Thursday, April 26, 2007

The Question Portion Of This Blog...

...has now come to a close.

For those of you who missed it, and/or are too lazy to scroll down like, TWO entries, I asked the first ten people who requested interviews five unique questions each.

Those questions are in the comments here.

That was hard!

But I also said that I'd ask at least one question of everyone else who wanted an "interview" but was a little late to the top-ten party.

So! What were the results, you ask (because you're STILL uninclined to scroll down two whole posts and check the comments section or click on the above)? Well, see below for the questions, the responses (in links) and the NEW questions for the rest of you...

* * *
Interview One: Julie!

I asked her about...

1. Infomercials.

2. Footwear.

3. Redheads.

4. Drinking.

5. Secrets.

Sound intriguing? Well, go read her lovely answers, which involve shoe pee. HAHA! Oh, do I ever understand.

* * *
Interview Two: Green

Here we discuss...

1. Cleaning.

2. Crying.

3. Pasta.

4. Morning people.

5. Dog love!

How does a Green Yogurt feel about such issues, you ask? Find out here.

* * *
Interview the Third: Cassie

Where we aim to discover her thoughts on:

2. Cities.

3. Cat hair.

4. Shopping at Staples. (A favorite hobby of mine!)

5. High heels.

What does she think? I do not know, but if you visit her site, you can see cool pictures of small children rockin' out to reggae. And that's kind of awesome.

* * *
Interviewo Numero Fouro: Shananigans

She totally takes the ball and runs with questions about:

1. Cigar-smokin hotties.

2. More about redheads (who knew I had a fascination)?

3. The zodiac.

4. Wedding tremors.

5. Celebrity phone calls.

Read all about it here.

* * *

I thought she may have something to say about...

1. Swedish discounts.

2. Makeovers.

3. Games.

4. Ricki Lake.

5. Gross food.

She hasn't answered as far as I can tell...but maybe it's only a matter of time.

* * *
I wonder if a lot of people ask her Who Shot You? But I didn't. Next up, it's
Six: JayAre, who will presumably discuss...

1. Her use of the term "bonk." (HAHAHAHA! Bonk!)

2. Britney.

3. Throwing books.

4. Gizmos. (Probably not pink ones.)

5. The mani versus the pedi.

You wanna know. Go find out.

* * *
Lucky Number Seven: Lord, She Was Born A Ramblin' Girl!

And so we find out about...

1. Our different takes on roller coasters. (Me? Not so much with them.)

2. Being a thirtysomething.

3. Vacation. (Because hi, it's Friday!)

4. Um, baby names.

5. Knowing thyself. Thysevles? Shush.

She's got something to say, and also refers to this as a rash. Awesome!

* * *
Aarwenn is our fabu figure eight.

She will maybe someday tell us about:

1. Crazy plastic surgeons. (You know how they get.)

2. Kingdom Fabulous.

3. Milk out of the nose.

4. Sexy male moms.

5. Knowing something you don't.

* * *
Interview Nine: OneBadSue

Now, please note: Sue is a badass and I know her in real life and stuff. And even though she hasn't posted in AGES, perhaps this will spark her...

1. Spontaneous roofing.

2. Strippers.

3. Geeking out.

4. Quickass time travel.

5. Quite possibly Celine Dion.

* * * *
TEN: (Ha!) Dawn z(ed) is Coo(l)!

Know how I know? Just look at those rockin' specs. Plus she takes these topics on...

1. Knitting.

2. Fun with latex!

3. Drinkypoos.

4. Bikers.

5. MORE fun with latex. Maybe. Sorta.

...and jams. See?

* * *


(Feel free to answer in comments or link to your answer or both or whatever!)

Dizzy Ms. Lizzy, you rockstar you. I couldn't help but notice you haven't blogged in while. What's the real reason you do blog, and what's the best time you've ever had in the "blogosphere" (reading, writing, commenting, etc.)?

Okay, Sam. I dunno if this qualifies as a "doozy," but it's definitely a real question. I don't know if you decided to go to that writer's conference you mentioned, but whatever. Say you got to go to dinner with Mr. Crais. Just the two of you. This means you have roughly two hours to pick his brain and soak up everything you can. What's the one biggest thing you want to learn/know/find out, and how do you think it'd help you?

Vixen Rachel... I don't know if you feel this way, but I can definitely understand that both Tobey Maguire and Leonardo DiCaprio are good-looking males. However, I have never been able to get over the fact that they're just looking. Do you know what I mean? What are your thoughts about these two? Sexy? Not sexy? Date-worthy?

Um, hi, Nikki. I couldn't tell if that meant you wanted a question or not, but here's one anyway: Say that Bill and Hill DID split up, for real. And through some awesome twist of fate, you two met, and he actually wanted to date you. REALLY FOR REAL. Would you? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

JESTER! My love! I miss you!
Everyone! I don't know if you ever stopped on by to read it, but Jester wrote an AMAZING chronicle of his experience getting a HUGE ASS RECORD DEAL SORT OF! It's gripping, and fascinating and full of famous people. (Did you know that Jester is FAMOUSISH?) Seriously. Go read his story. It's cool as hell. Find it here.
What's your biggest current dream that you think really could be a possibility someday?

And finally, we have, alica. This is a super hard one. (At least, it would be for me.) What do you think your 8-year old self would think of your current self?

* * * *

Whew! That was some serious work, kids. I am exhausted. But also loving your answers -- you are fascinating people!

And um, I'm not sure -- I feel like I should state that if you have any questions you'd like me to answer, I'd be happy to do so. Seriously, I'd talk about anything. (Hi! Obviously!) But I also feel like that seems self-indulgent to ask on my own damn blog. So I dunno. If there's something you'd like to know that I haven't already talked about exhaustively, please let me know.

Thanks for all your participationness!!!

Wednesday, April 25, 2007


update: hi. don't know how my comments got turned off, but they are on now. issues.

I am shocked and awed and amazed and inspired and also sort of feel like I've been kicked in the gut.

I didn't know.

So yep. My sort-of* blog friend, Laurie, announced on Monday that she'd written a book. And there it is in all its glory.

Wow, huh?

Our Crazy Aunt Purl is a fantastic writer. She's a gifted blogger and designer, too. And I had no doubt she'd write a book, or that the book would be well received.


I can't really get my arms around the fact that she's gone and done it. Just, poof! (Not that it didn't take work to write it, just that, whoosh! Time flies and we didn't even know she was working on it and then suddenly here it is. Ta da!)

And...even though the book doesn't come out until October, it's already up for pre-sale on Amazon. And it is kicking ass!

That's just amazing.

Also, her publisher is the same one who produces all the Chicken Soup books, and so I really don't have much doubt that Laurie will end up on Oprah before we know it. She's just that good, and just that fun and funny and inspirational and worthy.

And thus, we come to the point of the entry where I mope and whine and share my hideous feelings of jealousy and embarrassment.

I have been crying since I saw her entry.

I mean, I haven't sorted all my feelings out yet, but not only is this amazing and wonderful, it also emphasizes how much I haven't done and can't seem to do and in three seconds, I went from feeling positive to dealing with a raging sense of insecurity. My mind races --

"Why haven't I...?"

"Why don't I...?"

"When will I...?"

"Could I ever...?"

"I will never..."

"And even if I did, it would never be as good."

Oof. That last one there. That's a bitch to get around, but that is what this knot in my stomach is all about.

From the recesses of myself, the voice is there: "Well, there you go. Whatever it is you thought you were doing? She's done it. She's done it well. And she's done it better than you ever could. There is no point in you even trying. Why don't you take up some other hobby? I hear golf is nice."

But of course, there's this aspect, too, lifted right (um, hi) from Laurie's own blog entry on this very topic:

What if, indeed.

So rather than blather on about this before I have any sort of perspective, I'd love to hear from you. How do you find inspiration, what makes you keep trying, what gives you the motivation to pursue something you're deathly afraid of failing at?

*"sort of" = I do a lot of stalking, and she basically lets me. :)

Vote for Me! I'm a Jackass!

(vote here)

FIRST of all, let's just say that I have approximately 9,326 logins and accounts and things all over the internet, and am always signing up for more! because someone has developed something that's even! cooler! than the last version except then no one uses it and it becomes obsolete.

I have, for example, something of a placeholder name/account on friendster, tribe, myspace, linkedin, and facebook, and probably 14 others I don't remember. (I know, I know, so do you.) But that's in addition to this blog, plus about 8 other blogs I either tried to create or contribute to -- and only some of which were on Blogger.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because, see, not only do I register mySELF everywhere, I try and register this BLOG everywhere, because I think that's how you're supposed to do it. There are almost as many sites out there for the purpose of promoting blogs as there are blogs, and I have lost track of where I've registered.


I saw that Stacy (that's Stacy of the interview questions below, which are still happening, btw) was nominated for a Blogger's Choice Award and so I went to the site to go vote. And I saw that I had to -- rightofcourse -- REGISTER in order to do this, and so along with ME I was all like, OH I WONDER IF I CAN REGISTER MY BLOG, TOO.

And yep, I can. And did.

But I didn't totally grasp what I was doing.

Which is where we get to the point of this entry.



Awesome. Just, awesome.

Are congratulations in order OR WHAT?


If you'd please consider voting anyway, that would be awesome. Thanks.

Click here to vote.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Sharin' The Love. And Donuts.

Did you know that I worked for a Leadership & Management Consulting Firm for, like, seven years? Hmm? No? Yeah, well, I did.

As a result, I have mad -- and random -- working knowledge of key competencies you (that's right, YOU) need to be an effective manager. From the complex, like how to roll out a new vision and strategy across your global organization, to the more everyday variety, like how to conduct a really good interview.

And I feel confident that as part of this exercise, I will put those skills to use in no way.

* * * *

I don't know where it started and I think it would be crazy to try and find it out, but this is sort of a meme to end all memes.

My understanding of it, based SOLELY on Stacy's entry, is that you get asked FIVE QUESTIONS by a blogger. Then you write those answers on your blog. THEN, in turn, you ask five UNIQUE questions of each of your commenters who volunteer. And so on.

Or at least, that's how we'll do it here.

So! Below are Stacy's questions and my responses. And the first 10 commenters who request to be interviewed will get five of their own, very personalized, potentially management-consultantese-ridden, questions to answer in kind.

I will also ask at least one doozy of a question for anyone else (after the first 10) who requests one. :)

And here we go...

* * *
H’okay, Keeks. Your questions.

1. Hooray! You win a prize from the nearby Trucker Hat Emporium, owned by MTV. You have won the punkings of up to 10 friends. Think of the 10 people you would have punk’d and tell us in exhaustive detail the best punking you would give and why. Don’t say who, however, because if it’s that good, I’ll be over in 20 minutes to help you punk that person.

Wow. This is a hard one because I am not really a fan of practical jokes because I worry that someone's feelings will get too hurt. And I think if you spend the whole time worrying, it pretty much defeats the purpose. But off the top of my head...

*I'd take one of the myriad emails my friend sends me about how much she hates her job, company, boss, etc. and send it back to her, making it look as though she accidentally cc'd The Entire Company.

*I could also create a fake email that LOOKS like it's from someone my friend *hates* and then start up a very uncomfortable email exchange with her.

*Does poking holes in your friends' condoms count?

*I think there are a lot of punks that would be easy to pull off that would fall under the category of e-stalking. Too creepy to ever do, but probably effective. Like:
- Creating a false MySpace page dedicated to my friend, from a secret admirer, complete with pictures.
- Writing an increasingly intense series of "missed connections" on Craigslist, including personal details that only someone close to that person would know.

*There are a bunch of stand-up comedians I know who pretty much make my skin crawl. So much bluster and bravado and unsubstantiated pomposity. Plus, they're rude. I really don't like people who are rude to me. Anyway, I'd love to like, fabricate some complete bullshit comedy contest in some podunk town waaaaaaay outside of the Bay Area. I would make it seem completely legit -- I'd create a website, include a working phone number, plug in celebrity names -- and personally select the comedians who would be invited to attend. I would then relish reading all about how they'll be kicking ass (because they will write about their feats even before they compete on the local comedy board), and how special a gig it is and how others should envy them. And then they'll drive on out and discover it doesn't exist.

I will end this question here, because I feel kind of dirty now.

Satisfied, but dirty.

2. Everyone has, thanks to that infernal television show ‘Friends’, a Top 5 List O’ Boffing. Think of your own list. Sigh with pleasure. Fuck that list; I want to know your Top 5 List of Unconventionally Handsome (read: Decidedly UNHANDSOME) Men. Not Brad Pitt, Steve Buscemi. Not Clive Owen (Sweet Mother of Jesus, I think I just…you know), Philip Seymour Hoffman. Tell us your Top 5 list of unhandsome, yet strangely sexy men you’d hump if no one found out about it.

Funny, Ish has a joke about this. ("My girlfriend thought it'd be fun to have an exempt it weird that one of her celebrities is a local traffic reporter who lives in her building? She says I shouldn't worry, though, because he's hardly ever home.")

So in no real order (though you can TOTALLY see how my mind worked through this list):
- Eddie Izzard
- Ricky Gervais
- Steve Carell
- Kelsey Grammer
- Alan Rickman

And those are just off the top of my head. My apologies if any of these men are decidedly handsome. Apparently I have a thing for Brits, too. Funny ones.

Also, I feel like I should note that I have ALWAYS had a thing for Stanley Tucci, but I don't think he's unattractive. I also think Ish looks a little like him, and Ish is definitely handsome, so whatevs.

3. What was your worst date?

Oof. The problem here is that there were a couple dates that were bad because they were humiliating. One took advantage of me when I was young and stupid. Several were bad because they were awkward because of my weight. And one whole entire relationship of mine was wretched because I had zero self-esteem and it took me several weeks to realize I was dating a complete and total loser.

But those are no fun to talk about.

Two summers ago I was (as some of you may recall) on something of an online dating rampage. One of those dates was horrid. Just. Horrid.

We hadn't exchanged very much information, so I didn't know much about him other than his profile. Which seemed great. But when we met at a local bar for some low-key drinks, it was obvious: there was NO chemistry. In fact, there may have been anti-chemistry. Whatever it was, the conversation was downright painful.

People, I may have many issues. Conversation is not one of them.

So after our painful drinks and what I THOUGHT was our "let's just get it over with" congeniality, I said something like, "Well, I think I'm going to head out." And he replied with, "Oh? Where are you going?" With the implication that he'd like to go to.

I had no idea what to do with this. I am not direct and confrontational, especially not with people I don't even know. And he seemed completely bored. And I was bored. I didn't understand.

"I'm going to go..." I didn't want to go home. And I didn't want to lie about going home in case he saw me later. And I REALLY didn't want to go home because we were close enough to my apartment that he'd see where I live and I just didn't think that was a good idea.

"Around the corner, to another bar."

"Well, let's go!" He said.

After we were there for, I dunno, 20 minutes? 3,000 years? I hatched a plan. I called "Bemily" to see what they were doing, and to effectively beg them to come join me, since they lived in the neighborhood and PLEASE SAVE ME FROM THIS DATE.

I told the guy that I was having friends join us. He seemed unfazed.

When Bemily arrived, they quickly understood my plight. They suggested we go somewhere else. He insisted on coming along. Somewhere along the way between bar #2 and bar #3, he offered me his business card with ALL of his contact information.

I was confounded. I was watching as his eyes glazed over while I spoke, and yet...?

Did he think I'd be easy? Hmph!

FINALLY, at bar #4, after I'd had too many cocktails and was too fed up, I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go home, but every time I mentioned going somewhere or doing something, he wanted to follow. I should have had the balls to say, "YOU ARE NOT INVITED" but I didn't. (Especially not after four bars' worth of cocktails.)

So Bemily came up with the bright idea that we should just leave. And while I have never done something like that in my life, I (and my cocktails) figured, why not? So we did.

We ditched him.

But that is not the worst part.

I wrote him the next morning and sent an apology, saying my behavior was inexcusable. He replied saying, "no worries."

A couple weeks later, one of my invisible internet friends came across a post somewhere online that he had written. About me. And how I (and his experience with me) should serve as a warning to all who venture into Internet dating.

NOT because I ditched him. No, no. He left that part out.

Because, you see, I was REALLY FAT. And ugly. And BORING. And being in my company made him want to kill himself.

In this post, he made fun of me, of my blog (which I spoke about at length because I was grasping at straws), of my dating life. He joked about my weight. He didn't use my name, but he used enough personal information that someone I didn't even know knew he was talking about me.

It was mean and spiteful and pathetic. And it made me feel like shit despite my knowing it shouldn't.

I wrote him. I told him that no matter what he wrote, or how he'd re-written history in his head, we both know exactly what happened that night.

He never replied.

4. Bill O’Reilly called. What did he want?

Did you see that episode of Arrested Development where Justine Bateman played a high-priced hooker? And every time she ended up having private time with one of the men, all they wanted to do was talk and cry?

See, Bill called me because he's heard that I'm All That And A Bag Of Chips. He's seen or read my stuff and thinks I'm a worthy adversary, smart and cute and sexy. He just HAS to meet me. HAS to know what I'm like in person.

I take pity and agree.

And I am so engaging, so witty, and so capable of seeing through him and getting to his heart that by the end of dinner, my uber-fantasticness has worked like a charm: he is a weeping, drooling puddle of regret on the floor.

His blubbering is embarrassing, and he's reverted to speaking like his four-year-old self, since that's the last time he remembers having a soul. He begs for forgiveness and just wants to be taken care of. He mutters something about Al Gore.

In a very dramatic, moment-of-reckoning I go to offer him forgiveness by way of a sincere hug. Except instead of returning the embrace, he is like the Wicked Witch of the West suddenly doused with water. With all his wretched, heaving sobs, he's forgotten that his entire body had long since been molecularly restructured (what with all those strange, foreign rays beaming into Fox News studios) and that he's actually impervious to truth, humility, forgiveness, or kindness.

In what would have been our first moment of contact, he spontaneously disintegrates.

The angels do not weep.

5. My mom once “helped herself” to a salt and pepper shaker at a restaurant, putting it in her purse because, “Stacy, they’re really nice.” (Sorry, Mom.) What is the cheapest thing you have ever done?

This would probably be a tie.

A few times in my life, I have had zero dollars in my bank account. Like, no change, no cash, no viable options for getting cash in the remaining few hours before next month's direct deposit would be available.

At one such juncture, I may have stolen toilet paper out of a public bathroom. Maybe.

At another such juncture, ages ago, Dave and I were engaged and living in our tiny little apartment and were literally hours away from getting our respective paychecks. And while family lived nearby, it was too embarrassing to admit that we had barely a cent to our names.

But it was dinnertime, and we were hungry. And there was no food in the house (this is not a new phenomenon, IIFs). So we scrounged around, literally, looking for all the loose change we could find.

It was under $5.

We considered our options.

And after much deliberation, we concluded that a dozen donuts would give us the most bang for the buck. Plus, we were grown-ups and if we want to eat donuts for dinner, we damn well can. So we did.

Thus, I once ate six donuts for dinner.

The End

Monday, April 23, 2007

Best Wishes

So my friends, Ben and Emily ("bemily") got engaged on Friday night.

He proposed to her on their five-year anniversary. It was very sweet, and I knew ahead of time and it was all I could do to keep my head from exploding with the knowledge.

Anyway, I could not ever put into words the extent to which this couple makes me laugh, but they do, and constantly. (Ish suggested I pull out a tape recorder some time when the two of them are having an everyday conversation to try and capture pieces of it. Perhaps sometime I will.)

In the meantime, I offer the image below.

In case it isn't evident, Em is telling some highly involved story that she is very excited about.

Note: the story could be about ear wax and she'd be just as animated.

She is also probably getting at least half of the story wrong, which would account for Ben's look.

I can only imagine that in another 50 years or so, they'll look pretty much the same. There may just be more empty wine glasses on the table.


Thursday, April 19, 2007

Fun On The Sperm Farm

I know that after my last post about fertility and ovulation and all things reproductive, you might think that this post -- what with that humdinger of a title* -- is related.

It's not.

It's just the funniest subject of spam email I've seen in a long, long time. I could not help but laugh at my screen.
[Which I love doing when I'm home alone in my apartment with cats, just laughing. Ahahahaha. I suspect soon the neighbors' kids will start throwing rocks at me and next thing you know, the townsfolk will blame their dead crops on my sorcery.]

And I know I shouldn't entertain these thoughts, but just what kind of animals do you think Old McDonald has on his sperm farm anyway? I found myself wondering.

And then -- I couldn't help it -- the song started in my head, and before I knew it, I'd found a way to make it dirty.

Old McDonald had a Sperm Farm, ee-i-ee-i...

...o. Face.

(Hi, is it Friday yet?)

So okay. Maybe it's that I did something stupid, karmically speaking. I mean, I went and told the whole innernets about my upcoming ovulation (ceeeeeelebrate good times, come on!), so I guess I sort of put it out there to the universe.

And so I guess the universe responded to my wanton, currently useless fertility the best way it knew how: with porn.

See, in addition to the Sperm Farm-tastic message of this afternoon, last night I received an erroneous PORNOGRAPHIC TEXT MESSAGE. Which is kind of awesome in its utter ridiculousness.

But yeah. Um. Did you know this? That people of the world are out there sending pornographic texts? USING TEXT SHORTHAND?

Universe, you have some explaining to do.

Unless of course the universe is responding with porn silliness STRICTLY so that I can post it on my blog. In which case, Universe, I totally get you.

And also in which case I should, without further ado, give to you -- verbatim -- the ERRONEOUS PORN TEXT MESSAGE I received (with my deletions):
no!!!! just tryin to give u a visual of me lickin ur c - - - so that would mean that my d - - - would be around ur feet and u could be feelin my d - - - with ur feet!!!
* * * * *

Wow, huh?

Anyone want to guess what the question he was saying "no!!!!" to was? Hmm?

Just, wow.

I especially like the clever, oh-so-sexy use of the word "u" and "ur." But maybe that's just my over-eager ovaries talkin.

*Heh. I said humdinger.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Peeing On A Stick: A Play, Sort Of!

Act One

Scene 1:
Outside the Infertility Specialist's Office. Three days before I leave for the BlogHer Business conference.

Newbie Nurse: Please step on the scale.

Me: [sigh]

Newbie Nurse says the number aloud and writes it down. I try not to grimmace.

Newbie Nurse: I need to take your blood pressure.

We go through the process. I worry that my blood pressure will be high because sometimes it seems to spike up, and I was in pre-conference craziness. And also I'm getting tested to find out if I'm fertile, which isn't exactly a stress-free process.

She takes the band off me and starts scrutinizing the numbers on the high-tech screen. She writes stuff down. Then, with my numbers flashing for any passers-by to see, some other nurse passes by.

Newbie Nurse to Other Nurse while pointing at the machine: Hey -- um, this is her pulse and this is her blood pressure, right?

Me: !

Other Nurse, not stopping: Yeah.

Newbie Nurse, still to Other Nurse: Aren't these numbers kind of high?

Me: !!!

Other Nurse kind of nods, kind of shrugs dismissively as she continues walking down the hall with some other patient. I am kind or horrified but do not say anything.

Newbie Nurse: Just go straight down here and into the Consulting Room. Dr. F will be with you in a minute.

I go down the hallway to the Consulting Room and open the door, only to find a couple already in there, seated and looking at pamphlets. We all apologize and I run back out of the room to try and find Newbie Nurse, but she is nowhere to be seen. I don't know what to do, so I just stand there. Eventually, Some Other Nurse comes by.

Me: Um, I was told to go in there to wait for Dr. F, but there's a couple in there.

Some Other Nurse: There is? Who told-- Please just wait in the hallway a moment.

A few minutes later an entirely different nurse goes to the Consulting Room and escorts the couple out, and tells me I can go in. I am not feeling as positive as I had been.

Scene 2: In the Consulting Room With Dr. F, The Infertility Specialist

Dr. F: So, tell me a little bit about why you're here.

Me, with a lot more stammering than this: My sister has a baby. At about a year-and-a-half, he was diagnosed with Fragile-X. I made an appointment with the Geneticist, KB -- the one who I believe you spoke with, who recommended you? Anyway, I got myself tested, and I am a carrier. And I know that one of the risks of being a carrier is premature ovarian failure. And um, I'm worried about that.

Dr. F: Yes, KB said that she had some concerns about that, too.

Me: Right. So I guess I'm here because I want to know if I am fertile now. And how to monitor it going forward. And um, what the procedure will be when I do want to have a baby.

And I guess I said some magic words, because all of a sudden he was off to the races! A diagram came out and he was drawing all over it and telling me all about the procedures one takes if one seems to be infertile. It was a spiel he'd given probably hundreds, maybe even thousands of times. I could tell when he was on auto-pilot. He'd been an infertility specialist for something like 25 years. But I had to interrupt him.

Me: But, um, I don't think that I am infertile. I mean, I don't know, but I am having normal cycles. And...well, I had trouble ovulating before, years ago when I was married. But I got some bloodwork done at the beginning of my cycle last week -- do you have those results?

Dr. F: Yes. Here --

And then there were more drawings and all sorts of numbers, that boiled down to: my hormone levels are all pretty normal.

Me: And I am supposed to go back in another couple weeks and get tested for something else?

Dr. F: Yes. They will test your progesterone level. You will want that to be at 8 or above. 8 or above and you're probably okay.

But he seemed skeptical and went back to explaining what to do if I wasn't okay. If I wasn't ovulating.

Dr. F: Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome...

Me: ???

Dr. F: fairly common and reversible. It's good that you have regular cycles. Generally the symptoms of PCOS include irregular cycles [and then he rubbed his chin to remind me where my breakouts were] and some acne.

Again, I tried not to grimmace.

Dr. F: For now -- and I know how this will sound, but -- the best thing you can do is lose weight...

By the end of my visit, I'd gotten the information I needed, but felt utterly defeated.

It took lots of redirecting to get the information I needed from the doctor, which was tiring in and of itself. (Like, we did eventually get to discussing what to do when I DO want to conceive, and how to test for Fragile-X early on, but that was not his area of expertise. I know this because at one point in the session, he got up and went to the computer to look up whether you could test for Fragile-X in vitro. And you can. And you know how he found that out? By looking it up on GOOGLE.)

My problem was that I went into the session thinking that I was basically healthy. Yes, I am overweight and yes, I am a carrier of some crazy genetic thing, but I thought I was otherwise fine. I thought I was just gathering information so I could know how to best plan for the future.

Instead, I left wondering if maybe I have some other kind of Syndrome, and how I'd even know. And realizing weight loss is no longer a cosmetic thing. And feeling horrible and dumpy and acne-laden and high-blood-pressured and gross.

Act Two

Scene 1: At Home, Trying to Get My End-of-Cycle Test Results

Answer Nurse: How may I help you?

Me, after asking about my ear being clogged and maybe mentioning the hydrogen peroxide and ear cigarettes thing: I, um, also had some bloodwork done related to fertility. I am wondering if those results are in? I haven't heard anything.

Answer Nurse: Oh, let me that for the prednisone?


Me: Yes.

Answer Nurse: Well, I don't know anything about that. I can't tell you what it means, but it says 4.6.

Me: Oh, okay. I will follow up with my doctor.

Answer Nurse: I will pass it on to his office, too. Someone from there should call you soon.

And I got off the phone and looked at the diagram with all my doctor's scribbles and saw what I already knew. That 4.6 is not 8 or above.

I wanted to cry, but not before getting a second opinion. I figured if the ditzy answer nurse thought it was prednisone, maybe she'd read everything wrong.

So I called back.

Second Answer Nurse: Oh, I can't give you that information. I am not qualified to interpret the results.

Me: But you can't just tell me what the results are?

Second Answer Nurse: No, we aren't allowed to do that. Because I could tell you, and the first question you'll ask is, "What does that mean," and I can't give you a good answer. Someone from that doctor's office will give you a call about it.


A couple days later, I had to go in to see a different nurse for my sinus/ear/congestion issue. She was wonderful. She also used a larger arm band for the blood pressure reading, and discovered my pressure is pretty normal.

On a whim, I decided to ask her about my test results, in case she knew anything. She showed them to me. She also didn't know how to interpret the number, but I saw on the screen: "Progesterone" and "4.6."

Scene 2: At Home, On The Phone With Yvette, Dr. F's Nurse a few days later

Yvette: So we got your results back.

I know.

Me: Uh huh?

Yvette: And your progesterone level was at 4.6, which means you did not ovulate.

There it was.

Me: Okay. So what are my steps now? How do I monitor this?

Yvette: Given that you aren't actively trying to get pregnant, I would just recommend that you start on a weight loss program. We offer a whole bunch of classes, and I will mail you some of that information.

Me: Is there anything else I can do?

Yvette: You can use an at-home ovulation predictor kit, that's about it.

It took me until then to cry.

It's not the end of the world. It can be reversed. I can lose weight. I have time, I think. I hope. I'm only 31. A lot can happen in a couple of years, and who knows. Who knows?

I'm not sorry I know this. I'm glad I found out. I just wish...

I had to go to Walgreens to pick up my steroid-enriched nasal spray (woohoo!) and while I was there, I decided to buy an ovulation predictor kit. Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment, but I prefer to think of myself as an eternal optimist.

Besides, it wasn't that expensive, and who DOESN'T love peeing on a stick every morning, huh? Awesome!

Scenes 3, 4, 5 and 6: My Bathroom, Around 8 a.m. on Thursday, Friday, Monday, and Yesterday

I pee in a cup. I pop open the tube full of predictor sticks. I place the predictor stick in the cup for 5 seconds. Then I lay it flat. I see the Control line form in full, rich darkness. I see the Test line form, faint. I clean everything up, grouse, and go about my day.

Scene 7: My Bathroom, This Morning
Pee Stick!

So what am I supposed to do with this, then? Because that test line right there? That is definitely darker than the control line.


Maybe I ovulate every other month?

Maybe the test results were wrong?

Maybe my pee stick is lying?

Or maybe I should be done, now, with testing and worrying and trying to control things that aren't even happening right now. Maybe I back away, and work on getting healthy, and feeling good, and enjoying my time and life and right-now-ness.

Maybe I take this as a good, hopeful sign, and leave it at that.


Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Ready For My Close-Up


Napkin portraiture.

Thanks, Emmy!

On Compromise

Sunday, 4:13 p.m. No plans. Surfing our "On Demand" choices.

Ish: What are the chances I could get you to watch The Sting tonight?

Me: I dunno. What are the chances I could get you to watch The Devil Wears Prada?


Ish: Touche.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Paris In April

Please take this very, very long (serious) entry with a grain of salt. It's mostly un-edited, and just came right out, as if from out of nowhere. I'm sure I can be more articulate. Maybe later.

It's hard to write about my love life for many reasons. Probably the biggest reason is that Ish, the one I would be writing about, reads this blog. And it's not like I hide things from him, it's just--

--don't you think it would be weird for me to write about the sometimes-crippling anxiety that accompanies being in love with someone? Um, given that that someone is going to be reading it? Even if he already kind of knows?

* * * *

I know you know already, Internet, because I've told you a dozen times, but it bears repeating: When we met, Ish was separated. Not "getting divorced." Not even "probably" getting divorced. He was merely separated.

You know what I told my sister the day after our first date? I told her I'm glad he's married. I thought that we would have a good time together, but that his complete lack of real availability would force me to back off, take things slower than I usually do, relax, and simply enjoy the pleasure of his company.

I was right.

For a while.

* * * *

I am damn good at compartmentalizing. Scary good. After growing up with so many bad things happening, or maybe going to happen, that this is how I cope. When I cannot do anything to change a circumstance, I simply shrug and put it away, almost as though it doesn't exist. I don't know if it's denial, exactly, because I am aware of it.

Sometimes people think this is strength, that I am strong. Because bad things happen and I am still okay. I am genuinely functioning and okay, and not bitter and not angry. And not even on anti-depressants.

But once, quietly, after some guy I really liked but hardly knew broke up with me, my mom said to me that she worried. She feared that I was "cold."

Sometimes, quietly, I worry that she was right.

Mostly I know she wasn't, though. I am not cold, I just wear my heartbreak differently than she did.

* * *

I don't get to have this.

Here is the crux of my anxiety, and I don't want to hear your arguments. You may very well tell me that I am worth it. You may remind me that he isn't. And I at once know these things to be true, and will absolutely refuse to believe them. There is nothing to be said.

It started in the first few weeks of dating him. I don't know how early on. It was just a flicker and I refused to look at it.

We are just dating, we are just seeing each other, this is just fun. This is just another life experience. Just go with it. Just let go.

But I can tell you exactly where it happened, and exactly what I was doing the first time I felt the anxiety and hurt and pain and terror in a burst -- a wave of recognition that made me sick to my stomach. I tried to explain it to him and he couldn't understand and it subsided anyway and we went back to being nothing serious.

I was sitting on the floor of his apartment one weekend morning. It was sunny, and the whole place smelled like bacon, because it was tiny and had poor ventilation, and anytime we'd get the urge to cook bacon the scent would linger for days. (Sometimes bacon is worth it.)

Ish's studio apartment had low ceilings and shabby carpeting and no charm to speak of. And when clean, it looked like the kind of place someone on the down-low would stake out. Aside from a couple books and photos, you'd know nothing about Ish's "real" life.

I thought that was just fine.

I didn't have the torture of sitting in "their" furniture. I didn't have to be surrounded by a life that had nothing to do with me. I wasn't infiltrating sacred ground haunted by memories of happier times. His "happier times" existed somewhere else, and it was very easy for me to ignore them.

His stupid little apartment was in no way intimidating, and neither was he. He was confused and sad, and working out a lot of things. His relationship with his family was strained and difficult. His career was unfulfilling. His dreams were shapeless. His life path was completely unclear.

And that person? That person I can handle! That life I know! That mess of a situation, oh-ho! I get it...and I can hold your hand while we muddle through it together, because fella, you are speaking my language.

But the boxes had come. She'd started to send bits and pieces of his real life, his "happier times" life, all carefully wrapped with maybe some tenderness and tears or maybe bitterness or really, I have no idea what.

At first I didn't go near them, because there was no reason to. But he'd opened them and left them laying about (there was nowhere but "about" for them to go) and I noticed that one of them had all these funny square little boxes inside. I was curious.

Oh, those are my ties he said. Really? I asked increduously, because I didn't know ties could come in square little boxes, or that someone would be organized enough to keep the boxes, or that someone who doesn't even wear ties could have so many.

I asked if I could look at them, and he said sure and so I did.

Each one of his ties had been expertly folded and placed in its box of origin. And as I sat on his floor, slowly opening the lids, examining the contents, replacing the lids, and re-stacking the boxes, I nearly had a panic attack. That flicker I'd felt earlier became a burst, and I hugged my stomach and waited for my compartmentalized sense of whatever, this is just for fun to return.

* * * *

I will try and explain. Every time I write it, it seems stupid. I know it does. I see the words and I'm embarrassed about them because I sound like a teenager. Like I never learned a damn thing.

My father grew up if not wealthy, then certainly close to it. He was raised in a wealthy, white town, by smart, literate, liberal parents. He went to a college full of white, smart, literate (sometimes) liberal boys. And when he eventually settled down with my mother, they decided not to raise us there. Instead, we grew up one town over.

I went to a public school that was 50% non-white, and 80% non-wealthy. Except I spent my summers at the country club -- the one my grandparents and dad had belonged to for decades. It was a fascinating experiment in social anthropology I guess, spending my summers alongside the "other half."

Sometimes I think about writing an autobiography called "The Poorest Kid At The Country Club."

They were perfect, all of them. They had perfect bodies and perfect skin and hair and teeth. They had the latest everything. Their parents had nice cars and normal jobs and their houses were amazing.

I "blossomed" early. I had zits at age 9. I was a 36-B by at age 11. I had hairs I didn't know what to do with. I was disgusted by my body. I was fat by country club standards. I wasn't even blond enough.

And my house and home life was crazy. We had a big house, but it was always in disrepair. We didn't have nannies or housekeepers or anything like that. My mom drove a Jeep and my dad drove a Volkswagen Vanagon well before the "mini-van" existed. I went to a different school than everyone, and what was cool in Norwalk was definitely NOT cool in Darien.

It's not like I wished we were rich. That's overly simple. I just saw a different version of life, and I ached for it. I saw kids who were safe. Kids who worried about which great college they'd get into, instead of how they would ever pay for it. Kids who spent their summer vacations backpacking in Europe or interning for daddy, instead of schlepping ice cream to have enough money to afford a meal plan in college next semester. Kids whose parents were present and involved and nurturing in their development.

My parents were good, but I would be hard-pressed to say my upbringing was "stable."

No, stability was not ever a term you'd use to describe the Sammis Family Household. (Fun? Yes. But that's another story.)

* * * *

I was not cool in high school. I did not have a normal collegiate experience. And when I was old enough, I sunk every ounce of energy I had into trying to manufacture that life. I got married and got a house and tried to make it be that way. But I failed.

I'm just not built like that.

And I moved to San Francisco, and finally accepted that not being built like that is really just fine. I don't need That Life.

Well, and then That Life answered my Craigslist ad.

* * * *

He is the whole package, and then some. I made a list a hundred years ago of what The Perfect Guy for me should encompass. And while I've come all this way, that list has never really changed. Ish is it.

But he's more than just a list of things; he had all of That, too.

Stupid things I pretended I didn't want because I couldn't have. The perfect, clean house. Family vacations around the world. Slender, white-teethed friends who'd go to good schools.

That life, that safety. That amazing family. Those amazing parents, who could provide so much. Who even had amazing friends, who also had amazing children. Amazing daughters.

An amazing daughter, whom Ish would marry, and who -- perhaps even while embittered -- would still fold his ties into proper boxes.

* * * *

I'm lumpy.

I have many fabulous qualities, perhaps chief among them the likelihood that you will feel comfortable around me. Because how can you not because I am a mess.

My hair is not neat. My face is often broken out. My shirt is stained. My apartment will forever smell like cat pee, and it is going to be dusty in places because who cares? My socks will be white the day I purchase them and never again.

And that's just the outside.

Inside, I feel like my life's been broken into a million pieces. From my parents' sad endings to me and my sisters' new struggles with fertility and genetics, unfortunate things seem to befall my family more than is our fair share.

Maybe everyone feels that way.

But maybe that also makes you feel comfortable around me. Maybe knowing that there's been all this bad stuff in my life makes you want to give me a hug. Or maybe it makes you feel like your situation isn't so bad. Or maybe you just want to stand next to me in case a storm breaks out, because if a lightning bolt shoots from the sky you know which one of us it's going to hit.

Of course I'm the girl who will get hit.

But I don't know if that's the girl you want to marry.

* * * *

Things are going along very well with me and Ish, and do not think he isn't supportive or wonderful. He says all the right things and I believe that he means them.

It's just that I have a ton of baggage, and sometimes I realize I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * * *

We were in an art store approximately two months after we'd started dating. There was a beautiful calendar of Paris, and he pulled it down and started pointing to the pictures. He got a wistful look in his eye as he spoke of his favorite spots, how you can't go to Paris without spending at least part of every day in a museum.

The flicker happened then, too. I had never dated someone who knew Paris. Who would know which museums to go to. Who could speak french well enough to order food and pair it with the right wine.

I want to be with him so badly.

Shhh, this is just for fun.

Last August, on our year anniversary, we went to a french restaurant. He talked about Paris again, and how much I would love it. How it would be, if we were there together. He said I would be a lot of fun to go with, because I would get it and love it.

I knew we couldn't plan it, though. Not yet. Not then. He was still in the relatively early stages of his divorce, and planning a trip to Paris with his girlfriend was tactless and rude and not affordable anyway. Plus, who knew if we'd even still be together.

We are just dating.

A few months later, I don't remember why, it came up again. Maybe we were just discussing traveling in general. We agreed, mutually, that fall of 2007 might be a good time to go. But also that fall of 2006 was way too early to plan anything definitive.

He said we should revisit it in the spring.

We should discuss Paris in April, he'd said.


* * * *

This entry doesn't end the way you might think.

It's April, and we have discussed it. And we are not going.

Understand that he has well reasoned, well grounded, perfectly good reasons for not being ready to go with me. Logistics aside, I think it simply means too much to me, while he is there, his divorce still not even final.

And of course I understand. But I have cried anyway.

Because here. Here it is.

To him, it is not about this. But to me, it represents everything I'm terrified about.

I know which fork to use and I can quote highbrow literature but I will still accidentally jab myself in the mouth with the fork and no one wants to hear a passage of Ondaatje through a fat, bloodied lip. And you know this. And I know this.

But, good God. I want to be the girl who gets taken to Paris.

I want to be good enough.

And I am afraid that no matter what, I cannot be. That people from Ish's circle will pity me and my baggage-ridden life, or pity Ish for getting suckered into dating me. I fear that his family will always feel pangs of disappointment about me, will always have wished it was someone else.

And that maybe he will, too.

I fear now as I have always feared, since the day I fondled his neatly packed boxes of ties, that this will end because it has to.

I don't get to have this.

The charade will be over, and he will inevitably wend his way back to a better, more worldly version of That Life without me.

He will take someone else to Paris.

And I, as I always have, will return to my lumpy life of bacon-scented apartments and compartmentalized pieces of my story that didn't quite go the way I'd hoped.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


Isn't that just the most charming title for a post you've ever read? Hmm?

Last Thursday I woke up and heard on the news that it was going to be a very bad day for allergies. And I made the cardinal mistake of tempting fate by thinking to myself, "Gosh, I haven't had any allergy problems this week at all."

And then come late morning, as if some celestial entity looked down at me and said, "Hey, why isn't she miserable? We must change that!" my entire head suddenly filled with goo.

My throat grew sore, my eyes turned red and itchy, and I could barely breathe. I have never suffered from such acute congestion in my life. I felt like my head was inside an invisible balloon.

And THEN the day progressed and the fog rolled in and I don't know if it was a change in air pressure or what, but my ears? They just clogged. Like I was on an airplane going through sudden shifts in cabin pressure, except worse because there was going to be NO LANDING to offer relief. Just time and yawning and swallowing and chewing and hoping...

...but by 8 or 9 p.m. on Thursday, I was in tears in a ball on the sofa. My right ear hurt so badly that I felt nauseus, and also everyone on the Internets scares me and I hate them.

In my painful desperation, I went searching online for some herbal/holistic remedies for my ear because (short of going to the hospital) I didn't know what else to do. But -- as happens with the scary Internets -- I kept stumbling upon what I was sure would be The Miracle Cure, only to then find three more articles explaining, calmly and rationally, why if I tried The Miracle Cure I'd end up SCARRED FOR LIFE DON'T EVER TRY THAT.

(I'm not, for example, stupid enough to go pouring hydrogen peroxide down my ear canal simply because some doof with internet connectivity tells me I should. But I totally almost did.)

And OH MAN. There's one site out there where people write in their favorite "homemade" remedies. And so this one dude had explained how his sister-in-law's ear really hurt, and he kept insisting that he had the cure, but she wouldn't trust him. Finally he convinced her that he would fix her right up by sticking a LIT CIGARETTE IN HER EAR and, I dunno, "smoking" out the pain/congestion/wax/horrors. So this random internet sister-in-law said SURE CRAZY ASS MAN WITH A CIGARETTE, WHAT COULD IT HURT? And then according to crazy internet man, he was right and she was cured and now everyone they know thinks Ear Cigarettes are the true Miracle Cure, isn't that so good to know.

But that isn't the best part.

The best part is that following this dude's entry, the site moderator had, for some reason, felt compelled to add his own warning. Please, he urges his readers, you may follow crazy man's advice, but please be sure NOT TO PUT THE LIT END IN YOUR EAR.


Which makes one wonder: just how many people read that post and honestly thought that sticking an ashy, burning-hot LIT AND POTENTIALLY SMOKING CIGARETTE into the side of their head WAS A GOOD IDEA?

More importantly, I really, really want to know how the resulting trips to the ER went, and just what they told the doctors when they arrived.

Sunday, April 08, 2007


Anonymous said...

what happend you used to be so very entertaining now.......uuuummmmjust a bore what gives.....what did you do with Kristy and when is she comeing back

8:30 PM, April 06, 2007

* * *


I get the feeling we're supposed to read this phoenetically. And if that's correct, I am going to have to assume that "comeing" is pronounced with a long O. Which means the correct spelling should have been "combing."

And thusly translated, I believe Anon 8:30 wants to know if the reason I'm not more entertaining is because the real me has been locked away, combing backs.

Which I think is both a thoughtful and amazingly intuitive concern.

Because you see, faithful readers, Anon 8:30 is right. The real reason my blog isn't better?

I spend all of my time combing Ish's back hair.

When we first started dating, I tried to ignore the long, golden locks flowing from his shoulder blades. But as happens, once we were out of that mooney-eyed, love-struck phase of the relationship and onto the pimple-popping, you-might-not-want-to-go-near-the-bathroom-for-a-while phase, the back hair needed to be addressed.

He tried shaving it, but he could only reach the top half of his back, and not very well at that. Then he offered to have me use the electric razor. And I did. Except of course this just made the hair grow back longer and thicker and fuller than before. And the more I shaved it, the faster it would return.

Eventually, we gave up trying to get rid of the hair, and decided to simply enjoy it for what it is.

Sometimes I braid it. Sometimes I use mousse. Sometimes, when we're feeling really crazy, I'll apply a liberal dose of Sun-In and Ish will spend the afternoon walking around the Tenderloin shirtless and saying "dude" a lot.

Oh, and there was that one time we went to the 80s party and I went hog-wild with the crimping iron and Aqua Net.

So. Since I'm spending all my off-hours as Ish's personal back-hair stylist, I hardly have a moment to spare on blogging. Let alone on being "very entertaining."

I hope you can understand. And I thank you, Anonymous 8:30, for bringing this matter to light.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Help A Sistah Blogger Out

JayAre is currently a student, and is doing a research project. She wants to know why there are so many women bloggers out there, and why we're doing what we do.

Please let her know by taking her survey here:

Thank you. :)

Why I Am Not Writing For Cosmo

Women's magazines are constantly announcing that they have The! Secret! to great sex. Or more specifically, they like to tell me that they have The! Tips! for driving him wild in bed.

And I have always found this rather baffling, since it's been my nearly universal experience that The! Secret! to making men crazy in bed is simply by agreeing to go there with them.

I'm pretty sure that for like, 98% of the population, driving him wild is achieved like so:

Him: Honey? Uh, could we have sex tonight?

Her: I don't see why not.


See? Done and done.

But the magazines don't stop there, no. Because for some reason, these publications are preoccupied with our sex lives. They seem to want us to be having sex ALL THE TIME. And if we aren't, we have a problem.

Magazine: Are you having sex ALL THE TIME?


Magazine: A-Ha! We KNEW it! And we have the answer! Look inside to discover How! To! Keep! The! Spark! Alive!

And you think maybe you will read these articles and discover something new about yourself or your partner, like how to not want to wring his neck for leaving his clunky shoes out on the floor in front of the bed that you cannot see but will trip over in the middle of the night for the 147th time.

But you don't. Instead, you're told that you should buy new lingerie, or cook a meal for him unexpectedly, or do a chore around the house that he usually does. And what fun is that?

The point, I think, is that the articles are always suggesting ways that you can change your routine just enough to make it feel exciting again. And I appreciate this, except I found my own methodology years ago.

I find that all I need to do to keep my man on his toes is to be completely unpredictable about when I may -- or may not -- choose to shave my legs.

Do you remember learning about behaviorism in Psych. 101?
  • Scenario A: Every time a rat pushes a lever, he is rewarded with a pellet.

  • Scenario B: The first few times a rat pushes a lever, he is rewarded with a pellet, but then never again.

  • Scenario C: Sometimes when the rat pushes the lever, he gets a pellet. Sometimes he doesn't. The results are random.

And do you remember what the resulting behaviors were?
  • Scenario A: Eventually, the rat gets bored and stops pushing the lever, and or he gets too fat and dies. Either way, he stops pushing the lever.

  • Scenario B: Eventually, the rat gets bored with his failures and gives up entirely.

  • Scenario C: Because the rat never knows what the result will be, he never gives up. He keeps trying and trying.

I hope you see where I'm going with this.

If you shave your legs all the time, or even just on a regularly scheduled basis, your partner will come to expect it. He will climb into bed with you and not be stabbed by a million prickly little shards of stubble, and think that is normal. And then he will grow fat and die.

If you never shave your legs, he will eventually come to realize that he will always be pricked by your leg stubble, and/or that your legs will always have a fine sheen of hair. He will eventually grow bored of this, too, and get discouraged. And then leave you. Or die.

But! If you SOMETIMES shave your legs? Ladies, you are in business! Will it be tonight? Or tomorrow? Or...or...sometime next week? Who is to say! But every night, he will get into bed with you, and he will wonder -- and hope -- that he will be rewarded. He knows that sometime soon, your bare legs and his bare legs will meet and yours will be silky smooth and inviting. And he will keep pushing that lever until it happens.

Ah? Yeah?

Take that, Cosmo.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Comedy Death Match!

Ish sent me a reminder that he needs some help.

Details are below, direct from the horse's mouth.

(Where, you know, by "horse" I mean "Ish" and by "mouth" I mean "keyboard.")

Please come join our little cheering section. Because we're nice and fun. And if you're wondering if Comedy and Steakhouse is really a good idea, I have four words for you: eat before you come.

* * *

One last reminder that I'm in the Steel Cage Death Match of Comedy tonight at Tommy T's Comedy and Steakhouse (come for the fart jokes, stay for the filet mignon).

One more time:

TONIGHT, Tuesday April 3
Tommy T's Comedy and Steakhouse
5104 Hopyard Road
Pleasanton, CA ("Gateway to Dublin")
$7 (one-item minimum)
Good lineup, tough competition, need your votes.