Why Didn't I Think of That?

This morning I was listening to news that counts, Howard Stern. Howard (we’re on first name basis) played a clip from one of America’s leaders, William Bennett.

“But I do know that it’s true that if you wanted to reduce crime, you could, if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this country, and your crime rate would go down.”

- Bennett, Morning in America, 9/28/05

For those of you unfamiliar with the man, let’s start by saying the Bush family is a proud supporter. For the record, yes, you can judge a person by the company he or she keeps.

Bennett was the Director of Education under the Reagan administration. Education of, oh the entire United States of America, hm, kind of an important role. Under George (no-W) Bush, he was the Michael Douglas of Traffic, the US Drug Czar.

With his education and anti-drug campaigns, he naturally is the author of several novels on morality. I mean, thank God someone’s teaching morals around here.

I bet Bennett did an, "Uh-Oh did I do that?"

Foot-in-Mouth Disease

Compiling a list of stupid things I’ve done isn’t very difficult. I don’t often get embarrassed, but there have been a couple of occasions where those stupid things have caused wide-eyed, clenched teeth, and a lower lip grisly smile and thoughts screaming, “uh-oh, did I do that?”

- About six months ago, I was invited to a small gathering. My date, Midge, mentioned that the host didn’t drink. I figured, oh, well, other folks will, so I’ll just bring a nice bottle of Pinot Noir. Alcoholism isn’t a reason that ever crossed my mind for the host being a non-imbiber. Yes, I’m naïve. We arrive at the party and like a straight man walking into a gay bar suddenly noticing the absence of women, I suddenly noticed that the cans in the coolers weren’t bud light, but Hansen’s natural soda… in lieu of forties and wine bottles, there were liters of diet coke and Evian. Needless to say, everyone was a recovering alcoholic, and I brought the alcohol, “uh-oh, did I do that?”

- Faceless man says, “oh where were you?”
My dumbass, “yo’ mama’s house.”
With his sudden change of tone, Faceless man retorts, “hm, my mom just died.”
“Uh-oh, did I do that?”


Maybe the “foot-in-mouth” disease is hereditary. I’m coming from a woman, let’s call her Mom, whose classic faux pas was:

- The Setting: In Church prior to Sunday morning mass

Addressing the woman in her two-piece Imitation Chanel Suit seated beside her, “When’s the baby due?”
(We all know how this one ends)

Imitation Chanel Suit replies, “I’m not pregnant.”
Okay, Mom, you should have simply apologized and left it there, but that’d be too easy, “Oh, my apologies. It’s always difficult to lose the weight right after having a baby.”
Imitation Chanel Suit, “I had it three years ago.”
I’m certain my Mom did an, “Uh-Oh, did do that?”

Not Even Raisinets

Cigarette smoke is still woven into my sweatshirt. I know I should wash it, but I’d hate for it to lose its black and that soft new sweatshirt feel. Work is slow right now, too slow. A man on the bus the other day slurred, “this bus is as slow as a turtle,” on his cell phone. I thought it was an all too obvious simile. However, here I am today, thinking that work is as slow as a turtle. I have time to think about my sweatshirt. I have time to contemplate getting a sweatshirt, of all things, dry-cleaned.

I have time to read about E! on the verge of canceling Taradise. Then my mind, with all this time, spins… oh how “Tara-ble” that’d be.

And this is my life… a colorless cubicle with file cabinets covered in magnets of trips people have taken and photos of smiles that need to be captured… and I’m lucky. I’m lucky to have fluorescent lights over my head and an empty dish stained red from strawberries. And I’m cursed with this incessant desire to always want more. I’m cursed that more can’t even satiate me.

I think about my psychiatrist dad always telling me to enjoy the taste of a raisin, but they’re much too small for me. They just don’t last long enough. And I can sit here and think about children in Africa with poochy stomachs and flies buzzing around their heads, and still that raisin doesn’t taste so good.

With work slow like a bus in Ukraine driving uphill, all I do is think. Will I get laid off? What will I do if I get laid off? Try something new? Peace Corps, reality TV, UCLA Education Abroad, and now home finance in 6 years just isn’t enough “trying something new”? and then what? And then what? And then?
My mouth is slightly parted like Napoleon Dynamite and my stare blank. Someone could throw a rubber ball at my face and my expression wouldn’t change. I wouldn’t mind my mind matching my mouth and stare. 

My College Philosophy That Got Way Lost

You can't control what happens to you, but you can control how you deal with it.

MissCurious Zen

Go Fuck Your Brother

What’s so bad about incest?

The most common and reasonable argument is birth defects. However, first cousins have almost the same chance as unrelated parents of having children with birth defects. I’m talking scientific evidence that the margin between the two is exceptionally narrow, approximately 1%. With brothers and sisters procreating, the risk of birth defects is significantly higher. While there is a 3 to 4 percent chance of birth defects with unrelated parents, related parents have a 6 to 8 percent chance to have a child with congenital defects. Not a considerable difference, but noteworthy, yes.

But if close incestuous unions are illegal (in most states if not all), shouldn’t it be illegal for parents with a myriad of sexually transmitted diseases, parents who have serious inclinations to heart disease, cancer, diabetes… the list goes on and on. How do we truly assess the risks and which types of defects could potentially be worse than others?

Also, brothers and sisters could prove infertility and be married. Brother and brother, no harm in that. Certainly, marriage is truly the illegal factor in policing incest, but nonetheless.

Basically, go fuck your sister, your brother, your cousins… who cares, right? Hahahaha!

Thank God:

Thank God I really do have badass friends. Thanks to my two callers last night and all the emails checking to see if I’m doing well. Y’all are RAD, thank you! At any rate, just an update on The Brother – we’ve since spoken, and I feel hopeful of our direction. Right now, we’re going to maintain a friendship. We both have feelings for one another. Our break-up is just a matter of circumstance, really. Should he lessen the number of projects in which he’s involved, therefore, giving him more time, I imagine there’s a good chance we’ll rekindle the romance. Surprisingly, as passionate and insane I am, I’m feeling pretty mellow and cool about things.

Boo Fucking Hoo

Oh pity me... if my troubles simply entail a break-up, then I think I'm doing pretty well... so fuck me already... how can I feel lonely and despondent when I have Rockstar INXS season finale to cheer me right up?

Thank God:

Thank God I subscribe to the distractions life has to offer... TV (reality tv in particular), movies, gossip magazines, diet coke, coca-cola zero... again, thank god these things are important... have real meaning... I'll take these things to the grave.

Coming to America

There I was on a Saturday night curled up on my bed with my androgynous bear Rainbow wishing I could go back to the days where failure meant a B on a calculus test and a broken heart was just a slight sting when your crush asked another girl to the dance. But instead, I sat in my studio trying to lose myself in Eddie Murphy’s contagious laugh, trying to forget the end to another relationship and wondering how life became so lonely.

“…nothing was simple [then], not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

A Moveable Feast
- Ernest Hemingway

Will We Survive the Weekend?

You know you're drunk when you walk by a homeless man, and he points, laughs, and says, "no more drinks for you!"

Oddly enough, it wasn't me... but I was buying the drinks for the guy who was that drunk. Ooops.

Update:

Rocky territory with The Brother... he was supposed to come home with me for Thanksgiving, but he had to cancel for a show. He and I have had talks about his crazy schedule many times before... the conclusion has been that I need to deal with it. I need to decide if it's worth it. Right now he's in about 4-5 projects.... he keeps saying he's going to end the other projects and just keep the most important... but this is doubtful... how long do i wait?

I just don't see us getting much closer when we don't get to spend much time together... when we do spend time together, he's usually catching up on the stuff he can't do while he's rehearsing or has a show.... or spending more time scheduling more rehearsals and shows.

We hardly have sex or hook-up... well, hardly for the beginning of a relationship... once a week, if I'm lucky. The sex is almost always at my initiation, and when I initiate it, I worry that he'll turn me away. Perhaps, this physical thing on top of not getting to spend quality time with him is just pushing us farther apart... well, me farther away at least.

He's an amazing man... I have nothing negative to say about him... I'm just losing my momentum for him. Perhaps no one will ever be good enough for me. I have to adjust to being single again because I think there's a very very very very good chance that The Brother and I won't survive the weekend.

Spider Homicide

I don’t scream, run or throw people in front of me. I calmly recognize that there is a spider, and I scan the room for some sort of paper product in which to dispose of it. Okay, well, this isn’t entirely correct. I am Miss Curious after all. There has to be some over-analytical shade of crazy reaction to a spider.

If you were inside my head when I saw a spider, this is what I’d say to myself:

Ew, there’s a spider, shit, gross.
Fuck, where’s a fucking tissue?
Toilet paper, oh great.
I think it’ll take that whole roll for the little spider, yup.
Hm, I should approach slowly, just in case this spider suddenly has extreme jumping capabilities.
Exhale.
Okay, squish, ew, uh, gross.
I better look to see that it’s dead.
Yup, there it is… dead…. I think.
Okay, now I better wrap it back up in this roll of toilet paper.
Hm… where should I throw this away?
Hm, not the toilet because what if I’m mistaken and it’s alive and can swim and then attacks my kooch when I sit down?
That means no bathroom trash can either… it could jump in the toilet, float and wait for my kooch then too.
Hm. Bedroom trash, no good either… what if it’s preggers spider and all its kids come back for retribution?
Oh fuck, what if wifey spider is waiting for dead spider, and now I’m dead ‘cuz I killed him.
Man, fuck, why’d I kill this spider? Shit.
Fuck. I’m dead meat. Fucking spiders.
The best I can do is the kitchen.
I’m never there. That’ll work. Let me tie this in ten bags, then throw it the kitchen trash.

So perhaps a little over-analytical, but looking at me, you’d never know this was going through my head. I’d look completely chill committing spider homicide.

Yeah, like that time 3 years ago when I was babysitting (yes, I babysat at the age of 24, fuck you)… I heard a scream coming from the kitchen… it was 4 year old Blondie. I run over to see what warranted such a shriek – an intruder? Dismemberment? There Blondie stood on the tile floor screaming and pointing at an itty bitty spider crawling toward the ceiling.

“Don’t worry Blondie… Miss Curious is here… I’ll take care of that little spider (it’s not my toilet – not my kooch).”

I lift myself onto the kitchen counter, taking a roll of paper towels with me. Blondie stands below me, her hands in fists, folded into her chest – her eyes squinting and teeth grinding in fear. With the paper towels, I reach for the spider. I nabbed it, but it was still alive. I saw it running on the surface of the paper towel. I scream at the top of my lungs and drop the paper towel. Of course, who is standing there below me? Blondie. I dropped the spider paper towel right on her head. I’m screaming, she’s screaming. Why? A little fucking spider.

I eventually killed the spider, but left hoping to God that she wouldn’t tell her parents.

Thank God:

Thank God I've finally decided to be optimistic, patient, AND understanding... let's see how long it lasts - I mean, it's going to last forever (how optimistic is that?)... I'm going to attempt to be patient with the chumps on the bus, chumps at work, chumps on the phone, my chump friends (okay friends, you're not really chumps - chump just sounds better in repetition)... but yeah, i'm going to try to "turn over a new leaf" AGAIN... hahaha... Yes, I have to be filled with the love folks... filled with the happy times... let the shit and the chumps roll off my back.... listen to happy music like "crazy in love" and other Beyonce hits... I should give the "Happy" bit a try... try it on for size. I'm so fucking brilliant!! What took me so long to figure this happy thing out? weird.

D Stands for Dumb

Hiding weed in my bra hasn’t always worked out for me. For one concert I volunteered to keep two bags of medicinal marijuana in my bust. By the time we got to the show, there was only one left. I was convinced the missing bag was still in the car. Why wouldn’t I feel it falling out of my bra and down my shirt? Well, that was almost 2 years ago, and it was only until yesterday that I finally believed it could have fallen out of my shirt without me having noticed it. The scene – Tori Amos at Concord Pavillion. This time I hid my cumbersome glass pipe with a filled bowl in the boobies.

As we approached the ticket gate and the first round of security guards, I turned to say good-bye to a few friends. I hear a ‘clink’, but think nothing of it, and keep blabbering. They say, “hey miss curious… um, look at the ground.” I looked down only to see my pipe resting there on the ground. I look at it. I look at the security guards. I look at the people next to me, behind me, all looking at my pipe there… on the ground. I gasp. Reach down for it, and in a panic, stuff it back into my D cups. Everyone saw me. They knew I knew they saw me. My friend recommended I tuck in my shirt. I did. I got into the venue. Safely.

And how do I just not feel a glass pipe falling down my shirt? It’s not like that time in 8th grade where I stuffed a pad in my pocket, and it fell onto the ground and I didn’t notice it until I kicked it over to this guy I used to flirt with. But anyway, things fall out of pockets and at times go unnoticed, until well, you hear the sound of the pad skidding across the payment... but out of the bra, down the stomach and out of the shirt - unnoticed? I have to think that these incidents point to the same conclusion… I’m clueless. Hm.

Thank God:

Thank God I’m slowly learning to accept that my wife Midge has taken a perhaps permanent vacation from me. I guess two people can’t be attached at the hip forever. Why can’t they be? Fucking God again… always making things difficult… causing miscommunications and altercations as a result… having us do a, “well, I thought that meant you didn’t want me to come over,” and “I thought you just didn’t want to come over…” I spin it this way… he spins it that… I’m right – he’s right – we’re both wrong… insecurities… blah blah blah… and maybe 2 and half years of cubie-mates and after school stoner-mates has taken its toll… but there was a lotta’ love and there still is. Yes, I’m cheesey.

Hightlights of An Epic Tori Amos Show... and oh, Can you Imagine a world where no artist sings fucking Imagine? I just can't Imagine it... love Tori, used to like Imagine, but now I can't Imagine Imagine not being covered a million times by a million different artists:

“Here we go again
These little earthquakes
Doesn't take much to rip us into pieces…
Give me life
Give me pain
Give me myself again”

Little Earthquakes

"On the other side of this
This mole hill of a mountain
This potion now a poison
They're on the other side of right
We're on the other side of her midnight...
So baby will you let my darkness invade you...
I am piecing a potion
To combat your poison
She is risen
She is risen
Boys I said she is risen"

Barons of Suburbia

"strange
thought i knew you well
thought i had read the sky
thought i had read a change in your eyes
strange woke up to a world that i am not a part
except when i can play
it's stranger after all
what were you really looking for
and i wonder when will i
learn blue isn't red
everybody knows this..."

Strange

God's An Asshole!

Why couldn’t God just have made me perfect? I’ve heard all the excuses that people come up with as to why we wouldn’t even want to be perfect, but I don’t buy those excuses. I want to be perfect, so fuck you God for making me a raging lunatic.

I wish nothing bothered me, that no one could do anything that affected me or if it did I had the perfect way of handling things… I wish that I didn’t hate people and they didn’t hate me…. I mean wow, it doesn’t take much to get someone to dislike you or to dislike someone… and then what? You have to prove yourself a million times over to be liked again? That just fucking sucks!

I want no hassles, no issues… just peace and quiet… fucking la la la land… I don’t need to have bullshit like, “what doesn’t kill you – makes you stronger!” Fuck that! Who came up with that? Why the fuck do we need to be strong? I’ll tell you why – because other people are assholes and we need to be strong to put up with their bullshit for the rest of our lives… and I’m an asshole… Everyone’s an asshole… why can’t everyone just be perfect and sing Kumbaya all fucking day? I hate altercations, annoyances (like on the bus, walking down the street, breathing)… and don’t tell me things would be boring if they were perfect… no fucking way, they’d be happy times all the time… utopia.. bliss… and everyone’s liberal and Bush’s don’t exist… I hate the rules of the game… next time God, don’t be such an asshole and make me and the world fucking perfect as shit!!!!!

I'm Not An Addict.

Free me, leave me
Watch me as I'm going down
Free me, see me
Look at me I'm falling
And I'm falling.........
It is not a habit,
it is coolI feel alive I feel.......
I'm not an addict… maybe that’s a lie.

- "Not An Addict" K's Choice

If there’s someone to blame, it’s my dad. And now here I am bound by my addiction. I told him not to buy that antenna because I knew…

The deeper you stick it in your vein
The deeper the thoughts there's no more pain
I'm in heaven I'm a god
I'm everywhere I feel so hot

Tuesdays and Wednesdays, DON’T ask me to do anything. I’ll say no. I’m a junkie. There were so many that I said no to, but then came Rock Star INXS(http://www.cbs.com/primetime/rock_star/), and I was finished. Mark Burnett has succeeded in hooking me once again (my claim to fame – I used to work at his office in my reality tv days – Mark Burnett Productions).

Anyway, this show is fucking great! INXS and Dave Navarro judge wannabe rockstars to see who could front the band after Michael Hutchence asphyxiated himself in some weird sex game. I have my favorite, Marty (http://www.cbs.com/primetime/rock_star/performers/marty/). He has this sweet lil’ turtle face and a raging voice. But anyway, enough about these silly details and let’s get onto addiction.

Since I’m addicted, I thought I’d drag others down with me. My mom’s hooked, my dad (the antenna buying culprit) pretends he’s not hooked, but he is… and The Brother. We all call each other during commercials. I get defensive. Should my dad or The Brother say anything negative about my wannabe boyfriend, Marty, I jump down their throats. I use phrases like, “you just don’t understand” and “he’s an amazing artist AND he’s so fucking sweet (as though I know him?).”

Here’s the most embarrassing part: last week, I voted via-Verizon text messaging… not one time, not two, but 17 fucking times. To me, that’s just whack! I’ve watched reality tv shows before, but I’ve NEVER voted.

“Free Me Rock Star INXS…”

Okay, well, before you do that… let me download some of the songs from I-Tunes…. And can the wannabe rock stars put out a Christmas album?

Thank God:

Thank God my hair is black again. I can finally wear my red lipstick.

Slumber, My Ass

Women are disgusting, and there’s no better place to be disgusting than a slumber party. No, we do not have pillow fights in our underwear and start going down on each other. Instead, we fight with words; repulsive, nauseating, revolting, ghastly words.

The kick-off: breast feeding. One participant, let’s call her “Sass” posed the important question that perhaps many have asked themselves before, “If I’m turned on when a guy sucks my nipples, will I be turned on when my baby is sucking them?”

The opinionated group wastes no time to respond, “Yeah, Sass you’ll totally get turned on, and when you’re baby tries to stop sucking and you’re not ‘there’ yet, you’ll push his or her head back and tell him to keep sucking!”

The natural progression from having your baby get you off with nipple-sucking, is beastiality. Another participant, let’s call her “Ramble” brought up a situation where she was lying on her bed, naked of course, and her dog jumps up and begins licking her… licking her awfully close to her nips… she pushed him away, but the group finished up where she left off, “why’d you stop him… you know that dog wanted to lick your pussy… why not just have her do it?”

I proceeded to share a story from college where a woman in her young age (about 7 or 8) was taught by her older sister (that’s probably the most strange part) to have her dog lick her pussy. Lucky her, orgasms at a young age… and isn’t that what dogs are good for – licking? She was just doing her dog a favor.

Snowballing (for those uninformed, guy comes in your mouth, you kiss him and give it back), anal sex, favorite positions, number of fuck buddies, fetishes, tales of too much sex and too little… you know the standard slumber party fare. We naturally scandalized the only male present (he lived there)… we couldn’t understand why.

Thank God:

Thank God I got a good fucking last night. Sometimes I just need a hot poking to smile the next day. Let’s all applaud The Brother for coming through!

PS – thanks to the slumber party ladies… who’s house next? Really.