I hate blogs.

spookyaudio

Wed, 17 Feb 2010 12:03:35 -0800

This is a short audio excerpt I did of Spooky Little Girl--After spending three days recording it, I realized I sound like a complete asshole on tape. I recalled a letter I got several years ago from a woman who saw me read at the LA Times Festival of Books.
“Dear Laurie,” it began, and went on to say, “I had you pegged as a wise voice. After all, what else could I imagine from the truthful and funny stuff you write about. I must say when you took the stage I was horror struck! Your voice was not supposed to be that way! It's not that it's bad...it just sounds so...whiny? I don't know. Anyway, the reason I say "Thanks A Lot" is because now I have to change the voice in my head when I read your books. Maybe it's my own fault. I should not have gone to see you.”
She also yelled at me because it took her 20 minutes to find a parking space. Seriously. That’s a real letter.

While recording this and listening to my invisible twin garble phrase after phrase for three days in a row, I began wondering if maybe she wasn’t all that wrong and maybe I could have cosmetic surgery on my voice to have, say, Natalie Portman or Scarlett Johanssen’s inserted into my neck. It would be delightful, I thought, to have a clean, even voice, a little husky, very sexy. Recording audio would be a breeze! Who wouldn’t get sick of those girls talking for days on end?
But then, I realized, if I changed my voice, my husband wouldn’t flinch so badly when he heard it, no one on the phone would know who I was when I said, “Hey, it’s me,” and the impersonation I do of my mother that infuriates her would be ruined forever. Natalie Portman can’t do my mom. Only my voice can.
So I guess I’m sorry. You’re stuck with me. And if it turns out you like my voice and don’t think it’s quite so “whiny,” feel free to drop me a line, would you? :) I still can’t do anything about the parking, though.

Rise From the Dead, Mr. Whipple, And Save your ass-wipe

Fri, 20 Mar 2009 11:59:43 -0700

i just saw a commercial for charmin extra strong--for people who don't like toilet paper that leaves PIECES behind. It’s a cartoon, which depicts a mother bear chasing her unruly offspring up a tree as she tries in vain to pick pieces of “snowflakes” off his ass. The snowflakes, it is then revealed, are not something pleasant--they are, indeed, pieces of residue. To prove what they meant by “pieces”, the commercial actually demonstrated,
with the use of a sticky surface and toilet paper, how dingle berries are born, which was pretty much the way I suspected they were born, being that I’ve never had the opportunity to see that sort of action in person. The new extra-strong Charmin left nothing behind, thus ensuring it’s user the freedom to climb trees without having your mother attempt to pick contaminated bathroom tissue off of your anus.
Then in the cartoon, the young bear shakes its behind (now dingleberry free) at the
camera to prove how saucy a young bear who can actually wipe himself without residual disaster can be. Now, I actually had a friend who saw this commercial and was so appalled by it that abandoned Charmin and switched brands all together. I, however, couldn't do that. I am a Charmin disciple, I'd rather have my ass surgically removed than move onto another brand. I love Charmin, but i do agree that this latest ad campaign is questionable, although I do gleefully delight in it's lewd message. Seriously, though--unless you're an adult film star and an overly-aggressive wiper, I don't see how this can become such a problem that a whole different
genre of toilet paper needs to be invented. I mean, if your b-hole is so sticky it can double as adhesive, then maybe you need to forgo a paper product all together and go back to cloth diapers, or go Afghani (although if that is your choice, I do believe you do need to wear a T-shirt expressing your lifestyle
change so people can avoid interaction and hand to hand combat with you).
You know, as much as I am pleased to admit it, dingleberries haven't ruined my life, social or private,
and I don't recall ever once sitting on the pot with a feeling of despair and the need to scream, "God damnit! If only this toilet paper was STRONGER!" I'm not sure who the market is for this product, but if dingleberries are this much of an issue, it certainly is not the only one.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBNcQgkXEWE

There they are. Lurking just below the surface.

Thu, 12 Mar 2009 22:38:21 -0700

Several weekends ago, my husband and I went to go and see "the Reader"
starring (guess) Kate Winslet. Now, I had heard that she gets naked
again in this movie (no surprise there, honestly--I think she has two
movies where her boobs remained contained and secure--the one about
peter pan and the one where she kills her friend's mother). So I
expected nudity. I knew it would be there, and I figured that i should
just consider this movie as a late birthday present to my husband, I
mean, a 10-foot long Kate Winslet knocker is a gift in itself, right?
So we went, and to be honest, even I was a little put back--I mean,
she's naked, naked, then naked some more, then naked some more. Her
character basically spends and hour naked for the first part of the
film. I AM NOT KIDDING. But she's naked and having sex with a teenage
boy, which I determined was not only a birthday gift, but a Christmas
gift as well. It was the gift that kept on giving. I saw her boobs so
much I became desensitized to them, and I think the only thing that
could have shocked me by the hour's end was if she put out a fire with
them. After the movie was over, my husband and I walked out in
silence, even though I had planned to say, "Well, happy birthday, that
should be enough to last you until Revolutionary Road," I didn't. He
wasn't saying anything, and I thought that was odd, until we got in
the car and he said, "Having two kids was not especially kind to Kate
Winslet's boobies," and I just started to laugh. And then he paid me a
compliment that I will not repeat here, except to say that after 15
years of battling Kate Winslet, it appears that although she is still
prettier than I am, skinnier than I am, richer than I am and sexier
than I am, I win the boobie prize.

Thank you, honey.

Sun, 8 Mar 2009 13:23:46 -0700

So last night, we didn't end up going to the movies because dinner wasn't ready until almost
eight, so we decided to stay inside and see what we could scrounge up on hbo,
tivo or netflix "for free." As I was cleaning the kitchen, my husband sadly
reported that there was nothing good on cable, so I was a little disappointed
about that. Then he piped up a moment later and said, "Wait a minute! Oh my god!
The Will Farrell thing is on when he plays Bush! This is great! I'll pause it!"
I agreed, it's an HBO special that has been advertised for weeks called "You're
Welcome, America" and is Farrell playing in all sorts of scenarios as Bush.
Pausing it meant that it was ALREADY ON, and that we wouldn't have to wait!
Since my husband had already turned down my idea of going to the dessert
restaurant for chocolate and dessert wine because he "was tired after cooking"
(imagine that), I decided that I would get together a "diet dessert" for myself,
which included a cup of sugar cookie tea (that's another story) and an Oreo pop
tart. Yes, I know, none of it was diet, but in comparison to the dessert place,
it was about 1/20th of the calories, so I splurged. I got my sugar cookie tea
ready, got a little napkin for my pop tart and PREPARED MYSELF FOR LAUGHTER.
So I went into the living room, where the show was already indeed on paue, and
sat down. My husband started the show. He had already, apparently, zoomed
through all of the eight minutes of HBO crap/previews that precede every single
HBO show, and I was grateful. Let's get to the meat! And it started, and Will
Farrell was both Crawford Ranch Bush and then Oval Office Bush, and they were
asking each other questions. I was savoring my pop tart. I wanted to pace myself
through out the show. Bush and Bush were bantering back and forth, and I was
enjoying it. I knew it was going to be a great show and that we were so lucky to
catch it, because we usually miss these things. My brain is actually a
collander--unless the piece of information is bigger than a bone or a gigantic flap of chicken skin, it's going to slip through. Guaranteed. Anyway, so we're
watching this skit, and then, it ends. It was funny, onto the next one. But
instead, what flashes on the screen is "WILL FARRELL: YOU'RE WELCOME, AMERICA!
PREMIERING MARCH 14".
I didn't say anything to my husband, because I wanted to see how long it would
take for him to figure it out. Sometimes, I swear he's on a delay from east
coast to west. The other night, he gasped when we were watching the Top Chef
reunion and a horn blared, the screen went black and then words starting
scrolling across the screen. Then he actually said, "Oh, no!" and began reading
the first couple of words OUT LOUD. I'm sure he was getting ready to sprint into
the basement to find some cover. I just thought--I have grown up with these
shitty "This is a test of the emergency broadcast system. This is only a test"
messages breaking through all of my TV shows at the absolutely most critical
moments (for example, on Top Chef Reunion, the cameras caught Hosea and Leah getting together and
playing kissy face, even though they both have significant others, and they were
being asked what impact that footage, which was played over and over again so
many times I'm surprised it's still intact--had on their romantic relationships
at home. Now, I will never know. All I know is that I was being alerted to the fact that the horn sound should scare you if there’s an emergency, but in this case there is no emergency, it’s just the scary horn sound that has made the entire population with the exception of my husband so destimulated to it that playing this test over and over will probably kill more people than if we had never played the horn at all and let it be a big, scary, huge surprise). In fact, if a tornado was
rambling toward my house or a tsunami was about to sweep away my hut, I think I'd
stay put simply out of spite, almost as a big middle finger for having to put up
that "eminent domain" sort of mindset those Emergency Broadcast System test
people seem to have, as in, “You can’t make me leave my house. I have realized you are only a horn, and you only have the power of a horn. Get back to my show or I’ll just put Tivo on.”

So, I took at least two more bites out of my Pop Tart before my husband realized
that we had settled into a night on the couch with snacks, pillows and the dog
just to watch a three-minute commercial. For a show that's going to be on. Next
week. Or maybe even the week after. I don't know. To be on the safe side, I'm
going to TIVO it.

Smarty Pants

Tue, 10 Feb 2009 17:11:55 -0800

So that up there is the new concept vehicle for Toyota, due out sometime in 2010. It’s cute. Looks like a Smart Car. I think they're cute, but I'm not sure if I'd want one---I drive Mae
around a lot, and it would be impractical to shove a little dog in a
backseat no bigger than a lunchbox---But I saw a Smart Car on the road the other day as I was driving to
Portland--it was just putting along the highway with all of the other cars, when suddenly, I had the strongest urge to run it off the road, just
because I could. Kind of like stomping on an ant. I don't know what
came over me, but I did emit an excessively evil laugh. Kind of like, "I could
crush you, but I choose not to. Oh, the power I behold over you, SmartCar." I half expected to look down and see that I was wearing a Dalmation coat.
This new concept car kind of reminds me of a Flinstone car, but with a floor board.
PS: I don’t go around crushing ants, I swear. Ok, I’ll clarify: Only if they come in my house, but that means they have crossed a line and are staging an invasion, and I, as the ruler of my sovereign house, feel compelled to defend my territory. They must be crushed, or others will follow. I learned this after my sister and her kids were visiting on vacation. On the morning that we were getting ready to leave for the coast, my nephew David was ignoring my “YOU BOUNCE THAT BALL OF YOUR BROTHER’S HEAD ONE MORE TIME, DAVID, AND I”M GOING TO HANDCUFF YOU” rule when he bounced a soccer ball off my coffee table and knocked over my sister’s Starbucks cup, which contained a pound of sugar diluted with a half cup of coffee and some milk. She had taken exactly one sip when the spill occurred, sending the equivalent of corn syrup all over the living room rug and splashing the couch. We thought we cleaned it up pretty well, but when we returned, I opened the front door and realized that my rug had turned black and my sofa had become Ant Mountain.
It took three weeks of strategy and full-time attacks to get rid of them. I had to resort to some tactics of middle age warfare, including lining the front of my house with ant bodies on toothpicks. It turns out you can’t be kind to ants and use reason with them; they just don’t get it. You have to poison them like Jonestown. Oh, the power I behold.

BEWBIES BEWBIES BEWBIES

Wed, 4 Feb 2009 11:45:58 -0800

So I was summoned, and went, for my annual mammogram today and....(prepare yourselves) did not hurt. It did
NOT hurt. I couldn’t believe it. During the last mammogram I had, I almost wanted to say,
"Hey, are we making lemonade here or what?" or, "you’re not going to get a sheet of pasta out of that thing, I swear," but I testify before you today, it did not hurt, and I swear I did not drink beforehand. I wasn’t even Robo-drunk. They have these new little pads, sort like of like Swedish packing materials, or shavings of a Tempurpedic mattress that they put on top and bottom of the vice to make a cute little boob sandwich. Remember the lucite edge of the vice that would dig into your chest as the crank was pulled tighter and tighter, flattening a perviously preferably round, fleshy object into the dimensions of a Michael Crighton paperback as if it was a chunk of Velveeta? Now the edge is covered in soft foam edge doesn't dig into you atall when it clamps down. It was almost like a Snugglie! I was amazed.
Now, granted, during the last mammogram I had, there was a six-inch needle rammed through the center of my Miss Lila, my right boob, and I was an hour away from a surgical biopsy, so that may have counted for some of the discomfort. When I wandered out of my twilight sleep as my surgeon was tugging at Miss Lila with a needle and thread, I found myself saying, “No, no, no. That place is shitty. I’m telling you, the best place for a green chile burro is Rito’s on Roosevelt and 14th street downtown. Somebody got shot across the street last week, but I’m serious, it’s worth battling gunfire. Or did I already say that?”
“You already said that,” Dr. Harrison said as she gave my nip one last tug.
Anyway, I am here to proclaim, "It is a NEW DAY, ladies!" I hope everyone has the good fortune to have a Tempurpedic mammogram at their next juicing, because it made all the difference in the world. There I was, with Bess (next door neighbor to Miss Lila), clamped in the sandwich trap, as I was excitedly telling the tech, who had just moved here from New Mexico, “I am about to save you four years’ worth of searching. The best place is Naya’s on Pioneer Parkway next to Safeway. They make their own tortillas and the chile rellenos are amazing,” like I was talking to a friend over lunch.
And then I had to wonder, why is it that when I am topless and another woman has her hand
on my boob, I find I am always talking about Mexican food?

Tuesday

Tue, 3 Feb 2009 16:03:12 -0800

And I don’t see anything wrong with that. Do you see how cute she is? DO YOU SEE? She has amazingly soft fur, soft as a rabbit’s, and I signed up for a spinning class so I could make yarn out of Maeby fur. She’s very clean. She smells good. I have resisted this idea for a couple of years, mainly because my husband told me I was crazy to wear a dog hat, and I knew that every time I wore it, he would say to people, “She made that out of dog fur,” and everyone would recoil in disgust and look at me as if I french kissed my dog. Which does happen sometimes with bad timing, but still, it doesn’t happen on purpose. So I took my desire and I stifled it, thinking every winter how soft and comfortable I would be if I had my dog on my head.
Then my last issue of BARK came in the mail (Maeby has been a Smiling Dog in that magazine) and there it was, plain as day, black and white with no shame attached. No stigma. A man who knit hats out his dog’s fur, and his dog didn’t look nearly as soft as mine. So I signed up for the class, and my first one is tonight.