Million Dollar Idea: Please Stop. Please, Please Stop Doing That.

My relationship with Dana can be summed up in seven words: Shit, piss….

Wait!
No.
Wrong words.

Those are the seven words you can’t say on television.

The seven words that crystallize our friendship are: “I’ll do it if you do it.”

This applies to pretty much anything from ordering the cheese plate to public dance lessons to creative endeavors.

As a result of this,  not only am I lucky enough to have an amazing friendship with someone I love and respect, but I also have a partner for my next million dollar idea. Allow me to present it to you via the magic of the actual conversation we had today:

Me: I have this awesome idea that is going to make us MILLIONS of dollars. I debuted it to Biffle last night and once he stopped hating his life because I’m in it, I think he decided to be on board.

Dana: What is it?

Me: So, I can’t dance for shit, right? Like, I am a legit awful, terrible dancer. But that doesn’t matter because we’re gonna start a strip club.

[Calm down. It’s not what you think]

But before you can get in to the club itself, you have to walk through the foyer. And that’s where I’ll be – dancing away, totally un-rhythmically to music that no-one should ever dance to – like the Day-O  song.

“Oh, what’s that? You wanna get in to see the smoking hot girls we have in our club? You’re gonna have to pay me to stop dancing.”

I’m like Gandalf — “YOU. SHALL. NOT. PASS…Unless you give me $20 to stop flailing around like a muppet having a seizure.”

[I really do. There’s a lot of flailing and uncoordinated movements and surprised face happening. Elaine Benes dances better than I do. Seriously. I look like this:]

Dana: I can help with the bad dancing.

[See? Already. My girl is there for me]

Dana: My favorite move is the pelvic thrust.

Me: YES! Do you make grunting noises?

Dana: Yes.

Me: “Ughhhh….”

[This noise is especially attractive when I make it in person]

Dana: I’m also very handsy.

Me: Jazz hands and spirit fingers!

Dana: Yes!

Me: I was dancing last night on Skype with Biffle and he literally looked like someone was serving him a shit pie. Like, “Why? Which God did I anger to have this happen in my life? Please stop doing that….”

Dana: Hahaha. If I drink a little bit, I can move better. It looks less like a seizure. We can be the lobby dancers in the strip club. It’s like a step lower than the weekday-afternoon crew.

[Weekday. Afternoon. Crew. I just wanted to point that out because it’s hilarious and so true. Oh, what? I’ve seen Showgirls on VH1. I know how this works]

Me: Yeah, I’m gonna be fully clothed while doing this. Thus making the experience EVEN WORSE for all those watching – “Why is she doing that while wearing a parka?”

Dana: YEAH! I’m gonna wear like, rain boots or something. Galoshes. There’s nothing less sexy than galoshes.

Me: YES! Best usage of the term ‘galoshes’ ever! No make-up, hair up in a greasy bun, spaghetti stain on my cardigan. So hot, dude. So hot.

I think this could be a big success. Especially considering most of our Google+ conversations usually end up with us looking like this:

I was going to post a video of my dancing just to prove how truly awful I am but yeah…I still have some tiny semblance of dignity and knowing my luck, it would become a thing, so instead — I decided to throw a little happiness out into the world. Well, for straight women and gay men, anyway.

Ladies and gentlemen – Channing Tatum dancing to Ginuwine’s The Pony in Magic Mike.

I KNOW, DUDES. I KNOW. Yeah. You’re welcome.

So, This Is Happening Or, Best. Email. Ever.

Dana sent me an email this morning asking the following:

“Crazy idea, but would you be opposed to me hopping up there at the last minute?”

My response?

“COME. OVER. NOW.”

I was planning on having a pretty quiet weekend – the highlight of which was watching the England-Italy match at a local English pub, but now?

I get to spend two glorious days with one of my favorite broads. We’re gonna eat, we’re gonna drink. we’re gonna cheer on the English, we are gonna talk about everything, we are going to scream with laughter and I cannot wait.

Philly, we’re coming to lick your edifices. Be warned.

I Feel Comfortable Using Legal Jargon in Everyday Life Or, Congratulations, Biffle!

Biffle graduates from Lawyer College today.

I’ve been the albatross around this kid’s neck for a little over a decade and I’m pretty sure this whole law school thing was a desperate attempt at learning everything he could in order to legally shake me. Probably explains why he worked so diligently for the past three years.

Yeah. Nice try, dude.

I am so damn proud of you. Even more so than that time you ate two pizzas. Remember that? That was awesome.

Go into this world and do great things. Biffle 2020 – we’re gonna make some magic happen, jefe.

Congratulations! Mojitos and stogies on me.

Well, a G&T for me. I can’t handle those mojitos. They’re too sweet and all that mint It’s like a goddamn salad in that glass. Oh and that giant branch of sugar cane? Are you kidding me with that thing? What am I, a beaver gnawing on that sucker? No, not for me, friend. Not for me. What was I saying? Oh yeah – job well done, sir. Sandwich!

Can I break laws now?

Clickin’ My Red Heels Or, No Matter Where I Roam, I Always Manage To Find My Way Home

This weekend was birthday surprises, good food, coffee+DayQuil, cuddling with doggies, screaming with laughter, family (both genetic and not) and so many hugs.

Home isn’t a place. It’s a state of mind. It’s wherever you can share a good meal. Wherever dogs flip on their backs for bellyrubs. Wherever you are loved.

And lucky girl that I am, I have a lot of places I can hang my hat.

I Don’t Understand How I Have Friends Either Or, Highlights From Emails To Biffle

Me: I lost my voice.
Biffle: You must have hated that. You love the sound of your own voice.
Me: I KNOW!

Biffle and I have an understanding. I talk at him and he regards me with the mild amusement reserved for one watching a squirrel eat french fries.

When we lived together, we spent entire hours doing this but now that I live 1000 miles away and he’s firmly entrenched in law school — it’s a little tougher to do.

Enter the magic of email.

I send him long, rambling discourses on everything ranging from the American political process to sandwiches to pop culture…and he sends me stuff like this:

(The name of this move has to be the BAM-boo. It just has to be)

So, for no other reason than my amusement, here are some out-of-context highlights from emails I’ve sent him over the past couple of months:

– You think when Jigga says, “Can’t leave rap alone/The game needs me” – he’s talking about the rap game or the rapper, The Game?

– He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named becomes governor and starts Avada Kevadra-ing Muggles. Oh God, I’ve said too much…

– Imagine if a burrito and a sandwich engaged in unprotected coitus in the backseat of a 1985 Toyota pick-up truck while listening to Los Lobos. The result of that tryst would be a torta.

– You look like a Germanic giraffe – it’s all angles and points and severity.

– We can do cool Miami shit like listen to Pitbull, murder bad guys (they do it in Dexter) and eat ALL the yuca frita!

– I think I might have to sacrifice a goat to some cloven-hooved dark god.

– NO! You cannot Hammertime. It can be Hammertime and you can do the Hammertime dance but one cannot Hammertime in and of itself. It’s like ballet, You cannot ballet – you can perform it, you can practice it, you can fail spectacularly at it but you cannot BE it. Sorry, Big Sean. Don’t be stupid.

– I like to imagine that I’m a Mexican revolutionary sometimes. Cute little cotton blouse, bad-ass brown leather boots, a horsie named Axel Foley.”

– Nachos supersede ALL. Dead, alive, in some sort of quasi zombie half-life — it matters not when it comes to nachos.

– …Except for Mom who has THREE smallpox scars. I swear, they had inoculation monkeys in India or something. Really incompetent ones.

– I cursed a lot in this email. Like A LOT.

Booze, Broads, and Bullshit. If You Got All That, What Else Do You Need? Or, My Weekend Just Got Better

The plan for this weekend involved full-on Sad Bastard Mode.

You know, the kind that involves shuffling around in your sweats with gross hair and no make-up while listening to Elliot Smith, Coldplay and I Can’t Come Down by Embrace on repeat.

Luckily, I have some pretty spectacular friends who get wanderlust at really opportune times.

So instead of being a right grumpy bugger this weekend – I will be spending the weekend with the ladies pictured above – eating well, drinking wine and laughing a lot.

T-minus 20 hours until I see these fabulous dames again. Can’t wait.

Happy Birthday Biffle Or, In My World OTC Means Over-The-Counter Not Off The Chain.

The Atwood to my Cohen.*

As similar as we are (deep abiding love of sandwiches, appreciation of cold beer, spicy food and pro-wrestling, firm belief that Tom Brady is representative of all that is soulless and wrong in this world…), Biffle and I are remarkably different people.

He speaks when he has something to say whereas I talk to make noise.
He adheres to a live and let live philosophy whereas I should change my name to Judgey McJudgerson.
He’s so hood like DJ Khaled whereas I’m all about little boxes made me of ticky-tacky which all look the same.

My white-bread suburban mindset never ceases to entertain him, so in honor of his birthday – here’s an email I sent him a couple of weeks ago that crystallizes just how different we really are.

Even though I know you’ll never read this (Biffle doesn’t need to read the blog. He gets front row seats and a backstage pass to my inanity), I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t show you some blog love on your birthday.

Happy birthday, Brorannosaurus Rex!
I never knew how much I needed a brother until I met you.
Shut up.
I’m a girl.
I’m allowed to say lame-ass stuff like that.
Oh, the hell with this. Chipotle/TJ Flats run? I’m buying.

***

I’ve got Mrs. Officer by Lil’ Wayne and Bobby Valentino on my iPod and it plays pretty often when I’m commuting back and forth from work.

Because I’m harder than a concrete boner, I take great pride in singing along to this track every time I hear it, but it was only this morning when I realized something.

Weezy sings, “All she wants to do is fuck the police.”

At first, I thought this was some NWA shout-out, not really germane to the topic of the song, but then — BLINDED BY REVELATION!

The song is called Mrs. Officer and when Wayne sings about fucking the police, he’s actually talking about engaging in carnal relations with the titular subject!

It all makes sense now.

Oh Weezy F. Baby, you sly rascal.

* I just realized that’s a flawed analogy. Cohen’s with Summer and broseph, you would hit that like the fist of an angry God.
Does that make Augs Summer? Wait…is that why you call him ‘baby’? Oh, dude…I hate you on so many levels right now.

Little Brown Girl Book Club Or, Hooray For Care Packages!

Licking public edifices since the early 80s

Last week, I texted D with a message about how I wanted to engage in relations with a wheel of cheese (I said it in far more lewd terms). Most people would have received this text message and immediately proceed to:

A) Delete my existence from their life.
B) Scrub their eyeballs with bleach to forget they ever saw such a thing.

D texted me back with, “I wanted to do that to the Gouda I ate the other day!”

That is a true friend, ladies and gentlemen. Someone who understands your deep and abiding love of good food and responds in kind.

Though we went to the same high school, we really bonded in college. Turns out, we both love good food and drink, traveling, reading anything we can get our hands on, eclectic music and cursing like sailors who just lost their shore leave.

She’s one of my favorite people in this world and I truly lament the fact that we don’t get to see each other very often.

This morning, I’m driving home from Trader Joe’s (dudes, their masala-spiced lentil dip is glorious. Think tandoori hummus) with the windows down, listening to the Vicky Cristina Barcelona soundtrack and I’m thinking to myself, “You know what I want to do? I want to sit on my patio in the sunshine, drink tea and read. I’m not sure what to read, though.”

I check the mail and as if by magic:

I have a hand-colored care package waiting for me containing a handmade card (the girl is crafty like ice is cold), a GOLé decal (check ’em out) and a copy of one of her favorite books, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.

Day = made.

Now, if you’ll excuse me — I’ve got a book to read and a container of dip to talk to.

I’d Still Pick My Friends Over You Or, A True Friend Is Someone You’d Willingly Share A Sandwich With

I got the following message from D:

“So I’m going to the Orlando Food Truck Bazaar and it made me think of you because I know you would love it! Cheap and delicious food. they even have a vegan hot dog cart love you honey! xoxox”

This got me thinking about my friends. As far-flung and different as my friends may be (some are gay, some are straight. Some have kids, some have dogs, some tan, some burn, some are religious, some are atheists), they have the important stuff in common. And what is the important stuff?

Things That Serve as a Solid Foundation for a Solid and Long-Lasting Friendship:

– A Deep and Unabiding Love of Food. I.E. – The ‘Yeah, I Could Eat’ Rule.

I like people who make happy noises while eating. I like people who shove forkfuls of food in your face and say, “This is amazing! Try this!” I like people who are willing to try new restaurants, eat food from trucks and street vendors, but also appreciate the glory that is take-out in front of the television. I like people who order cocktails at brunch, have a favorite pizza joint to which they pledge steadfast loyalty and can passionately debate why Blaise+Fabio are cuter heteto life mates than Stefan+Fabio.

– An Eclectic Taste in Music. I.E. — The “I love you less for not getting down with Prince” Rule.

There is nothing finer than a well-crafted mix CD that blends Al Green with Metallica with ABBA with Patsy Cline with Wilco with The Gaslight Anthem with Bruce Springsteen with Blind Lemon Jefferson with Weezy F. Baby with Hans Zimmer. I’ve never understood people who only listen to one genre of music. I’m pretty sure these misfits would punch your sweet, sweet granny in the face if given the chance. You shouldn’t trust them.

– Killer Taste in Movies/Television. I.E. — The “You don’t love The Goonies? How have you lived this long without someone setting your face on fire?” Rule.

Sports Guy has this rule: If a girl doesn’t like Field of Dreams, don’t date her. My rule is a little more complicated.

If a person doesn’t like Back to the Future, they will kill you in your sleep.
If a person didn’t get emotionally wrecked by the end of Toy Story 3 and the beginning of Up, they have a black hole in place of a heart…and will probably try to poison you.
if a person doesn’t find the golden era of The Simpsons hysterically funny, they are dead inside. Seriously, they’re probably zombies or something, so you might want to keep away for fear of them ripping a chunk out of your arm or something.

– A Love of Gossip.

Talk shit, get hit? No, no, no, my friend. Talk shit, pull up a chair, let me get you a drink and some sort of delicious baked good.

My favorite place in the whole world – more so than Disneyworld, New York City and London in the summer – is my mom’s kitchen table. I have spent countless hours sitting there, eating great food (my sister spent the last few days eating homemade samosas. Words cannot accurately describe how suffused with jealousy I am about this) and gossiping about pretty much everyone ever.

I make no qualms about this since I got this trait honest. Paps is the biggest gossip you will ever meet. EVER (stop making that face, Paps. You know it’s true. Look – Mom’s nodding her head). And I am definitely my father’s daughter.

This Is Why Math Scares People, Or India Aire May Not Be Her Hair, But I Certainly Am…

Being friends with a guy who minored in math comes in handy at times.

Will: It’s so nice being a guy. We’re so low maintenance when I see all you women have to keep up with. I have 3 pairs of shoes, and would only have 2 if I could wear brown shoes with black slacks.
Me: Doing your hair takes what? Like 15 minutes including shower time?
Will: Unless I have to shave.
Me: Mine takes about an hour. Shampoo, condition, hair masque, product, blowdry and flat iron. I think I may have spent more time with my flat iron than anything else in this world
Will: Yea that’s a lot of work. How long have you been doing the flat iron?
Me: Since the age of 17
Will: Wow. So do you have a fro otherwise or something?
Me: So, ten years. Three times a week (on average) for 45 minutes. It’s not so much a fro, but wavy and frizzy and generally awkward and wildly unappealing. Think the before picture in the Geek Remover ad
Will: you’ve spent 130 hours doing that over 10 years or 5.41 days
Me: Are you kidding me?
Will: I’m pretty sure
Me: I’ve spent over a work week on doing my hair?
Will: I haven’t done math math in a while, but I think that’s right
Me: See — this is why cancer isn’t cured. This is why there isn’t peace in the Middle East. Because people spend weeks of their life doing their hair!

Of course, this stunning revelation will not stop me from flat ironing my hair, inducing dizziness by blowdrying upside down while spritzing with volumizer or buying a multitude of products in the hopes that my hair will resemble the shiny bounciness (bouncy shiny-ness?) of the model in the shampoo ad.

When my hair is straight and shiny, I feel much better about myself and much more in control of my world.

Straight Haired Jaime resembles a functioning adult who pays her bills on time and and watches political satire (Sidebar: I can’t wait until Real Time with Bill Maher comes back).

Wavy Haired Jaime is a messy child with a bird’s nest perched atop her head and a penchant for petulance.

Is this normal? I mean, everyone’s got their quirks, right? I know people who must have lip balm on them at all times (I can relate — I’ve got two different kinds in my purse right now). I know people can’t leave the house without applying a swipe of mascara and I know people who are involved in a serious relationship with their phone.

Am I psychologically dependent on my flat iron? Somewhat, but I don’t like to think of it in such clinical terms. I prefer to think of it as a great love affair. Can’t nobody tear us apart, baby.