes.

And don't forget:

Will has the details and the FAQ here.

On Dogwalkers & Live Chats.

My previous post reminded me of an incident that took place about eight years ago.  The year was 2000, and I was living in one of those huge, soulless apartment buildings in Hollywood where all of the units looked exactly the same.  Master bedroom with enclosed bathroom on one side and slightly smaller bedroom with adjacent bathroom on the other flanked a shared living room and galley kitchen.  This place boasted huge ceilings and beautiful (faux) wood floors, but the fact is that was straight out of Apartments 'r Us. 

The reason Older Slackbrother J. and I had elected to live there is that they didn't bat an eye about me owning a three legged pit bull named Peanut.

In fact, the landlord wasn't particularly picky about anyone who lived there, so we had the virtual societal salad of couples and hookers and drug dealers and old people  and a ton of strippers. (In fact, a date that once picked me up remarked hey, you live in the stripper building!)  Being just around the corner from Sunset Blvd. (not the nice part) we were also around the corner from three or four strip clubs. 

In the morning, sans makeup, (and usually sans underwear)  I would crawl out of bed, throw on some amalgamation of clothes (or a robe over my PJs), grab my glasses and walk Peanut.  On the way to the elevator, I'd usually run into two or three girls returning home from the night shift.  They'd coo at the dog, I'd nod politely (it was too early for small talk) and we'd all be on our way.

When I returned home in the evening, I'd repeat the process, except this time I was fully makeup'd and had my contacts in, and my clothes took n a more matching quality since I had worn them to work that day.  The same two or three girls would be heading off to work, and I'd greet them in the hallway.  They'd coo over Peanut, and we'd be on our way.

...except one evening, when one of the girls stopped me.

You're so sweet, she told me, but your morning dogwalker?  She's kind of a bitch.  And not exactly cute, if you know what I'm sayin.

I don't have a ---ooohhh. 

They looked at me, confused.

I'll talk to her, I promised.

They gave Peanut one last pat and were on their way.

...

And it's that time again...

Join Will & I tonight at 8pm PST on Ustream.tv!

If I Didn't Shower, I'd be Eva Frickin' Mendes.

Wednesdays I work my shift at the gym. They usually go something like this:

9:37pm [Tuesday night]: Awesome, I'll get to bed in a couple of minutes and rock out seven hours of sleep!
9:42pm: I need to stop saying things like rock out.
9:47pm: The kids don't say "rock out" anymore, do they?
11:47pm: After an exhaustive google search, a smattering of MySpace pages, an IM conversation with a friend's daughter and four glasses of wine - a medical necessity on the last part. (I need to dull my senses before feasting my retinas on the visual vomit that is the 'Space so I don't collpase into an epileptic seizure.)
12:02am: bedtime!
1:14am: If I fall asleep now, I can get three hours of sleep.
2:49am: I am totally awake. But I still get two more hours.  Score!
4:46am: [ALARM]
5:01am: Dear Ex-Agent: I hope you come down with a raging case of crotch scorpions.

Then it's off to work.  I shower, in the sense that I stand naked, half-asleep under the showerhead like a post-roofie cocktail sorority girl.  I needed to wash my hair yesterday, as I was walking that fine line between super shiny and can I get grease with that?, but, y'know, I was going to work at the gym.  Where I rent spin shoes to people.  Where I pick up sweaty towels.  The only glamorous part is when famous people sweat on me (this esteemed list includes: Nicole Kidman, Alicia Silverstone, and Justin Timberlake.)

In short: I look like a sleep-deprived chubby, greasy-haired zombie who's just been through a gangbang with with bunch of ultramarathoners who have neglected to shower post-race.

(But, y'know, I have a good personality.)

Post-work, I headed out to the grocery store to pick up stuff for dinner.  I needed to hit both the Ralph's and the Trader Joe's, so I pointed my car East toward LaBrea where the stores are located across the street from each other.  I was in the Trader Joe's in the dairy aisle (picking up feta cheese for that evening's greek chicken salad) when I noticed him staring at me. 

He caught me looking and looked away, so I took a moment to study his face.  I may forget your name, but I never forget a face.  Nope, not even remotely familiar.  Slight fauxhawk, big sunglasses. Sort of generic hipster.  I continued shopping.  I could feel him still staring at me, and I began to wonder if maybe he was a blog reader?  The only place I ever ran into readers was in the Trader Joes.

I reached over someone to grab a package of smoked turkey breast when I realized that someone was him.  He smiled.

I'm sorry, he told me, I can't stop staring.  I find myself inexplicably drawn to you.  He had a slight British accent.

Maybe I look like your sister, I responded, none-too-helpfully.

He laughed.  I shouldn't say inexplicably, he said.  Actually, you're totally my type. I just, I've never seen someone who just was completely my type.

His voice shook a bit. I realized he was nervous.

Is that crazy? he asked, I would ask--

I held up my left hand.  Thank you so much, I told him, but I'm married.

He laughed, almost relieved.

Okay, then.  He turned to walk away.  Wait.

I waited.

Happily? he asked.

Happily, I responded.

He's a lucky man.  And you can't blame a bloke for trying!

We went our separate ways.  I was at the checkout when he finished up at the checkout a few aisles down, and he waved as he left. 

Clearly the key to sexiness is looking like you don't give a shit.  If I hadn't showered, I'd be Eva frickin' Mendes.

... Also: a many thanks to The Bloggess for listing me as one of the people who she'd want at her dinner party.  I don't think I'll steal a baby, since they can't hold their liquor.  Showering is currently undecided.

The Real Seven Dwarves.

You know when you pose for a picture, a picture with some of your favorite people and you think I cannot wait to see how this turns out because you are feeling extra special cute?  Sure, you've had five hours of sleep in the last two days and have spent the majority of your awake time cleaning and cooking and dusting the light fixtures that hang from the twelve foot ceilings in your hallway on your tippytoes with a rag at the end of a stick, knocking lead paints chips onto the floor in a delicious, delicious trail worthy of Hansel & Gretel. 

But you have a flower in your hair and your chin is tipped in what you imagine is a jaunty pose, at just the right angle so that the sun pouring in from the window behind you bathes your face in a fine, sweaty sheen, your eye makeup leaking off your orbs like the last girl left sans a VIP Pass (and herpes) in Rock of Love.   The sense of euphoria from the seven Pomegrante-Ginger Champagne Cocktails you've consumed in the past four hours is like the warm embrace of a long-lost friend, and wanting to curl up and reconnect you tuck one leg under the other, even though you are wearing a skirt.  Because you may be extra-special cute, but you are earthy.  And real. And flaunt convention.  The whisper of a smile, partially a smirk, partially playful, a little I-know-something-you-don't know meets Gisele Bunchen except that I am not hawking perfume, I am hawking love.  And friendship.  And extra-special cuteness.

So you add up all of those wonderful little moments, those gifts, you mix it all together and then the photo looks like this:

(Check out the TDR's blog for the full size!)

Bad photos of me aside, it was a pleasure to host a surprise wedding shower for Randi of The Daily Randi and Mike of Make Mine Mike.  Although next time when Mike says let's pose for a picture! agree, and then grab the nearest trash bag to wear as a jaunty ski mask, for fear of looking like Sweaty, Exhausted, Tipsy, & Chunky - four of the Seven Dwarves. (Broke, Beaten, and Rehab came later.)

Of course, the fat knees wouldn't be such a problem if I could resist the siren's song of the CUPCAKES OF DELICIOUSNESS made by Hilary, of Superjux and Nosh With Me!  My stomach and taste buds thank you.  (My thighs curse your name!)  They were also our "Pimp of the Week" on BetheMarriage LIVE! (On Ice).  For all you cupcake fetishists (or girls-eating-cupcake-fetishists) you will be privvy to the highlight shortly.  And by "shortly" I mean "when I get around to it."


Also: Thank you Jenny the Bloggess for featuring Will's First Detective Post in her column Good Mom/Bad Mom column in the Houston Chronicle!

Who Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

My friend Carla and I always said that once we hit 65, we were retiring to Florida and bagging groceries at adjoining registers at the Piggly-Wiggly.  It was between that and wearing a turban, drinking martinis by the pool and banging the pool boy.

Now that I'm married, so the pool boy scenario is out.  The Piggly Wiggly is still a strong prospect, as is the Slackmistress' Home for Elderly Pit Bulls.  Maybe somewhere in there Will and I will become the couple at the ballpark who shakes their angry fist at those damned kids while gumming our shared bag of peanuts.

Today I had my first eye exam in four years so they insisted on dilating my pupils*.   I forgot my sunglasses, so I had to rock the little old lady sunglasses for the way home.

The Ghost of Christmas Future:

Part Roy Orbison, part Whatever-Happened-to-Baby-Jane?

What kind of old person d'you want to be?

*Check out the email I sent Will from my Blackberry here.  And please use the term "afterboob" at least once today. 

Not Truthy, Just Lazy.

Notes:

1. Dear Crafters: I kid because I love. I am crafty only in the Beastie Boys sense, so I am jealous of people who can Make Stuff.
2. As if the screen grab above isn't hot enough, check out the one at YouTube.
3. JustJENN Designs can be found here.
4. The Self-Portrait Truthiness Project can be found here.
5. I am trying out Viddler, because you can make comments within the video, and I think that's just peachy.  However, I will continue to use and upload at YouTube and blip.tv if you'd prefer to watch there.  I'm good that way.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow, Revisited.

I told the stylist at Floyd's that I wanted a slightly-longer than chin-length bob.

Louise Brooks style? she asked.

You mean angled?

Yup.

Sure.

She showed me exactly how much she planned on cutting off and I nodded.  Then I took off my glasses, she turned the chair around so I couldn't see my reflection and started cutting.

Not chin length.

Oddly - or not oddly - enough this is where Will got his buzz cut a few months back. Perhaps there's some supernatural force about the place, a sort of short-hair vortex?

I know it'll look fine in a few weeks.  And technically, it's a great haircut.  Just not on me.  I look like a chubby  pinheaded girl.  My thought is always that "it's just hair" but I really, really hate this.  And I get to meet Will's entire family tomorrow as well as a bunch of Internet friends on Monday feeling this way.

Maybe makeup and a cocktail would help?

And a shout-out to Giu, who noted the following resemblance:

New Rules for Haircuts:

 

1. Wear glasses
2. Measure twice, cut once.
3. Louise, I love you but I will never invoke your name around a pair of scissors again.