June 16, 2015 § 3 Comments
Now that I am of the age where my peers are pairing up with life buddies, I’ve gotten really adept at planning the Bachelorette Party. This isn’t one of those cookie cutter sash/mini veil/bar hopping situations. Please, I’m over 30. There are no rules like “wear black so she stands out in white.” She isn’t doing a scavenger hunt or making T-shirts. There aren’t any penis cakes. No one wants a penis cake. I can’t say it loud enough: NO ONE WANTS A PENIS CAKE. Sure depending on the chick, some of the other activities and props may be relevant, but a penis cake–that’s never a good idea. What happens when the MoH gets the hairy balls piece? No one wants the hairy balls piece.
I spared you. If you google image search “penis cake” you will gag.
I like to be original. Create an itinerary with everything the bride loves, find her feminine essence, embarrass her in good fun, and load up on the booze. You can’t go wrong with a crafty poster and a bottle of Kirkland Vodka. Before I give you the exact recipe for planning the perfect bachelorette party, let’s have a history lesson. Shall we?
To find the origin of the last single hurrah, we have to cross genders. The Bachelor Party dates back to the ancient Spartans. Leave it to those rowdy warriors to make a thing out of a dude’s last solo night. Soldiers would hold a dinner in their friend’s honor toasting and telling tales in merriment. These parties preceded the name, as bachelor is a term from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, which you should have read in 10th grade world literature class. The first recorded use of bachelor party was in 1922, and it said nothing about a stripper.
It wasn’t until recent history in which the party became a night of parading vixens, debauchery, and hazing. And in the 1960s the sexual revolution allowed females to participate in their own taboo pre-wedding celebrations (cheers).
Today, most modern couples copulate before the big day and often live together long before tying the knot. Riddle me this: Hasn’t all the sexual teasing lost it’s luster? I mean, she knows what it looks like, and she understands it’s one willy ’til death. Let’s not rub salt in the wound buy buying her a lap dance at Chippendales.
When it boils down, the bach party is about celebrating the girl before the guy, as an individual. It’s better than any birthday party she could ever have, this only happens once (or twice in some cases). Shouldn’t it ease the pre-wedding jitters instead of waiving penises in her face?
If you agree, here’s my recipe for a Non-Traditional Out-of-The-Box Bachelorette Party (AKA Her Last Smash).
1. Do what she wants to do. Go on, ask her. Maybe it’s a weekend some where. Maybe it’s the Tuesday before the wedding. Maybe it IS a lap dance at Chippendales. Whatever it is, ask and then make it happen.
2. Create a #hashtag. These are the times we live in. This serves as way to collect the memories from everyone in one place as well as a theme. And it’s just fun.
3. Logistics: take care of the food, activities, lodging, etc. so expenses don’t get out of hand for the group. Paypal, Venmo, cold hard cash helps everyone pitch in.
4. Booze Plan. Know what you are going to drink and where. Sure you can go off script, but this is the most expensive item. Figure out what everyone will drink and overestimate.
5. Props. Posters, hats, mustaches, silly things. This is also where you can get a little embarrassing. Incriminating photos, fake tattoos, headbands with cat ears, feather, banners, balloons. Whatever space your in, decorate it. No– transform it. Doesn’t take much to take a rental house from Ikea to Eureka.
6. Interactive Drinking Games. This might be the most challenging, but if you really love the bride, it’s worth it. Create a game that’s so big it’s ongoing for the party’s entirety. One time we did toasts or memories and wrote them down on guns, and everyone had to take a shot (jail bird theme). Another, more elaborate game was creating trivia questions based on the bride’s freelance work. If you got it wrong you took a drink. There are many ways to go, and people fall in love with it really quickly.
7. Delegate. Everyone wants to pitch in, and everyone is probably going through a lot of these. Even if the group doesn’t know each other, they will all want to keep costs low and do what it takes to pull off the best party the bride has ever had. Make sure it’s a weekend to remember, and let people do what they can to help.
For my bachelorette what-have-you, five of my most hilarious friends met up in Sonoma, CA for a weekend of wine tasting. The hashtag was #KTsLastSmash and celebratory Irish things (I’m Irish, Mister Red is Irish, you get it). My friend made a clover patch with over 50 Irish blessings and we toasted to every last one throughout the weekend. They printed incriminating photos of me, one was poster sized, and put them up all over the house. They gave me a tiny leprechaun hat, but didn’t demand I wear it the whole time. We drank a truck load of the finest wine and met a group of ladies dubbed as our future selves in one tasting room. It was the perfect weekend. Every bride deserves the most perfect weekend with her friends.
No bachelorette ever said, “You know what this party is really missing? A penis cake that reads: The Best Is Yet To Cum.”
Poster Sized Mantle Piece in Power Stance. Best Friends Ever.
February 11, 2015 § Leave a comment
Just in time for Valentine’s Day, or more importantly, Galentine’s Day (thanks Leslie Knope). Here are some random reasons to dump a dude who’s not worth it.
#1: He has an unconfirmed tick. You’ve seen it on the first couple dates, and are now on the look out. You end up paying more attention to a twitch sighting than what he’s saying. Translation: You aren’t that into him. If he was perfect for you, the supposed tick wouldn’t be an issue!
#2 He’s got a trick and he likes to show it off. So he can do a cartwheel. Bravo. The second time he does it in an unprompted,”look at me” fashion, eh dude, this is old news. The third time. He’s not well rounded enough for you. Sit, Stay.
#3 Sex is subpar. Subpar all the time from the beginning of time. It’s not going to get better. You can settle, or you can be honest. If he doesn’t take your notes, maybe it’s time to be friends.
#4 He’s lazy. Don’t date a couch potato unless you are a potato. Have some ambition.
#5 He doesn’t make you laugh. Amendment: He doesn’t make you laugh when you do something laughable (like trip or spill food). Amendment: If he doesn’t get slap stick comedy, it’s just not worth it.
Here are a few more my little Galentines.
April 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
Different stages of life can be marked by who is going to care enough about you to get their ass off the couch in the middle of the season finale of The Walking Dead to retrieve you from the hospital if you so happen to get something stuck inside your ear. Or worse. Kidney stones, heaven forbid.
Emergency contacts are essential at every stage of life. Just as you grow and change so do your emergency contacts. In my little life I have been to the emergency room for a broken wrist, getting an earring back stuck inside my ear, a kidney infection, an ovarian cyst disguised by abdominal pain and deadly gas (seriously, I think I killed a cat), a hematoma in my right tit, and hives the size of dinner plates. There may have been more, but those are the outstanding ones. Most of these instances I’ve had the pleasure of a trusted escort. In the case of the cyst on my lady bits and the tit hematoma an emergency contact needed to be called.
It’s a funny thing, staring at the blank spot on whichever form you obediently fill out. Who can you call? It almost laughs at you in times of transitions, defining you and who cares for you in that single moment. You can tell a lot about a person’s life by who they list as their emergency contact.
Ages 5 – 18: You’re listing your folks, legal guardian, or whoever is paying your bills. No one else you know can drive. And if they can, they don’t want to be anywhere near a hospital or know how to act calm in times of crisis. Plus, know one else really has that good of a tally of your wildest poops from the past 6 months.
Ages 19-23: Still listing your parents, huh? Better be at least living in the same state. My cyst situation made a call to my mother, who was a 13 hour car ride away. That lesson was learned the hard way, especially because the episode resulted in emergency surgery. Fortunately, I was 22, old enough to consent, but young enough to want my mommy and a stuffed animal. This is when you start to contemplate the practicality of your chosen urgent caretaker.
Ages 24-26ish: “Hey roomie! What’s your phone number again?” This bestie has held your hair when you’ve had too much Jameson, they will definitely come get you from the hospital bringing your favorite yoga pants and a variety of trashy magazines. My unfortunate boob bleeding called for my roommate. Actually she was my ex-roommate at the time, but nonetheless fulfilled her duty by driving to Beverly Hills past 11 on a school night just to keep me company before I went into surgery. That’s a good contact.
Ages 27ish-29ish: “Dear boyfriend I have been dating for a consecutive several months, can I put you down as my emergency contact? PLEEEEAASSSSSEEEEEE?!” This is a gamble. And it’s a dead give away that he’s in the trial period when you have to scribble out the first number you wrote because you don’t actually have his number memorized. Also, if you find out he’s still putting his sister down as his emergency contact… he’s just not that into you. In some cases this boyfriend turns into a fiancé or a different boyfriend all together. If you are co-habitating with a romantic partner, he had better come running to your side in a medical emergency. Otherwise you are wasting your youth on him. Also, that’s one phone number you should work on knowing by heart.
Ages 30ish-30somthingish: It’s probably your husband, or spouse, or maybe you say “partner.” However you label it, you are probably discussing very intimate things about bodily functions with them. This person should really be completely up to date on all physical and mental ailments and triumphs. This might be the first time someone has been this aware of your current health history since your mom helped you blow your nose.
Ages 30somthingish-40somethingish: This is where the divorce rate comes into play. You start listing sisters, brothers, mothers, and trusted neighbors again. “Thanks for letting me borrow your lawn mower again. So you don’t really travel that much, right?”
Ages 50something and beyond: The whole thing comes full circle and you are listing your kids again. Even if you get remarried, you can count on your kin the most, partly because you might not be so sure how long your spouse is going to last with that bad eye. And if your kids live close by, you can bother them all you want. They can’t escape you, and in some cases maybe they do have a catalogue of your finest shits from the past month.
Our lives fluctuate and these ages are just simply based loosely on my half assed observations in data entry, but I think we can infer that becoming someone’s emergency contact is a big deal, especially if you break up with them, but still list them as the go-to. Don’t forget to update these things or you could be left in the lurch on crutches when your ex leaves you stranded upon discharge.
The good thing is, we are at our healthiest when our emergency contacts are the least reliable and transient. Go forth 20-somethings find those few friends who will pick you up from the emergency room when you have a bladder infection spread to your kidneys. Who’s going to come with cranberry juice and your body pillow in tow? Does that special gentleman caller have the potential to push fluids while you recover from a wicked lower intestinal disruption? Who can you trust to dress a puncture wound? Who will drop everything to rush to your side when you get three stitches? Life is a series of tests and trials. You can’t go it alone.
April 2, 2013 § Leave a comment
First Posted March 21 2011
Remember before email when it was the dreaded chain letter? You actually got it snail mail and somehow the threat of bad luck seemed more real that way. But it was such a pain in the ass to replicate then send to 10 people. Even in the emerging world wide web there was the hazard of the chain email, seven years bad sex and all that junk if you didn’t send it to fifty people you knew in 19 seconds, but if you did in under 4 you’d get a kiss from your crush.
I think now the internet has moved past puberty, with the exception of Facebook (forever young, Mark Zuckerberg and whoever practices Farmville). Sure there is still the occasional Failblog pictures forwarded, but for the most part I’ve noticed a nice shift in email since the boom of social networking. Educational, inspirational, thoughtful stuff that I’m compelled to pass along. So, without further ado, I forward onto you something Miss P. forwarded to me. Don’t be afraid, it’s for your health!
FWD: They Teach It at Stanford
“I just finished taking an evening class at Stanford. The last lecture was on the mind-body connection – the relationship between stress and disease. The speaker (head of psychiatry at Stanford) said, among other things, that one of the best things that a man could do for his health is to be married to a woman, whereas for a woman, one of the best things she could do for her health was to nurture her relationships with her girlfriends.
At first everyone laughed, but he was serious.
Women connect with each other differently and provide support systems that help each other to deal with stress and difficult life experiences. Physically this quality “girlfriend time” helps us to create more serotonin – a neurotransmitter that helps combat depression and can create a general feeling of well being. Women share feelings whereas men often form relationships around activities. They rarely sit down with a buddy and talk about how they feel about certain things or how their personal lives are going. Jobs? Yes. Sports? Yes. Cars? Yes. Fishing, hunting, golf? Yes. But their feelings? Rarely.
Women do it all of the time. We share from our souls with our sisters/mothers, and evidently that is very good for our health. He said that spending time with a friend is just as important to our general health as jogging or working out at a gym.
There’s a tendency to think that when we are “exercising” we are doing something good for our bodies, but when we are hanging out with friends, we are wasting our time and should be more productively engaged—not true. In fact, he said that failure to create and maintain quality personal relationships with other humans is as dangerous to our physical health as smoking!
So every time you hang out to schmooze with a gal pal, just pat yourself on the back and congratulate yourself for doing something good for your health! We are indeed very, very lucky. Sooooo let’s toast to our friendship with our girlfriends. Evidently it’s very good for our health.”
September 20, 2011 § 1 Comment
My New York trip was pretty rough. For the last week and a half I was working toward TV gold in alternative programming. I returned pretty beat up with a wounded spirit and an anger that couldn’t be pacified. Exhausted and dehydrated I showed up to work Monday just hours after I landed in LA hoping for at the very least a pat on the back. All I needed was an acknowledgment that they had thrown my team to the wolves. But no, no one was about to admit that. We got bagels instead. Which was more of like a slap in the face because no bagel made in Los Angeles could ever measure up to the bakery beauties we were consuming in Brooklyn. They didn’t even make a toaster available to us. What a joke. I think I just got New Yorked.
While I was in the city I was able to carve out a couple of nights to visit two old friends who have managed to wrangle their lives in the concrete jungle. These ladies are exceptional modern women trudging it out in one of the toughest cities in the world. A high school friend, modern scholar turned entrepreneur was my first visit in the now trendy, hipster part of Brooklyn, Williamsburg.
Most women our age from our hometown are either engaged or married, and some of them on their 2nd and 3rd children. There is nothing wrong with this, but if Sex and The City has taught us anything it’s that a woman can rot in a metropolis if she becomes accustomed to a life of drive. We discussed the limits you have to put on yourself in order to achieve happiness in that very special trifecta of job, home, and man. Putting yourself with the right man to support the dream job to yield the dream home in the middle of a city harboring old money, new money, cheap money, undeserved money, inherited money, in a world that is still run by men, this shit ain’t easy. At the end of the night we were just a couple of girls without husbands, no kids, eatin’ pickles.
Across town the following night I met a college friend in the east Village. We ate at a Ukrainian diner and mulled over a similar sentiment of the previous evening. Facebook tends to taint our vision of what we “should” be doing and at which milestone we should be at on the path of our lives. You have to put blinders on to everyone else and concentrate on upholding your integrity as a modern independent woman on a personal quest to achieve your goals on your time line. Me with a husband and a bun in the oven? Forget about it. I just recently learned how to accept flowers from Mister Red, lets not rush things. So there I was again: two girls without husbands, no kids, eatin’ meatballs.
I think the best thing to remember when any city beats you down, when the credit you deserve is buried somewhere beneath sub-par bagels, when you’re not in the place you had hoped you’d be, you could always call an old friend and eat some pickles. And if that friend is tied up, call the one you eat meatballs with.
August 24, 2011 § 1 Comment
I stood up at the nuptials of a couple of kick-ass people this past weekend. It was one of those emotional weddings that leaves you in an introspective reflective warm/fuzzy state. A love so celebrated between two people that makes you think you’ve just been privy to some important information that couldn’t be understood by just anybody. That crazy shit that makes you feel and think things to negate your rough exterior, and at the same time fooling yourself into thinking you’re smarter for having realized it. Pure raw emotion that only humans are capable of. Maybe chimps feel it too, there is a lot of partner grooming that goes on there.
Anyway, I’m not a very pretty crier. And to be honest, once I get going I can’t stop myself. There are a lot of things that can add up to a good cry. Stress, exhaustion, extreme situations. Let me explain. Not that I have a stressful job, reality TV is not saving lives, although I hear Intervention and Teen Mom are doing great things. But people in my industry are a certain breed of perfectionists who are pushed to a level of high demand with a short turn around. Even taking time out to lay a good deuce in the bathroom could set you back an hour of work and a heap of grief from your superiors. Not to mention, you could be killed by sarcasm with the volume that’s thrown at you by your co-workers. Taking off for a weekend with a shoot day to attend your best friend’s wedding will get your blood pressure rising and a lot of people passive aggressively lashing out.
Just as I exit this production, I enter into another one. Anyone who says that planning a wedding isn’t stressful has too much money to truly appreciate such an event. The thing itself has so much drama and enough opinions that all its missing is distribution from a major network and a primetime time slot. Add that to a red-eye flight across the county, and a dress that’s too small… well that just makes me the idiot for not taking tissues down the aisle with me. I’m a recipe for a breakdown.
So there I was, standing up there in a row of six watching a magazine worthy bride say some really incredible things to this really amazing dude that will unite them legally together in what they call holy matrimony. I hate that, “magazine-worthy.” It’s a very post modern saying that really doesn’t do her justice. She was most certainly transformed into a heavenly creature to make the moment the utmost sacred of them all. And I’m not normally religious, or maybe I was just sleep deprived, but the atmosphere was eerily celestial. The whole ceremony was starting to feel like a dream, or a movie. Of course I lose it. My fellow maid in front of me is whispering, “keep it together,” and the one behind me says that I’m killing her in between sniffles. Crying can be contagious if emotions are high enough. She tears off half her tissue and hands it to me, I take it between whimpers.
I can’t really say what put me over the edge in the moment. I’m usually a pretty tough cookie when it comes to this stuff, but looking back on the moments leading up, I couldn’t even break the tension with a joke. I think I was realizing all the planning that it took to get me physically there was a bargain compared to what I was fortunate enough to witness. And that my job didn’t really matter without having someone there to talk to it about while he cooks us dinner. That money is just money, and that perfect spot where my head fits on his chest could be the best pillow I’ll ever have. I think I was having an epiphany of what love really is, and seeing the best example right before my very eyes. Or I could have just been really really tired. But I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you were thinking.
I honestly beleive that being at this wedding may have completely changed my views on marriage. Marriage with the right person, a person who seems made to be in your life, who would give you everything he had just to be with you. I wouldn’t say I was ready for it, but I’d say I am open to it. Really I just need the ultimate partner in crime because I’m all about mischief.
I returned 48 hours later, back to my crazy Hollywood life to tell Mister Red the tale. He asks, “so would you marry me tomorrow?” And I said, “I’m really busy tomorrow, it’s a shoot day.”
February 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
I was feeling bummed after I got sorta dumped by the Polar Bear, but I have the best friends in the entire world. Wait a sec… did I just say that? Ever notice how everyone says that, like it’s an Olympic Competition. Akihiko’s girls from Japan are really beating out Zelda’s German besties. What a huge upset for Sharonda’s sistas from the US, who currently hold the world record for best friends. Who will win the gold metal as the gaggles sew circles around themselves and braid each other’s hair? We’ll be one step close to finding out, after the pillow fight.
As if Zelda’s friends are faster, stronger and more proficient at everything than my friends. Whatever, I don’t even half-like Zelda’s friends so they really couldn’t be the best in the world. So yeah, I’ve got some good people that like me and think I’m pretty cool, and even though it was a Tuesday, they took me to see an improv show across town, complete with before and after drinks and pizza. You got to love hanging out with classy ladies. You know, those fashion forward friends who look like they’ve been styled by whoever dresses those Gossip Girl kids even when enduring hung-over brunch. So we all looked great and hooked up with few other stylish acquaintances during our post show drink. I was feeling much better and engaged in some heavy conversation with one of my girls. Like a piano up a four-story building, heavy… a full sized punching bag in a bucket of cement, heavy… wading through thick mud at a Nascar event, heavy. But this type of talk is therapeutic especially when accompanied by a cold beer, low lights, classic rock and small groups of weekday liquid chatter bellowing in the background. We were on to some healthy rationalizations.
Now this girl isn’t just pretty like a normal pretty. She’s pretty like knock out but doesn’t know it bombshell. The type of pretty that’s contagious. You look better just by standing next to her. Not the type of gorgeous that makes you look worse in comparison, but the type that radiates, heating you in its hotness just by getting close. A fireplace of beauty, a Glamshell. And everyone knows that one night you go out just to be out is the night you get hit on by every bumbling bruiser trying to get some action. We were doomed for harassment. So of course this heavy convo gets interrupted.
The tall hipster approached us, hair in a not quite effortless faux-halk (when is that going to go out of style?). He was polite and introduced himself. That’s the thing with hipsters, their pants are so tight they are only capable of curbing their pompous attitudes when they want something. He mentioned that he was the appointed representative from his group of dudes sent over to persuade us to join them. Although he was cordial, he did exude extreme selfishness by interrupting our obviously deep conversation. I mean, he didn’t even wait for a contemplative pause or an affected sigh. He just inserted his wet noodle handshake between us mid-sentence. I’m not just pissed off because he wasn’t my type, but the epiphany we were about to reach was lost completely.
Both the Glamshell and I stared, dumbfounded that someone, even a hipster, would have the audacity to barge in on two strangers like that. I’m usually pretty bad at dodging men I don’t want to talk to. Me and @Twenty-Six will go out, get taken advantage of our politeness for hours at a time, get trapped into the ol’ I’ll text you right now trick, then have to dodge texts for the next two weeks from that pest we didn’t have the heart kill in the first ten mins. So when this hipster launched his wooing speech, I did what I always do, avert eye contact and answer questions with as few words as possible. I believe this oozes an I don’t even want to share complete sentences with you, that’s how little I want to get to know you vibe. However, I am reconsidering my approach after watching the Glamshell in action.
Sure she probably gets these parasites all the time, and they aren’t the good parasites that balance the circle of life. First she appears aloof, stating that she’s just passing through, not really sticking around. With the help of her New Zealand accent, the guy draws the conclusion that she really is traveling the world and not paying rent five miles away. She then out right makes it clear that we were having an A/B conversation and she didn’t appreciate the interruption (for which he offered NO apology, even after she called him out). Then she mentions her boyfriend in the very next sentence. After that the most astonishing thing happened, the hipster paused and considered for a second. He asked me if I had a boyfriend as well. Yes! I said ‘yes,’ conforming to the Glamshell’s lead. Then he looked at us with the severity of a CEO of a corporate conglomerate and said, “well then, we have no business between us.” With that he returned to his dudes.
No business?! As if it was some type of transaction to have a conversation! All he wanted was to negotiate the exchanging of goods, on a Tuesday! Can’t imagine how it would’ve gone from there. We would have been signing non-disclosures if he had bought us a drink.
Lesson learned, you got to kill the spider before it lays it’s eggs. I also must perfect an exotic accent. I could probably pass for Kiwi if it wasn’t for the Irish all over my face. Most people expect an Irish person to be drunk and funny, and I can’t pull funny off and concentrate on an accent while drunk. But, I’ll tell ya… the next hipster to hit on me in the middle of figuring out the meaning of life is in real trouble.