Wednesday, May 30, 2012

It's not a death wish - it's a writing prompt!

This week's writing prompt over at Studio 30 + is to write your own obituary. Need I say more?

Stephanie Turple (that's my real name and I'm not afraid to use it, unless someone starts stalking me, and I'm forced to go all Hunger Games on their ass.) Where was I? Oh yeah, Stephanie Turple's obit.

Alright, so, Stephanie was a cantankerous bitch. This was, however, overlooked due to her sheer brilliance at life. As you know, unless you live under a rock, Stephanie was a critically-acclaimed and universally adored playwright and screenwriter. (Shut up, it could happen.) She became filthy rich because everything she wrote was a huge, international success, and decided to spend her days sipping cosmos and eating cheese.

The end.

Umm, I guess there should probably be more, right?

Let's see... she successfully avoided getting shanked by her stepchildren and died peacefully in her sleep at some ridiculously old age which is surprising since she developed a heroin habit in her later years (à la Alan Arkin in Little Miss Sunshine) and had a tendency to wander into traffic, claiming she was defending pedestrians' rights and denouncing traffic rules as draconian.

Stephanie dyed her hair hot pink at 85 and wore her Converse All Stars canvass sneakers up until her death. She refused to buy old lady shoes from Naturalizer and get the mandatory seniors' short hair cut and perm. Then again, it could have been the heroin...

Stephanie didn't want to bore you with all the lame shit people usually have in their obits like "loved teddy bears and rain drops". She traveled the world, drank too much, ate what she wanted and had a great time thumbing her nose at society's thinly-veiled contrivances. Towards the end, she brazenly walked around with a muffin-top hanging out of her too-tight skinny jeans. She just didn't give a shit anymore.   

She'd like to say she tried to make the world a better place but who is she kidding? The world was her playground and she didn't have time to worry about the less fortunate. Aren't there charities for that, anyway?

After the devastating loss of her pet rock, Pebble, Stephanie decided to never again adopt a pet, the pain of their death being just too much to bear. Pebble was accidentally thrown into a lake, or rather skipped over water to see how far he could go. Oh wait, Stephanie did that. Again with the heroin. Stay away from that stuff, kids. It can only lead to no good.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

N to the Y to the C

The boyfriend and I spent last week in New York City, hence the radio silence, and I spent the weekend recovering, unevenly burning/tanning sunbathing on our deck under a gloriously, unseasonably hot sun. One definitely needs to decompress after five days in Manhattan.

We landed in Newark and took the train into Penn Station where we walked around in circles until we decided to climb any steps leading upward, figuring we'd eventually come out at street level. Luckily, our hotel was literally down the street from the station, and there seemed to be quite a few people walking around with body bags suitcases, so we didn't feel out of place.

Our first night was spent at Madison Square Garden watching game 1 of the conference final between the New York Rangers and New Jersey Devils.

Yeah, it was pretty awesome. Best part? Souvenir hand towel which I will proudly display when attending yoga classes, 'cause I'm cool like that.

The next day we meandered down 5th Avenue in the rain, on our way to the Museum of Modern Art, which, if you didn't know, is closed on Tuesdays. We didn't know. So we decided to at least check out the MoMA gift shop to soften the blow of disappointment. I bought some handy little journals to jot down my brilliant ideas 'cause I was feeling particularly artsy, you know, all writer-like and shit. And don't writers walk around with journals?

Then we decided to head to Times Square and decide what show we wanted to see that night for which we could get half-price tickets. The only show I really wanted to see was The Book of Mormon which, of course, was sold out, or we could get tickets for like, a bazillion dollars. So, not an option. Unfortunately, none of the other shows seemed particularly appealing so we decided to wander aimlessly about while trying to figure out what to do about the Broadway show situation when, lo and behold...

A nice, young lady asks us if we want to attend a taping of the David Letterman show, for free. This takes a moment to sink in. I used to watch Letterman all the time in high school and university, when I didn't have to get up early. So we decide, what the heck, ya, let's do it! Turns out this chick was legit and we got to see a live taping of the show at the Ed Sullivan Theatre. If MoMA were open on Tuesdays, we may never have seen Letterman.

We did end up going to see Avenue Q the following night, a Sesame Street satire of sorts, where cute puppets have sex on stage and sing songs like "The Internet is for porn". I'm not a fan of the musical genre but this, I enjoyed, especially having grown up watching Sesame Street.

We also made it to MoMa, which was open on Wednesday. I pretended to look like I understood what some of this stuff was about:

I know, very convincing. Don't I look deep in thought? Pink planks make you think, man. Just sayin'.

We also dropped by what I consider to be a holy place, due to my devotion to Tina Fey:

Security didn't have to be so rough with me, though. I mean, Tina and I ARE friends. In my mind. And like The Secret says: "Thoughts become things". I was just trying to manifest. Is that so wrong? (Ok, there was no actual scuffle with security. Only in my imagination, where I enter 30 Rock and cry out: "Tina! Tina!" à la Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire and security promptly removes me from the building.)

I really hope this isn't all that's left of the Occupy movement:

Kudos to this guy for puttin' it out there and garnering some attention but it's one guy. What happened to Occupy? In stark contrast, we stumbled upon a fashion shoot on our way to lower Manhattan:

Ahh, capitalism at its best, selling us stuff we don't need in pretty packages. It was cool, though, seeing this in person, kinda like: "Oh my GOD! Is that a REAL model?" Like they're some kind of endangered species or something. With the right agent, lighting, stylist, hair and makeup artist, coke dealer, personal trainer and chef, I too could be a model.

This is just a cool shot from the 86th floor observatory of the Empire State Building:

On our way back to the airport, we got to experience Penn Station at rush hour, where I was almost smothered to death trying to board a train to Jersey. Then, the train was so packed, we stood in the vestibule. Even though there were other people in there with us, I sensed this was against security protocol since, if you looked down, you could see train tracks in the space where two cars were hinged together, and you had better hold on. Good times...

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Honey badger don't care

Honey badger is fearless. It eats snakes, despite getting bitten, eats bee larvae despite being stung. Honey badger don't care.

How to cultivate your inner honey badger:

1) Wear a waist-high thong, hip hugger skinny jeans, a bra as a top and stilettos to church, and proclaim "Jesus loved prostitutes too!"

2) Park in a handicap space and fake a limp.

3) Fart silently in a crowded elevator and smirk when the effects of your noxious fumes take effect.

4) Sit in the "priority seating" section of a bus and when people give you dirty looks because you don't move for the very pregnant lady, point to your stomach and say "six weeks asshole".

5) Ask for a skinny, half-sweet, lactose-free, no foam, whip cream, three sprinkles, double-shot Venti mocha latté at a busy McDonald's.

6) Light up a cigarette in the lobby of an abortion clinic and when they tell you to put it out, say "What? It's not like it's gonna hurt the baby."

7) The next time a casual acquaintance sees you and asks "How are you?", slap them across the face and tell them you've done away with civilized behaviour.

8) Pay for an expensive restaurant meal in pennies.

9)  Walk briskly in a crowded mall, then stop abruptly. Repeat several times.

10) Approach a young child while telling the parents "Oh, he/she is adorable!" Crouch down and whisper to the child "Santa doesn't really exist."

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

She held her breath

So I'm watching 30 Rock the other night when Tina Fey unveils another of her comic gems: snart. What is a snart, you ask? When one sneezes and farts at the same time.

C'mon, no need to be shy about it, we all know it's happened to us at least once in our lifetimes. And with the force of the sneeze, it's possible even a little poop shot out too. Hmm. What would that be? A spnart?

Speaking of bodily functions, have you ever been sitting in your cubicle, minding your own business, thinking: "If I fart right now, it'll be silenced by my cushy office chair"?

Well, I've thought that, and this one time, I let one rip, right into my chair, only to have the sound rebound off the chair into the surrounding perimeter, causing a brief but loud cacophony, followed by silence. The person in the neighbouring cubicle must have heard something but politely went about her business.

When you have to puke and poop at the same time, how do you prioritize? Which do you need to find first? A sink or a toilet? I'm thinking toilet since shit would be way more disgusting to clean up than vomit.

Although, it would really depend on the content and scent emanating from the vomit. Maybe some puke is grosser than feces. I mean, I kinda know what to expect from poop but how am I supposed to remember all I've ingested in the past 24 hours that could come hurling back up? I can barely remember what happened this morning.

You know what really sucks? Having gas cramps when you're teaching yoga. First off, my distended belly looks like a second trimester baby bumb. Then, I have to keep my posterior cheeks squeezed fairly tight to prevent gaseous emanations from escaping as I lead others into enlightened bliss. It's happened once or twice when, despite my efforts, some squeak escaped and I prayed my students thought it was a creak in the floor.

Why do chicks pretend they never fart? You know what happens to people who never fart? Well, I don't either but I suspect bad things happen, that's what. I mean, do guys really think that "real girls" don't let one rip once in a while? I think they would prefer a fart buddy. I mean, how cool would it be for a guy to brag to his buds that he lit up blue angels with his girl last night?


Related Posts with Thumbnails