iDiot

I'm getting used to owning an iPhone, and I have 24 out of 30 days left to decide if I really like it. Why the countdown? I'm not sold on it. But most of what I don't like about the product has nothing to do with how it actually works.

1. Over enthusiastic customers

Spare me your gushing testimonials. "I was running late to a blind date at a new restaurant, so I used the Google Map application to calculate just how far I was. I was able to take a short cut and arrive on time! Now we're married!"

Please. If being punctual constitutes hitting it off, I don't think you found the most easy going of spouses. I see a lot of tightly rolled toothpaste tubes in your future.

"Once while leaving my home, iPhone's built-in smoke detector sensed I left the stove on."

Methinks this is a case of correlation and not causation. I gather your phone rang at the same time you remembered split pea with ham tastes bad when scorched.

"I went into labor in the back of a taxi cab, and iPhone delivered my baby!"

Big whoop. Doogie Howser did the same thing in a shopping mall. And he was only six.

2. Peer Pressure

I was watching kids this past weekend, discussing consumerism and being aware of what you buy. We were taking turns explaining how sharing our belongings helps others when I pulled out my iPhone to check the time. "WOW...COOL!" "Let me see it!" "This is AWEsome!" They immediately forgot the lesson. My only choice was to distract them with Skittles. This is not so much peer pressure as it is feeling like a hypocritical coil of turd.

3. Early-onset Cantankerousness

If I continue to be intimidated by its capabilities (bogged down by "fancy attributes I don't need") I will be accused of being a fuddy duddy. Rejecting the latest in technology is the first sign of old age. I hate when novelists proudly boast, "I did it all with an antique typewriter!" but I find myself saying things like, "What did people do before GPS? They asked directions and looked for landmarks. Harumph." Maybe this is the peer pressure issue I was thinking of. Or maybe I am justifying my taste for creamed corn.

So do I like it? Yes. Is it handy? Yes. Do I feel like an elitist jerk for owning one? Yes. But I'm working on not feeling guilty for having a phone that is more than a phone. After all, my last phone was also a paperweight, a doorstop, and a table leveler.

Game: There are many phrases I have used in this post that are inappropriate for my age. Can you spot them all?

All That Shimmers is Old

I have a Google group of friends who want to save money so we give away items. I got a free bike out of it. Also egg noodles and some perfume. But what kind of items do I give away? Here's my most recent offer:


7 oz of shimmer powder in "twinkle twinkle"

Comes with "Magic Wand" for hair and face shimmer. Are you listening pixies?!

"For skin that seems to glow from within, dip a powder brush in or puff in Shimmer Powder, shake off excess and sweep lightly over entire face."

Made in Italy. Fatto in Italia!


It's ten years old and never touched. I never found a good reason, after prom, to add sparkles to my hair, face, collar bone, shoulders and arms. People who might be interested in this item:

Exotic dancers
Richard Simmons
Art Teachers
Scrapbookers
P Diddy (for his toilet paper)

Deaf Janiels

My pick for best actor at the next Golden Globes: Jeff Daniels in Sweet Nothing in My Ear. Hallmark tried really hard to make this made-for-T.V. movie unbearably corny, but fortunately his terrific acting and newly acquired signing skills saved the scenes.

And what scenes! When you shout during an argument, and you sign at the same time, it brings a whole new level of seriousness. I could have used this skill years ago before I developed the habit of throwing food to make my point. Once on a lunch break in the City, Luke and I were fussing about something on a Lexington side walk. Unable to sign, “Don’t walk away from me!” I hurled an apple at his back. On another occasion, during a get together with friends, we had a misunderstanding about Popeye’s Chicken. When yelling, “Don’t forget your Coke!” did not get his attention, I threw a soft drink from his kitchen to splatter his living room wall.

If only that picture book of the ASL alphabet I read in the 3rd grade had shown me more than the words “town”, “build,” and “baby”, I might be more eloquent. At least when I am adamant about building a Baby Town, he will know I mean business.

Peekaboo

When preparing for a long bus trip, it is important to remember that comfort is key. Some people need food to be comfortable, others need a portable dvd player. As a woman hitting that time of the month, I needed protection. In the span of four hours, I could not rely on the brief pit stop to keep me feeling fresh, and so, I turned to diapers. Adult ones. Big, poofy, baggy, control-top Pampers.

It was my little (albeit bunchy) secret, and it was working. The first leg of the trip went without a hitch. I could nap, toss, turn, and the people around me were none the wiser. Only the baby across the aisle shook his rattle in solidarity.

At the half-way point, we all descended for fast food. I bought my Cinnabons and, once outside, found a sunny bench upon which to enjoy them. A presumptuous gentleman asked if he could join me. Begrudgingly, I shared my table. "As long as he doesn't try to chat with me..." I thought. A gust of wind blew my napkins off the table, and I bent down from my seat to follow them. They blew further away, so I got up, walked a few feet and crouched down to collect the scattered bunch. The guy instantly picked his food up and left. Instinctively I reached behind my back to tug my shirt down, and all I felt was the ribbed waistband of my diaper.

I know what you're thinking. What a jerk. But in his defense, the sun had moved, and maybe he just didn't feel like sitting on a cold concrete bench in the shade. You know how shadows can be so off-putting and ruin your appetite. Especially on a beautiful woman like me, who is far too young and normal-looking to be sitting in such large, conspicuous, absorbant...shadows.

Water You Mean

I drank a LOT on my birthday.


Bubble tea in Chinatown



Lemonade in Little Italy



Iced tea in the West Village



I'll tell you when I've had enough!



Onto the hard stuff: ice water (What? Ice is hard...)



MAS AGUA.



It was hot out, okay? Water on the subway.



Just a little more in Brooklyn. Hahahaha! Get it? I drank on my birthday, but I didn't drink alcohol! Haha. Most people drink ALCOHOL on their birthday! Hahaha. But I DIDN'T. I want a cute butt not acute cirrhosis! Whew! I chose to leave out the picture of me with Metamucil.



Brought to you by Tuttorosso spaghetti sauce. I won a jar at the Italian festival. Actually, I spun a wheel and lost. Then Luke spun and lost. Then I said it was my birthday, and a lady made it magically click one section over to win. Fate agrees: I'm a winner.

The Anatomy of a Song

I have a secret longing to rap. Not to have my song played on the radio or to fund a clothing line or to ironically get shot two days before I would have died of a heart attack.

Just to rap.

I finally decided I would give it a try. But what would I talk about? Novelists are advised to "write what they know", but does this apply to song? Because it took thirty years for anyone in the rap game to come forward with "Chicken Noodle Soup", and we've all known about that for years.

Is it about what the listener wants? That can't possibly be the case, because every time I hear "lovely lady lumps" I remove my headphones. Then I go get a mammogram.

I suspected a good rap song, like comedy, is about what matters to ME. I thought about starting with what it's like to be biracial. I am both black and white. Split down the middle. As if I had two different color eyes. YES! That's it! Suddenly a rhythm was developing. Should I be beatboxing in a grocery store? I started scowling and swooping from side to side. An enthusiastic man's voice echoed in my head: "This is the reallest, illest shichoo ever heard!" Then a distinct stream of dialogue came. The tone was angry and honest. It painted a picture. I put it to paper:

People always judge. You know how it goes...
I keep my BROWN eye open and my BLUE eye closed.

I couldn't wait to share this--this BIRTH of RAP--with my best friend, so I called him immediately. He paused after he heard it.

"What do you think??" I eagerly asked.

--You know that "brown eye" is another term for anus, right?

I would have been PERFECT for the White Rapper Show.

Baby Stay Out

I get the message lound and clear.

I just went to my first "baby shower" last night. It turns out that the guest of honor had already had two baby showers, and this evening was actually a scheduled intervention for me to rid me of my desire of ever having a child.

I admit I have been babbling a lot on stage about what it would be like to be a Mommy, but it hasn't always been this way. I spent my entire adolescence babysitting, so I've experienced first-hand the terrible twos, a 5lb dirty diaper deluge, and my fair share of insolence. One kid locked me out of her house then waved at me through the glass door. Her parents laughed and said it was her favorite trick. My favorite trick when I was little? Eating all my vegetables then falling asleep to Charlotte's Web. It's about discipline, America!

Now my twenties are here, and for some reason I feel differently. Maybe it's the odd gray hair I spy in the mirror, maybe it's the triplet strollers everyone pushes in my neighborhood, or maybe I want a reason for having stocked my kitchen with rubber-coated spoons and strained peas.

First my friends began by ruining my illusion of how breast milk comes out. Apparently it leaks from all crazy areas on the boob. Gone are the hilarious days I envisioned robbing banks and blinding cops by using them as a squirt gun. I'll stop taking my cues from Frida Kahlo.


Then they passed an actual baby around. I thought this was a send-off! A celebration of the last free moments on Earth. While we're at it why don't we make sure wives attend bachelor parties? Let's select thesis topics at high school graduation open houses! It didn't help that the baby cried every time I held her. Can babies smell fear?

Finally they all circled around me saying horrible things like "mucus plug" and "placenta recipes". I decidedly ran out screaming. Then I went back, grabbed four daisy-shaped cupcakes, and ran out again.

I'm going back to Target to place bets on how long it takes kids to throw fits in various departments. And of course, to offer my spanking services.

Stolen Toys for Tots

I recently received a nice letter in the comments section of a blog post.

Abbi-
So we haven't seen each other since forever but I still have fond memories of coming over to play barbies (one was always knocked up out of wedlock), a time in 3rd grade when you confessed you wanted to name your children Phyre and Stabronco, and your knack for nicknames like the funky apple (wasn't that your retainer?). I am procrastinating very big right now so I was reading and enjoying your website and decided to say hey. I'm in CT for 2 more months and might try to come see you perform and maybe send in a portrait, too! I hope you're well.
xxoo,
emily

I like hearing from people from my childhood, because I had a good one. Learning was still fun, Jell-O Pudding Pops (original recipe) were still in the freezer section, and my friends had the COOLEST toys. Toys I liked to play with and, when they weren't looking, take home.

Is it wrong when my friends were already spoiled? I was just ridding them of something they already forgot about. Except for one toy. There was one I blatantly took (not Emily's), and it is my Telltale Heart to this day. It was a Barbie computer.

The size of a golf ball, it had tiny buttons that all pressed down at once (because Barbie's fingers don't separate, so why should her keyboard?), and a monitor with green letters that appeared and disappeared as the black screen rolled over them. I still think it's more amazing than an actual computer.

"I like this. Can I have it?"
--No. It's my favorite toy. You can borrow my Barbie Record player. I'll take your butterfly brush.
(swapping)"Okay. It's for My Little Ponies. I REALLY wish I had the COMPUTER..."
--No. Let's go downstairs.

Where is it today? Buried in the basement of the house I grew up in, like a useless Flowbee. I'M SORRY! But that computer was a catalyst for many romantic Barbie moments. So was the record player. And so was anything else.

Hey Emily! I loved playing at your house. Girl Talk dared us to ask your neighbor for t.p. One time I had to go home before I made a signature scent w/ your do-it-yourself perfume kit, and I'm still bummed about it. And I supervised the conception of all Barbie's babies. Oh: the name was NOT Stabronco. Why would I say Stabronco? That's awful. It was Sibronco. Good luck w/ your work in CT. I'd love to see you again!


It's not cool, but it is refreshing: The Jell-O Pudding Pop Petition

When I'm Wrong I Say I'm Wrong

The other day I voluntarily edited a friend's work and informed him that he used the abbreviation e.g. when he meant to write i.e. I explained to him, "I.e. is Latin for id est which means 'that is to say', and e.g. is Latin for err go which means 'for example'..." I then patted him on the head and went back to smoking my pipe.

Answers.com, insolent site that it is, said I was not only mistaken about the Latin, but about so many parts of the definition that it is amazing I wound up at the correct conclusion.
1.Id est means "that is". Years ago I must have added, "...to say" because it has a nice ring to it. In related news, the song Kiss From a Rose sounds better if Seal says, "To me you're like a word the dictionary can't define," and not, "To me you're like a growing addiction that I can't deny." Id est I give you. Wrong lyrics are a matter of taste.
2.E.g. stands for exempli gratia, which translates into for the sake of example.
3.Ergo is not two words.
4.Ergo means consequently or therefore.
5.Ergo is not spelled Err Go. To err (go) is human.

While I'm coming clean, I seem to enjoy making fun of people who eat Grape Nuts, but the truth is I love Grape Nuts. I own a box. I like the way they taste with bananas. I eat them because it reminds me of how I used to want to be just like my mom. She let me add a spoonful of sugar to them so I could stand it. Then one day I didn't need sugar anymore. On that day, I became a woman.

The truth shall set you free--i.e., make you feel good--when you carry a heavy burden, e.g., guilt, shame, Grape Nuts.

Page-ing All Losers

There are many ways to monitor fame. Some people think that if you are on the World Wide Web, your star is rising. I Googled my name, and it turns out there are 636 pages yielding information. Only the first four actually talk about me. Four divided by Six hundred thirty-six is Point-oh-oh-six(4 ÷ 636 = .006). Conclusion: Less than one percent of what you read on the Internet is true.