Tag Archives: humor

Carrie Ride-along

So I am auditioning for Carrie the Musical next week and thought I’d better do some research.

Also I’m very lazy and haven’t wanted to leave the house.

Since Carrie is now streaming free on Amazon Prime, I figured I’d check it out.  I posted my intentions on Facebook because I wanted praise and acknowledgement (I could just end this sentence here, I realize) from friends of mine who love horror films and Stephen King.

But then some Boomers started making comments about how scary the movie is.  And how I shouldn’t watch it at night. Or alone. Or without booze.

Admittedly, I was a little spooked, as the only movie that has truly frightened me was The Exorcist and Carrie has a similar flavor, so I imagined.  In order to keep myself from freaking out and poor M Fox from coming home to this:

I decided to “live tweet” while I watched the movie.  Now, I have had a twitter account for awhile, but I had no idea how to use it, what it was for, or why people were so into it.

I honestly still don’t know any of those things (which might also be evidenced by the fact that I am about to BLOG about my TWEETS. . . God help me).  But it was kinda fun and totally useful for making on-the-fly snarky comments as I watched along.  And now, dear readers, you get to enjoy Carrie in 50 Tweets or Less!  If you don’t want spoilers, you probably shouldn’t read them.  Though honestly if you haven’t seen the movie, you probably shouldn’t read them because they may or may not make any sense at all.

The movie itself wasn’t that scary to me.  It was kinda like Revenge of the Nerds to the XTREME.  Or if Mathilda was in high school and not cute as a button.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m a modern desensitized E-generationite who has no feelings or what.  Frankly, I found Carrie’s mom’s religious fanaticism more frightening than Carrie’s telekinesis.  And the ending was kinda cathartic.

Something might be wrong with me.

I dunno, I was bullied quite a bit as a kid so I guess there’s a part of me that understands why you might want to kill a roomful of your classmates who conspired to dump pig’s blood on you and mock you in public.

Well, enjoy!


The Carrie Ride-along with Jasmine Joshua
(start at the bottom and read up.  Don’t judge, I didn’t feel like reversing the order)

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Thank you, Slivovitz

It turns out I have unwittingly gained a corporate sponsor!  Say hello to the Blog Face of the International Slivovtiz Tasters Association!


All hail Slivovitz Blogger
The Classy Dame!

I’m sort of kidding.

Through the magic of the internet, I have discovered that my humble little musings have been linked on the Slivovitz Tasting Festival page.  Because, obviously.


I had no idea what Slivovitz was or that there was an international plum brandy festival or that it has crowned what looks like an underage drinker to be its Festival Queen, but there you have it folks.  Please enjoy the tale of Slivovitz Royalty and Lineage at the above link.  It involves ax battles!

I’m not kidding.

So for those of you who are here because of Slivovitz, a toast to you!  Hopefully you will be as happy reading my posts as you are swilling brandy.  I am honored to be a part of the royal enterauge and I do enjoy a nice brandy from time to time.

Speaking of, if Queen Lisa is reading this, I will humbly accept Slivovitz samples and review them positively, regardless of personal feelings, on this site.

I leave you, dear readers, with the first rule of becoming a Slivovitz Queen:

“The Queen shall be a maiden pure, able to handle an ax, and of good character. She is selected by the previous Queens. (This allows them to graciously accept gifts while considering their decision.) In the likely event that we can’t find an ax swinging maiden pure, then whatever.”

Jeeves, I will commence ax-swinging practice after tennis.

An appointment with Dr. Humor

I am terrible at hospitals.  I hate them.  I recognize they are necessary in a modern society, but I hate them.  The smell of over-sanitation makes me nervous as hell.  What are they trying to cover up?  Blood, poop, and bodily fluids.  That doesn’t make me feel better.

However I just got back from the most awkward and kinda funny doctor’s appointments I’ve ever had.

I’ve been feeling exhausted and achy lately for no good reason — I mean, let’s be real, now that I’m a freelance Classy Dame, my daily exertion is pretty low so I have no good excuse for feeling like an old lady.  Concerned for my health (and tired of hearing me complain), my husband urged me to see a doctor.  Could be nothing, could be something, better safe, blah blah blah.

So I get in there and I get the pre-interview with the nurse.  I never understood this.  The nurse comes in and asks you all these questions about why you made an appointment, assesses whether or not making shit up, looks over your paperwork that you just filled out ten minutes earlier describing in detail your current situation, your past situations, your past lives, your mother’s last pap smear, and what your dad had for breakfast three years ago on a Sunday in June, and s/he seems to be writing it all down.

But then s/he leaves, the doctor comes in and you have to go over everything again.  I don’t get it.  If there’s a doctor out there that can explain, I’d love to hear about it. (kinda)

Anyway, I pass the first round of interviews and before leaving, the nurse tells me to get naked and put on one of those stupid robes (but, you know, in a professional way).  At least it’s cloth and not paper, I hate the paper kind.

I do so, wait in the barely heated waiting room for 15 minutes staring out the window and then the doctor comes in.  She’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a nice shirt, young, hip, attractive. She looks at me sitting in my hospital robe and furrows her brow with a smirk.

“You know you could have kept your clothes on.”

Look, lady, I’m in a hospital.  I’m just doing what I’m told.  That’s my job as the patient, yes?  I didn’t say that, I said something charming like “Well, now that we’re better acquainted, haha” or whatever.  After a laugh about my totally unnecessary nudity, she goes to sit down on the little stool in front of the computer.

The stool flies out from under her and she does one of those cartoon scrambles to keep from falling on her ass.  I guess the floor was too slippery.  I’m not even joking.  I’m tearing up with laughter right now just thinking about it as I write it.  If I were the sound editor in this movie, I would have used one of these.

It takes a few moments for both of us regain our composure because neither of us want to acknowledge that we have now both done something really stupid in front of one another and that this was supposed to be some serious professional relationship about my health.

Since I mostly look pretty much okay, she suggested that we do some blood tests.  Now, if there’s anything I hate more than hospitals, it’s needles.  I’m that wuss that cries when getting blood drawn.  I’m the grown-up whinging while they use the little antiseptic swab.  I’m the one who has to pretend to blow bubbles (like how you calm a six-year-old) while the needle is jabbed into my tender flesh.  So when the doctor said I’d probably have to get “labs done,” I was upset.

But in keeping with the theme of inappropriate hilarity, it somehow wasn’t so bad.  Mostly because the lab tech, a short, soft-spoken bald man, calmly mocked me through the whole thing.  I held out my arm dutifully, aware that I was basically sitting in the hallway off the waiting area with a curtain around me — ie, the little old ladies, sick people, and children would be able to hear me wail.  I scrunched my face and turned away, ready to martyr myself for medical science.

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Seriously, you stupid jerks: A rant with cursing

I realize that there are some people out there who weren’t raised by two actors.  I realize that there are people out there who don’t regularly go to theatre.  I realize there are people out there who think that theatre is a dying art form and OMG did you see what Kim Kardashian did?!?!

But I believe that everyone can find a play or a musical that moves and inspires them.  I invite everyone and anyone to anoint themselves in the majesty and inimitable magic that is live theatre.

That all being said, I feel like there is a very basic level of human decency that has somehow gotten lost.  Old people will blame the young people.  Young people will blame the decaying establishment.  Arty people will blame the unwashed masses.  I don’t really care whose fault it is.  The Classy Dame is about to help y’all out in a big way.  Ready?  Here goes.

I was recently in a one-act that went on to a regional theatre festival.  For months, we worked very hard on this show — The Long Christmas Dinner by Thornton Wilder, for those interested.  It’s basically  a time lapse of 90 years of Christmas dinners for an American family.  People were children, got married, grew old, and then finally passed on all on stage.  We went through several on-stage, on-the-sly costume changes as different fashions and eras came and went.  It was a lot of fun to choreograph, but still a lot of work.

Before going to the festival, we put the show up for one weekend so that we could get a feel for the audience’s reaction before performing it before the judges. We invited our friends and family to come see it, the community supported us in the local paper, it was all very nice, lovey dovey, supporty-worty and all that stuff.

During the 45 minute show, two cellphones went off AND some idiot was taking photos with their camera phone.


We’re all very impressed at how much the internet and the outside world is DYING to hear from you on a constant basis.

Seriously.  Good for you.  I sometimes go days without anyone giving a shit what I have to say so, really, that’s truly impressive.

But let me keep it simple.  SHUT OFF YOUR DAMN PHONE.

And if you are so moved by what’s happening on stage that you simply must Instagram it, could you please wait until after the show and then clamor outside my dressing room with flowers and/or bribes of sexual favors like how it’s SUPPOSED to be?!

I mean for God’s sake, does this really still need to be explained?

Even for movie theatres, which aren’t as sacred to me as a regular theatre (though I do have friends who would vehemently disagree), I still think this is relevant advice.  I have sat through rated R film where people bring in infants.  Most notably? Cabin in the Woods.  YEAH.  I’ve been in movie theatres where people spend the film texting or even do that ridiculous thing of ANSWERING THEIR PHONE in order to say in a sotto voice, “Yeah, I’m in a movie, what’s up?”  Sadly, I’m almost surprised when stupid shit like that doesn’t happen.  And while the other movie-goers are going to be annoyed, at least George Clooney isn’t going to have to pause awkwardly because he was previously competing with your stupid sailor shanty ringtone.

But in LIVE THEATRE, the thing is, the thing is, folks, it’s LIVE.  And the actors can see you.  And hear you.

And I’m not saying that actors are always riveting or that the script is always good or that the music is always on key or the lights are going to go up at the right time (incidentally, none of those things apply to the show *I* was in, because we were fricken awesome), but there are human beings on stage who have created something for you. And you, theoretically, have willingly come and paid to see it.  So don’t you think you owe your fellow human beings taking part in one of humanity’s oldest art forms the simple courtesy of turning off your damn phone?!

Also, 1995 wants its ringtone back.

I do love me a good mocking

In case you didn’t read my last post heralding author Jenny Trout, a quick recap.  Jenny Trout is a prolific erotica writer who recently made a splash on the internet doing a chapter-by-chapter recap take-down of the 50 Shades of Grey series.  And they are HILARIOUS.  If you haven’t already, you simply must read these. Go ahead, trust me.  It also blows a big hole in “feminists don’t have a sense of humor theory” while also pointing out how these books glorify abusive relationships and misrepresent the BDSM community.

(You know you wanted it.)

Jenny has also decided to write her own 50 Shades-inspired erotica entitled The Boss, done in a way that doesn’t insult women, BDSM, and uses real grown-up words for genitalia instead of “*gasp!* He touched me down THERE!!! Tee hee!”  This free (free!) novel is available online only here.  There are three chapters live and it’s pretty good so far!  I would say that my only real nitpicky thing is that I feel like I’ve been through a few cliff-hangers already, but I don’t read very much erotica so it might be a stylistic thing.  But the characters are really fun, the writing is witty, and the main guy is pretty hot, so disco!  I also appreciate that the main character Sophie is a distinct personality, not one of those stupid faceless protagonists who just happens to be around when something interesting happens.  Sophie is a real person with opinions — AND she’s a girl, weird, right?

In celebration of The Boss and intelligent mockery, I had to draw everyone’s attention to another clever and hilarious spoof done by someone completely unaffiliated with Jenny Trout, but who is also doing the Lord’s work.  Enjoy!

Autobots, Roll Out! Then Build My Ikea Dresser, Feed the Cats, Make My Bed, Go to Work, Put Gas in My Car. . .

I really should blog more. The issue is time. Which is probably the lamest excuse ever created. It’s the excuse that you tell an online date when you don’t want to see them again. Sorry, I’m reeeeeeaaaally busy specifically NOT being with you. Although I guess my excuse isn’t so much because I’m trying to avoid blogging, it’s more along the lines of “I spend most of my life in front of a computer and when I get home. . . I don’t want to.” Plus, now that I’m actually a more valued employee, I can’t actually blog at work anymore, which really puts a damper on everything (both work and blogging). Also, in the last two weeks since we moved to the new place (still in Mountain View except with natural light, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer and without the need to hide our cats from the landlord, whoohoo!) we haven’t had internet because M Fox is in charge of that and that means he had to badger every internet provider in the county into giving him the lowest price so he could compare. Gotta love a man who won’t rest til he gets the best deal (yes, I’m Jewish, what of it?), but it took awhile. We have Comcast now for those who are jut DYING to know.

As it happens, this morning my throat was raw and icky and my entire body had that wonderful Several Dock Thugs Beat Me With a Lead Pipe All Night and Left Me For Dead feeling. After croaking my predicament on the machine at work, I slept another 4 hours. Unfortunately I woke up hot and my ear had pasted itself to the side of my head. Stupid dock thugs.

Anyway, despite my noble efforts to suck it up, I was told that if I tried to go into work, I’d be unceremoniously thrown back out. So here I am on my couch, surrounded by tissues, orange juice and various pills, blogging.

When I first moved back up to NorCal to live in my mother’s basement while interning for Chronicle Books (*snort snort push glasses up nose snort*), she procured for me a little two drawer dresser that was about a foot and a half wide. One drawer barely contained all my panties and bras. All my bedclothes? Kind of a joke. I have that horrible disease where I feel guilty for throwing away any t-shirt that someone gives me, regardless of how ugly or ill-fitting. “I’ll just wear it to bed!” I cheerfully say to myself. And so my bed shirts are vast, both in size and quantity. Either everyone thinks I’m remarkably fat or that I’m a prodigy tailor. One is debatable, the other is an outright over-exaggeration. I’ll let the viewers figure out which is which.

That being said, this sad little dresser has been vomiting out bedclothes and panties for about a year and a half. I’ve schlepped this damn thing from my mom’s basement on Mt. Crumpet to Redwood City and now to Mountain View. And for some reason it took me until yesterday to be over it. So we decided to go to Ikea so I could get a Big Girl dresser and M Fox could look at lights.

M Fox and I agree on two very major points about the place were we live, wherever it may be: it must have plants and it must be well-lit. I hate dark houses. And plants are nice. We agree on many other things as well (obviously), but those are two pretty big deals. I would add “books, food, and pets” to that list, but that’s me. Just to clarify, M Fox has nothing against books, is pretty ambivalent to food (skinny jerk) and loves our cats, but I don’t know that they’re necessities in his eyes. Well, the cats are at this point. Gah, I’m losing control of this train of thought.

Anyway, my favored boyfriend does widen the concept of “well-lit” past my wildest imagination. You see, he has a vision. He wants to negate the current light switches in the house and set up every light on a remote control. This seems bizarre, but it makes sense, I swear it. Understandably, the apartment was designed in such a way that every convenient plug is attached to a light switch. That’s great and all, except that convenient plugs are often used for computers. And that got obnoxious really quick. So yeah, remote controlled lights, I’m on board, I can see that, whatever you want honey, you figure it out and let me know. But then I found out that this is only the first step to his master plan.

The next step is that he wants lights to recognize you when you walk in the door, know your exact lighting preferences, and turn on to that setting automatically. When there are two people in the room? The lights will adjust to the average of the two settings. Three people? TOTAL NUCLEAR MELTDOWN! Actually, I don’t know, maybe a poison dart will just take out the third person to avoid confusion. In the immortal words of Anthony Cohen, perhaps slightly rephrased, “Yeah, and I’d like a robot that eats garbage and farts perfume.” Except that the favored boyfriend has figured out a way to do this. No fucking kidding, folks. He has the technology. He has the dream. And now it’s time for the gathering of the parts to make his journey toward the Light Side complete. Ultimately, he wants also to program in personal temperature preferences. Whoa.

Maybe it’s because my dad is the kind of person who until only the last few years learned to trust email. Maybe it’s that I’m not as much of as technophile as M Fox. Or maybe it’s just because I’ve seen Terminator. What I know is this. However irrational as this sounds, I don’t like the idea of a light bulb knowing my lighting preferences. Call me crazy. Honestly, I don’t even know what a bulb could do with that information. Sell it to Google, start sending me spam about greener fuses or political rants about the irrelevant nature of candles, I just don’t know. But I’m deeply suspicious. I’ve told M Fox my feelings. I think he finds my concerns more cute than rational.

Seriously, though, I think that it’s more about how I watch technology strip people of the ability to think on a daily basis and I feel like I’m lazy enough without having a lightbulb pre-dimmed for me. For Mike, this is obviously about a new toy and the thrill of advanced technology, which I totally understand (hey, I just bought $90 worth of children’s books to read a week ago. . . so touche). But honestly after we had schlepped the 80 pound box of drawer parts (YOU READ THAT RIGHT!! 80 POUNDS!! WTF!!! FOR A CHEST OF DRAWERS!) up to the apartment where I painstakenly put the whole damn thing together, scraping off skin, hammering my thumb, putting the stupid fucking wooden dowels in the wrong hole and having to dig them out, etc etc etc, I have to admit that I was still glad that humans could still do this by themselves without assemble-bots.

Well, except when I hammered my thumb. Then I wanted a bot. Or at least for the favored boyfriend to do it.

It’s Fun to Stay at the YMCA, Julia

This weekend my friend B and I decided to take a page from Julia Child’s book. Several pages, actually. She bought me Mastering the Art of French Cooking for Christmas last year (10 days ago. . . weird) and I decided that I was going to try and expand my cooking repertoire, which pretty much consists solely of easy American dishes and a few Italian American dishes. And pie. We decided on a menu, pretty much centered around sauces (yeah, oops), and bought ingredients. I felt emboldened as I had already made a bechemel sauce with cheese for macaroni a week or two previous which had turned out simply HEAVENLY. And it was so easy! (Also, let me say now that I am going to butcher the spelling of several French words in this blog and I am far too lazy to go to the cook book and look up the correct spelling. Those who judge can kiss my aspartame). I remember that after seeing Julie and Julia a few months ago, that I had been in a bookstore a few days later and picked up Julia Child’s book, just to see what it was like. I opened to something totally insane like how to pluck and tie up your own chicken and I put it down, frightened and intimidated. Then I kicked myself for doing something so consumer-liciously obvious–God, think of all those other people who had gone to the bookstore to be like Amy Adams. Stupid me. . . but I was really glad when I got it as a gift (hehe). After the successful bechemel, however, my fears of being too stupid for the book vanished, my confidence in my ability to turn words on a page into a culinary masterpiece at full strength. B happens to be a very good cook and has a good instinct for it, so I knew I had a good wingwoman for anything more complicated.

First of all, it was absolutely, positively a BLAST. We bought a bottle of wine and drank most of it while cooking, speaking loudly and obnoxiously with an atrocious Julia Child accent (or, at least in my case, since I’ve never actually heard Julia Child speak, Meryl Streep’s Julia Child accent) that goes to prove that my boyfriend is the most patient and tolerant man that a woman could ask for. Referring to each other as “Julia” for entire evening, we stumbled through three sauces–a bernaise sauce, a white wine and tarragon sauce whose French name I don’t remember, but something like “escargon” or something, and a hollandaise–and gnocchi. We decided to put the bernaise on the gnocchi, pan fry some chicken for the white wine sauce and put the hollandaise on steamed asparagus. We also bought a delicious loaf of par-baked bread to dip in the sauces.

Since this isn’t that Julia Child-wannabe Julie girl’s blog, I’m not going to go into the serious details, but basically, Julia Child is a genius. When she said that the potatoes were going to leave a film at the bottom of the pan when they were done (yeah, B and I had no idea what the hell that meant either), they did! When she said not to use the milky substance at the bottom of the melted butter (???), there it was! And we didn’t use it! When she said that the gnocchi shouldn’t be boiled or else it would disintegrate, boy did it disintegrate in the most beautifully French way possible. Fortunately we had doubled the recipe and had leftover so that we could make the most delicious mashed potato balls EVER. Also, B and I have a really horrible track record for making gnocchi–the first time, while, again, hilarious and fun, was. . . well. . . it’s always edible, but it’s not gnocchi. I guess this time was better, but, man. . . it really doesn’t seem as easy as it sounds. The moral of the gnocchi story is that when Julia says to make the gnocchi 3 inches by 1 inch in diameter, YOU JUST FUCKING DO IT. Don’t second guess this woman–I don’t care how inane or ridiculous or whatever it seems, just do it! She even says at the beginning of the book, very frankly, “Look. I studied at the Cordon mother fucking Bleu. I’m not making this shit up. So just follow what I say and you’ll be good.” And it’s true. More than with any other recipe that I have followed, she has your back, our little Julia.

Anyway. Aside from the gnocchi debacle (at which point we were tipsy enough not to care and used packaged tortellini to supplement our resounding failure), the sauces were DELECTABLE. I mean, really, just absolutely gorgeous and delicious. Now, I’ve never had hollandaise, bernaise, or white wine whatever sauce before, so frankly, I could not know what I’m talking about, but they were good, so even if they were a bastardization of what the French masters wanted, they all turned out great!

Ahh. But here is the sauce moral of the story. NEVER make three rich French sauces for one meal. I seriously had a butter hangover this morning. We used FOUR STICKS OF BUTTER and A DOZEN EGGS in these three sauces. No fricken joke. Thank God there were five people eating the dinner or else we would each have literally eaten a stick of butter. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. I can feel a little butter ball choking my arteries as I’m typing this. Delicious, but so conceptually gross. One of those sauces would have been PLENTY. Even the three boys who devoured our meal, who seemed to love every bite, were a little staggered. Oh yeah, did I mention that we didn’t end up eating until midnight? Did I also mention that we started at 7pm? Frankly, if I were to make any of these sauces again, it would probably take about a half hour for each of them (except the hollandaise, which we did in a blender, sanctioned by Julia, and took 6 minutes, seriously). I think the gnocchi is what made this insane.

Also, shout out to M Fox for helping with the dishes :)

I woke up this morning, literally rolled out of bed so I could beach myself on the couch, and found a gym. The YMCA (TITULAR LINE!!!) is having this great promotion where January is free. And, for GOD’S SAKES, I’m going. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even feel good anymore and the French sauces just kicked it into the abyss. Bleck.  The boyfriend and I went and worked out for about an hour and boy did it feel good.

Also, I couldn’t find my discman (no, I don’t have one of those new-fangled mp3 contraptions, sue me), but I DID find my WALKMAN. Take THAT 2010. I had just recently uncovered all these mix tapes that I made in high school and went to town. I forgot about DENI!! Holy shit!! Waaaay back in the day, my high school friends and I went into what was once a pub and brewery (we didn’t sit at the bar, obviously) and now is a Mike’s Subs (lame), there was this guy whose name was Deni performing. Stupid name, maybe, but for some reason I LOVED his music. Apparently he sampled a lot of The Matrix movie into his stuff, but since I hadn’t seen it (and didn’t care. . . saw it later and still don’t care, actually) I didn’t see it as the kinda nerdy DJ guy that he was. I remember feeling so trendy that I had discovered this cool new artist at a PUB, no less. Anyway, when I heard one of his songs on the mix tape, my chubby German thighs kicked into high gear on that elliptical. It didn’t know WHAT was coming.

The conclusion. I think that this may become a delicious tradition. Lots of wine, French food, and a guilt-induced work out the next day.