It's Everybody Can Bite Me Friday!

Remember when I posted that calling someone a 'douche' was not an insult because anyone who took high school French knows douche means 'shower?' No of course you don't because I can't remember anything I write so why should you?

But in case you have forgotten, look at this below. Now you'll never be able to call someone that name again without wondering if the person who heard it isn't thinking:

"She thinks I need to take a shower? Now, in the middle of the day while working on my power point presentation? Okay then, bye everybody! Sorry I was dirty. See you tomorrow."
You want to piss someone off? ADD THE BAG.

How Many People Can I Offend With This Post?

As I drove Martha Jane to LAX yesterday she mentioned she had gone to Loehmann's. Martha is almost 6 feet tall, so she has to buy XL, XXL etc. so tops cover her butt and as she puts it, "It doesn't look like I'm wading in flood waters. She was told Loehmann's no longer sold those sizes.

And when Rosie O's favorite designer of three years, Eileen Fisher, stopped making XLs as well, saying she didn't want to attract that kind of clientele, Rosie spoke out against her.

I asked Martha why she thought Loehmann's stopped selling plus sizes and she gave me an answer that never occurred to me. They did not want to turn into the kind of store that catered to overweight Blacks and Mexicans. This was a guess of course but one third, 100 million, people in our country are obese, including Caucasians. I'm guessing Loehmann's does not want to turn into Ross, where navigating the isles really should be an Olympic sport.

So we started scanning the streets looking for Fat Offenders and of course only found skinny ones. (I got this picture off Google images.)

I know we're not supposed to use the "Fat" word and this may be part of the problem. Rosie won't allow the word to be used in her home. At Costco, once skinny Asians are no longer skinny. I guess Kimchi got old after you've had a Big Mac. If no one tells you you're fat, maybe you just keep eating. I had a producer tell me at an important meeting that one of my teeth was too crooked for TV.

I was completely mortified and ashamed since no one had ever mentioned it before, even my agent, former agents and managers. AND MY FAMILY WHO WANT ME TO FAIL AND SEND ME TO AMISH COUNTRY.

I got the tooth fixed.

End of chat.

Mammaries...From The Corners Of My Bra

After I announced my ankle surgery last year, a fellow comedian, Brad Slaight, photoshopped my head onto this scooter. This is why you need to have comedians as friends. They're funny and demented and mock you out of your whiny little self and make you realize you're not on your deathbed.

Anyway, I had put on some poundage due to the fact that I couldn't walk without crying. I was in so much pain that Vicodin laughed in my face.

I couldn't walk properly for almost 2 years before last year's surgery because I was recuperating from another surgery so I was up to 139. Now it's a year and a half after the last surgery and I'm finally back to my original weight, 128.

Sidebar: Just so you know, I didn't understand that explanation either.

I've been staring at my clothes for years, wondering if I could ever fit into them again. After 4 years, I started referring to them as vintage.

Today I had lunch with MJ at iCugini, on the Pacific Ocean, before I took her to LAX for her trip back to Hawaii. The valet was $7.00, which is twice my rent.

While I was getting dressed I put on a pair of jeans I hadn't worn in 4 years. They fit perfectly. They were even slightly too big. Problem?

They're low cut.

I was overweight for so long I went out of style.

End of chat.

It Gets Dark At Noon. GREAT.

Daylight Savings. Such a pleasure, no?

Has everyone seen the slide show on my sidebar? I've added some pictures others have taken of me or painted of me. I've also put in all the awards I've received from you and was supposed to redistribute but haven't. Please, I don't even vacuum because it's spelled with two U's in the middle, which annoys me. And don't get me started on ironing.

Send me a small jpg and by small I have no idea what that means. Just not big.

So if you have children and want to showcase the little Picassos, make them do it. Or if you're bored and don't want to vacuum either, do it yourself. Include the first name of the child or your fake/real blogger name so I can put it in the slideshow.

And people say I don't have a life. I do and it's all about ME.

It's Everybody Can Bite Me Friday! I Mean Saturday!

I'm all lunched out. Three lunches this week and another one I missed because I didn't like the people. How do you turn down a lunch without lying?

"I can't go to lunch because I had my jaw wired shut. How can I talk on the phone? Well honestly I didn't think of that when I answered it because I'm not a spontaneous liar."

My sister and I are not spontaneous. I once told Maman that and she said, "Oh my Goddddddd, zat's horrrrrrrrrrrrrreebul." I was afraid to ask why.

My sister and I are planners, list makers, people who dust the day before company arrives as opposed to the day of. This is a picture of the 3 spontaneous ones in our family and our mother, who probably threw on that dress while the photographer was setting up.

Notice everyone in the picture is smiling but me. On the positive side, I now have no lines around my eyes. On the negative side, when I was a waitress customers complained that I was always in a bad mood.

We used to go to France every summer, except for my Dad, who stayed behind to work. My mother was a teacher with summers off.

When the ocean liners were making the crossings from New York to Cherbourg, France, we would drive up to NY from D.C. and get on the ship.

My sister and I were packed weeks in advance so as not to miss one precious item which, once we got to Paris, never touched because France had cooler shit.

My mother found it more convenient to pack the day we left and had a 3 hour drive ahead of us. The first and second summers we nearly missed the ship. Every year Dad lost 6 pounds via his sweat glands. He and my mother never fought in 27 years but I'm pretty sure they finally got a divorce based on those trips to New York.

Mom thinks "Everybody ready?" means "Time for a snack." She thinks "IT'S TIME TO GO, HONEY" means to check every spigot in the house to make sure nothing was leaking even though my father was still going to be there while we were gone."

The third time my father made us go the day before and spend the night in a NY hotel so as the three of us would not have a heart attack. We still arrived at the docks late because my mother was doing God knows what. Restocking the maid's cart? Slipping newspapers under doors? Checking in new guests?

The 4th summer he made us take the plane.

End of chat.

Just To Prove I Have A Big Mouth

One of the nicest people I have ever known in my entire life. Excluding me, of course.

Stop Having Sex

Recently I have been woken up by people having sex. Talking, yelling sex.

Two weeks ago it was a man going "Noooooooooo, no, noooooooooooooooooo." I lay there wondering what was happening. Bondage gone wrong? Didn't remember the safe word? Refusing to talk to his mother on the phone during sex? WHAT WAS HE DOING?

Last week it was a woman yelling Yesssssssssssssssssssssssss. That one was easy. Another faked orgasm.

A few days ago I heard two kittens having kitten sex. Not cat sex, which is loud and embarrassing not to mention a little disturbing, but kitten sex. I sat up. Silence.

I lay back down and heard a repetitive raspy sound that sounded like panting. Someone was panting on my pillow. Which by the way would make a great title for a Country and Western song or the book title for Jenna Jameson's memoirs.

Then I realized it was coming from me. All of it was just me.

I have asthma.

Between the Santa Ana winds blowing and all the fires, it has really made it harder for me to breathe at night.

I have talents I'm not even using properly.

End of chat.

It's Everybody Can Bite Me Friday!

I am obsessed with cheating men this week because I recently found out that a celebrity couple I know divorced. They separated in 2005 and divorced 3 years later. The shock of this divorce hit me because I remembered a Thanksgiving at an SNLers' house a long time ago. This same married couple were sitting in front of the fire and he was telling us a story about his wife, lounging two feet away on a couch. He ended it with "I know in my heart and my soul that my mission in life was to take care of this woman. I felt that God sent me to her to protect her. All the rest doesn't matter."

My sister and I exchanged a glance and made the Awwwwwwwwwww face together. We're mental, I know.

Out of this same group of people, two are dead, another couple divorced and another one cheated on his wife, in their NY apartment, in their New York bed with the daughter of a famous clothing designer. That last couple stayed together, moved out of LA and NY and his cheating was never mentioned. We used to sit around and wonder how his wife never blabbed about it. To any of us. We all knew but in deference to her never brought it up. And it never made the press, like Dave Letterman, John Edwards, Rudy Guiliani, Sanford, Spitzer et alia. And it should have, based on his fame.

Like a lot of women, I'm watching The Good Wife with Juliana Marguiles and Chris Noth. He cheated and abused his power in office and went to jail. The wife luckily got a job in a law firm and also weighs about 120 pounds and is easy on the eye. How many women could leave their cheating spouses and ease into her life?

Sidebar: And talk about your photoshopping. New York Magazine took away her upper arms, upper left thigh, her butt and lengthened her neck. Marguiles looks DEMENTED.

My parents were not happily married and they should have divorced. Their decision affected my life. I tend to stay with people who make me unhappy. I don't have the courage to leave. I replay my parents' madness over and over.

Many bloggers confess their cheating to me. I think it's because I remind them of Mother Theresa with my lack of judgments and frequent trips to countries where I bless the poor.

We had family friends a long time ago. The husband was your typical charismatic narcissist, a prime suspect for cheating. And he was a lawyer so you know how tricky they are.

When she discovered he was cheating on her she tried to kill herself and then went to a plastic surgeon and had a full face lift.

The irony was that he came back to her and turned into a raging drunk. He then died while she went on to date another man. His best friend.

If you're unhappy, leave.

End of chat.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #47

I'm guessing the tenants in this building all have cars that no longer work.
To see the rest of my L.A. dementia, click on the label under this post. And leave a cash tip.

If You Like Pina Coladas...

...then you should go to Bonaire, in the Netherland Antilles, right above South America, underneath Aruba and next to Jimmy Buffet.

It's so small their ants moved to a larger island.

The man who turned my sister Lindy and I on to Bonaire was Mr. B.B. from our NYC days. She and I lived together but I eventually encouraged her to move to L.A. She always got first dibs on the rich guys in NY. She was also dating Peter K. and Peter S. at the same time and they were all wealthy and would bring me along on dates to entertain them while they drooled over Lindy. It was really annoying to have to work that hard for a lobster dinner. Those bastards used to spike my drinks because they said I got funnier. Thanks for the blackouts, guys.

After one night with Peter S. and his group, a double shot of Green Chartreuse (which I thought was one shot) and a lot of wine, I went home and felt so sick I called my then current boyfriend The Doctor, who told me to get in a cab and come over. That's the last thing I remember.

The next morning I asked him what happened and he replied, "Well, you went on a DATE with another man...."

"MEN." I corrected him.

"Are you telling the story or am I? Then you got sick, called me, came over and threw up." Great.

One night Mr. B.B. asked Lindy if she wanted to go to Bonaire with him. "You can scuba dive, can't you?"

Lindy did many things well. She snow skied, water skied and once tread water in shark-infested waters between Africa and the Seychelle Islands trying to keep her friend alive because the yacht they were swimming off suddenly pulled anchor and left them behind.

Me? I cheat at Scrabble. And you KNOW how hard that is.

My sister has always been in amazing shape. She used to have great boobs. Seriously miraculous boobs. Until she discovered aerobics and then they disappeared. She was once on the cover of Muscle & Fitness magazine BUT SHE COULDN'T SCUBA AND LIED THAT SHE COULD.

The day she returned from Bonaire I was in our living room with my friend Louis. Lindy came in all bouncy and happy. She threw her luggage down and went into the kitchen with a bag of groceries. After a few minutes we heard the blender whirring. She came into the living room holding a Pina Colada and said "Now THIS is the best drink ever."

Every five minutes she went to the kitchen and emerged with a fresh drink.
"He wasn't that good in bed."
"I didn't even want to learn how to scuba."
"That island is SO fucking boring."
"His friends were a snooze fest."
"There's nothing to do but sit at the outdoor bar and drink."
"God that guy is a loser."
"The bartender said I drank all the pineapple juice on the island."

Eventually the blender stopped. After a while Louis and I noticed the silence and found her sprawled out on my bed, dead drunk.

Yeah, that guy was a real loser, Lindy.

End of chat.

Don't Let This Happen To You

This is what too much sun, smoking and drinking does to your face. There is a wee bit of photoshopping. The line drawn between her lips, her Howdy Doody lines and the lines on either side of her face. Also the right outline of her nose and both nostrils. Since this is a mug shot, I'm guessing the eyeliner was put in later by a very tentative hand. The dye job speaks for itself.

God I need a life.

How old is she? Look below her picture.
48. AND NO THAT ISN'T ME. Haters.

It's Everybody Can Bite Me Friday!

Twitter is the new Husband.

140 characters. No Capcha. The end.

I was not the only one giving a cursory look-see to blog posts that were 25 pages long with no pictures. Get a camera, get a scanner! Download from the Internet, only throw a reader a picture bone.

I was not the only one tired of people with 50 Google followers posting 9 times a week. I know a lot of people pledge to post EVERY DAY. 365 posts. I read 200 blogs a day. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? Did I kill your cat or something?

Posting 365 days is not a goal. Hiding your kids' squeaky toys so they'll never find them again is a goal. Eating an entire bag of chips in under 7 minutes is a goal.

You will never read a tweet that says "Sorry I haven't tweeted in a while; I'm a bad twitterer."

No silly, I didn't even know you were missing. Were you in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban? No. You were at your Aunt Mary's baking a thousand cookies made from play dough and twigs. THANK GOD YOU CAME BACK FROM THAT HORROR.

I know what you're thinking, 3 days on Twitter and I'm a bitter hag. You're right; nothing has changed.

And also, no pictures today. That's how I'm punishing you.

End of chat.

I Hope I'm Not Going To Be THAT Girl

I miss rotary phones. Mainly because I didn't have to push 1 to speak in my own language. Nor did I have to hear the same message over and over while I waited. And I didn't have to push 37 buttons which invariably made me return to the menu before I finally just gave up and pushed 0. And I could cradle the receiver in the crook of my neck and still do dishes. I also didn't get other calls in the middle of a call I was already on. And I could call information for free. AND I REMEMBER TALKING TO A PERSON CALLED THE OPERATOR. See that little phone in the picture? That's a (dusty and dirty) kitchen timer. One day I was shopping and in a fit of nostalgia decided I couldn't live without it.

Even though I'm no luddite, I'm a foot dragger. I was the kid who studied for her exams the night before. And had the grades to prove it.

So I've finally joined Twitter.

There were 3 reasons I never did before:

1. I googled myself about a year ago and found a conversation between two people on Twitter and they were talking about me:

The woman was saying that Suzy Soro was too cool to Twitter and the guy wrote back that he was afraid of me. That's what you want in a man. To inspire fear.

2. My sister is addicted to texting. She walks around with that stupid phone and doesn't even turn it off in the movies. And after it rings 5 times, she turns if off while everyone glares at her. She doesn't even make the universal sign for "sorry" with her face. While my mother was here this summer, Lindy just flat out told us that she loved texting so much because she didn't have to talk to anyone. ANYONE. Mom lives in Paris and I don't text so there you have it. And if I do get her on the phone, she yells at me if I call on the wrong line.

3. I don't want to become my sister.

End of chat.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #46

This front door is on a house up the street from me. The top part is a mirror and you can see a tree trunk and some trees in its reflection.

Click on the label underneath this post to see all 46 pictures of my version of L.A., which is a lot different than the souvenir books.

Who Wants To Spanx Me?

This picture is from the new Spanx Catalogue Fall 2009. If you look carefully at the end of her right leg you can see an eraser.

Mz. Vodka is helping to spread the word about Dove's self esteem program for young women so let's all chip in and buy me a cookie, shall we?

While you're at her blog, sign up for her Vampire's Assistant Contest, with tons of cool prizes for the winner.

One more thing:

Shame on you, Spanx.