ahream

The sofa that ate Manhattan

author@ahream.com — Wed, 3 Sep 08 21:48:00 UT

Iâve spent the past two days moving furniture. Okay, technically my husband moved the furniture, but I vacuumed behind stuff for him.

Not that he wanted to move furniture. My husband would live in a cave just so long as it had an Xbox and a never-ending Cheez-It supply. (And donât even try substituting the off brand. Even if you put them in a Cheez-It box, he will know and refuse to eat them.)

But it turns out the thing he likes even less than moving furniture is listening to his wife kvetch for a week and a half about how our apartment looks like we graduated from college five minutes ago, and so-help-me-God-if-you-donât-do-something-about-it-I-will-
go-crazy-and-take-you-with-me.

So he moved the furniture and got rid of some of the more offensive crap â bookcase purchased from Wal-Mart in 1989, anyone? But the thing about getting rid of some crap, is that the remaining crap looks even more obviously like crap.

I give you: The Sofa.

I am, at this moment, in possession of the ugliest sofa known to man. It is â and I am absolutely not making this up â tufted brown velveteen embossed â yes, embossed â with a snake skin pattern. And the special bonus? Two, count âem, La-Z-Boy recliners built into either end. In case youâre very lazy or, I suppose, have bad hips.

Itâs the sort of sofa you might buy for a crippled old person with very bad taste who, it turns out, is also blind. Every time I walk past it, I die a little inside. So I did what any normal person would do, I went shopping â online, of course.

Turns out dying a little inside? Not so bad. Compare that to looking all over for the espresso-colored leather sofa with the not-too-big arms and not-too-weird feet, finding it and then looking at the price tag.

Did you hear that? The thud? Thatâs the sound my body makes collapsing onto the floor after the massive stroke. And then, because I was still taking a few raspy, shallow breaths, I looked into having my dining room set refinished. It was worse than the sofa.

Anyone who wants to lacquer my table for less than a couple grand, call me.

More Rob Estes, because I know what you want

author@ahream.com — Sat, 30 Aug 08 23:58:00 UT

Rob Estes, Mr. Silk Stalkings-slash-new 90210 TV series, was back in my spin class this week. And, as a special bonus, he followed me into the Yoga for Athletes class right after.

The good:

It would appear the man was born without hamstrings.

Iâm not kidding.

Before class even started I watched him sit down on his mat, legs straight out with knees locked, reach forward, grab the arches of his feet and then â I am absolutely not making this up â rock backward, still holding onto his feet, until he was flat on his back, legs above his head, toes on the floor. Dude was still holding his feet, knees still locked. Kinda like plow pose, if youâre yoga familiar, but way harder.

I donât have to try to know I canât do that. Something would snap. It would be loud, painful and probably inoperable. But watching him do it? Well. Iâm sure there are a few ladies out there who could think of someway to make that a useful skill.

Also good:

The Yoga for Athletes class involves approximately 7,500 tricep pushups. Iâm not making that up either. Should you need somebody to come over to your house and do some tricep pushups, Iâm prepared to help you out. So is Rob.

Youâve never seen backs of arms like his backs of arms. Really. You havenât. Trust me. But you should try to very soon.

The bad:

He leaned over in the middle of class and wrung out the front of his shirt. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, and at first, I thought he was peeing on his mat. That much liquid was pouring out. It was like a faucet.

Being a freaky sweat-er is considerably better than being a mat pee-er. But still. Ew.

My feet are down there

author@ahream.com — Tue, 26 Aug 08 12:42:00 UT

I admit it. Iâm not really a massage person. This could be a Midwestern thing, but generally, if Iâm naked and youâre touching me and weâve never met before, well, youâve got some explaining to do.

Still, about a year ago, I was given a gift certificate to one of the Chinese foot massage parlors that have been spreading across the city like a smoggy haze. Iâd never been before, but I had the certificate and it was about to expire. I like waste even less than I like being touched by strange people in smocks. And itâs only feet, right? So I go in and politely ask for the one hour reflexology.

Behind me a middle aged man appears and motions for me to follow him. Heâs the only man in an entire salon full of women. Women customers, women receptionists, women manicurists. He takes me all the way to the back of the salon, past the nail stations and foot soak baths, past the bathrooms and break room, to a small room with a chair that lies all the way back. If there are lights, he doesnât turn them on.

He goes away and comes back. Goes away and comes back. He speaks to me here and there, but my Chinese is limited to restaurant menus. I find myself thinking one of those Star Trek universal translators would come in handy.

Eventually, he comes back with what Iâm pretty sure is a garment of some kind, hands it to me and then stands behind a black curtain. Several things seem to be wrong. First, Iâd come in for a foot massage. To a foot massage parlor. Iâd worn shorts for the occasion, which seemed to be more than enough nudity. Then there was the garment itself. Hand to God, I did not know what combination of body parts it was supposed to cover. If you took seven or eight yards of satin and sewed it into a tube, youâd have this thing. Couldâve been a skirt. Couldâve been a sleeveless dress. For an elephant. At just over a hundred pounds soaking wet, there was no part of me big enough to hold that up no matter where I put it.

As Iâd shown up for the foot massage, had clearly and distinctly used the words âfoot massage,â I decide itâs a skirt. Skirts go on legs and legs are close to feet, right? Out from behind the curtain, my masseur is unsatisfied. He gestures to my shirt. Again my Chinese is about as good as my Klingon, but Iâm pretty sure he wants me to take it off.

Okay, shirt nowhere near feet. Plus, Iâm holding up the tubey thing with one hand. If I let go, to say, take off my shirt, I would be wearing almost nothing at all, which seems a bit much for a foot massage. Heâs insistent, and a very small part of my brain begins to wonder if perhaps weâve had the misunderstanding to end all misunderstandings.

The masseur and I compromise. I take off my button-down blouse, but Iâm keeping the underlying camisole on. He goes out again, and this time comes back with a kneeling massage chair, grabs my arm and steers me onto it. I am beyond confused. We are still nowhere near my feet. He grabs a bottle of oil and squirts it down my back. Things have clearly gone awry.

He begins digging into my shoulders with his knuckles, putting all his weight and strength into it. I try to convince myself itâs relaxing, that it feels good, that itâs helpful. I fail miserably. Itâs like getting the business end of a meat tenderizer. Sure, Iâm in pain, but Iâve got that easy-to-chew quality.

He moves down my arms, which is slightly better.

âOkay,â I tell myself. âThatâs not so bad. Thatâs fine. I can work with â Jesus Holy Mother of God.â

He grabs each one of my fingers by the tip and yanks back, popping all my knuckles at once. Kathy Batesâs character in Misery couldâve learned something from this guy.

He starts working his way back up my arms to my neck. By this time, Iâm strung out, nervous and twitchy. Paralyzation begins to feel like a serious possibility, and Iâm not even wearing pants.

Shit.

I consider fleeing but the Satin Tube of Death is a serious handicap. Itâs going to affect my speed. I might not make it before he tackles me and goes at my ankles with a ball-peen hammer.

He pulls me up out of the massage chair and pushes me into the reclining one. He grabs one of my feet, and I should feel relieved. Feet! We have gotten to the feet! But seriously? Who the hell cares at that point? Iâm like a lab rat thatâs gotten the bad end of the electrode a few too many times. The most we can reasonably hope for is that I can control the whimpering.

When he finishes, I squeeze my oily, pink feet back into my flip flops, grab my pants and squish-squish-squish out the door. Iâm having trouble turning my neck. âI knew it,â I think to myself. âI knew it. Fear the people in the smocks! Fear them!â

Dim Su-tah

author@ahream.com — Wed, 20 Aug 08 14:47:00 UT

Thereâs blog I enjoy written by a whacked out, depressive mother in Salt Lake City. Itâs hysterical. Sheâs hysterical. Really, youâd have to have a hell of a sense of humor to be her. Otherwise youâd have stuck your head in the oven a long time ago.

But my adoration has been called into question. She has linked to a video of her and her husband clearly taken in a dim sum restaurant. For the love of all that is holy I hope that video was taken on their trip to San Francisco because otherwise it means she ate dim sum in Utah. And I know Iâm from the Midwest and I know I roll my eyes every time an Angeleno asks if we have indoor plumbing there yet, but Jesus H. Christ, dim sum in Utah? That could kill you. It could kill you dead.

And if it didnât, surely it would mangle you. There will be scarring. Taste bud scarring that will leave you unable to enjoy chocolate cake ever again.

Donald Rumsfeld and I, a common cause

author@ahream.com — Mon, 18 Aug 08 11:49:00 UT

Were I to choose the political figure my familyâs history was going to be tied to, I would not have chosen Donald Rumsfeld. But none of us got to choose, so I find myself in the rather unenviable position of hoping that he keeps his word.

I believe that he will because I want to believe it, because the cause is not political or contentious. Not yet anyway. But it might be. There are million-dollar estates going up and money is money. But so far, well. Iâm getting ahead of myself.

Turley is my family name on my motherâs side. And during the great western expansion, two brothers, Jesse B. and Simeon Turley, built a supply line between Arrow Rock and sometimes Independence, Missouri to Taos, New Mexico, a journey that took some four months. Simeon stayed in Taos and founded Turleyâs Mill. The mill, which ground corn, was the namesake of a larger compound that also housed a trading post and distillery famous for making Taos Lightening, a whiskey whose ingredients included, among other things, gunpowder.

Jesse B. was in charge of riding back and forth between Taos and Arrow Rock with supplies for the trading post, bringing calicos, tin cups and saddles from the east, a journey he often made with Kit Carson, who was the brothersâ childhood friend.

In 1847, the Taos Massacre broke out, also sometimes called the Taos Revolt . A trapper attempted to hide Simeon, who had a bad leg, but he was found and killed. The mill, distillery and trading post were burned to the ground, but Simeonâs Mexican common-law wife and home were spared.

The ruins of Turleyâs Mill are now a national historic site, but its been a rather orphaned one. Now the land on which it sits has been purchased by Donald Rumsfeld. The area around it has become wealthy with some very fancy homes going up, including one belonging to Julia Roberts.

An archeologist is set to excavate the site next summer, and a few members of my family, including me, will be volunteers on the dig. The archeologist tells us Mr. Rumsfeld is fully behind the project, which includes plans to rebuild the mill as a visitorâs site.

I hope itâs true. I really hope it is. Otherwise, itâs going to be butted up against someoneâs five-car garage, and I donât even want to imagine that.

Spicy Pork or Bust

author@ahream.com — Wed, 13 Aug 08 09:44:00 UT

We are three women alone in Koreatown, and we have a problem. Our favorite Korean BBQ place, Chung Ki Wa, is only safely approached with a minimum of four people, preferably four very large people who havenât eaten in seven or eight days. With our measly numbers and appetites, weâre going to need alternate dinner arrangements.

We scan the horizon in the fading evening light. Few of the signs are in English, which weâre quite sure is a good sign, but does limit our ability to make quality educated guesses. Weâve narrowed it down to not picking any place that only has plastic chairs. This is not exceptionally helpful.

âI ate at this really great place about three years ago,â I venture to my dining companions, one of whom is also named Ashley, making us Thing 1 and Thing 2. âIt was around here somewhere.â

âGreat,â they say. âWhat was it called?â

âIt didnât have a sign.â

âMmm-kay. What street was it on?â

âUh. Olympic? Maybe? It was near some tall buildings.â

The hope in their eyes fades. They begin discussing backup arrangements. Fortunately, I have the car keys and am not yet ready to lie down for the count.

âIt was in a strip mall,â I continue, passing restaurant after restaurant. âOn the left. In the corner.â

The companion Not-Named-Ashley is starting to make guttural hunger noises. Thing 2 mentions she skipped lunch.

âIt was one story!â I declare, as though that's going to narrow it right down.

The look are their faces is clear. I have gone off the deep end. I am driving them deeper and deeper into Koreatown on a foolâs errand, one kimchi away from railing at the great white whale.

And thenâ¦

âWait, is that it?â Thing 2 points to a poorly lit, one story strip mall, L-shaped with a restaurant tucked in the crook.

âYes! Yes!â I holler, making a hard left and throwing it into park up against the curb.

They are very impressed. I am very impressed.

The food is incredible. The pork drips a spicy red sauce that comes close to being a conversion experience. The bottle of rice wine we polish off contributes to the religious fervor.

I was wrong about one thing. There is a sign. Unlit and in Korean. I ask someone how to pronounce it on the way out. I try to mimic her. After three tries, she gives up and hands me a card with it spelled out phonetically in English characters. This helps. And next time, Iâll know where Iâm going.

I (heart) Paris Hilton

author@ahream.com — Sun, 10 Aug 08 21:40:00 UT

Youâve all no doubt heard about the McCain ad that accused Barack Obama of Paris Hilton-like empty-headed celebrity. But if you havenât seen Parisâ rebuttal commercial, you really, really should.

When I started researching paparazzi and doing interviews for my book, SUZY Q. PAPARAZZI, I met a handful of people whoâd had casual interactions with Paris. They werenât close personal friends, but still the consensus was the same: Sheâs smarter than you think she is.

Everyone agrees that she understands media, celebrity and image better than almost anybody and has been able to turn a buck from it like no oneâs business. And while I canât say my celebutante character in Suzy Q. is based on Paris exactly, she, too, is far more savvy than her image would indicate.

What she doesnât have in common with the real-life Ms. Hilton is her interaction with photographers. My fictional character is wary and gruff. Everyone I talked to agrees Paris is a doll to the paps. Sheâs nice to them, and they love her for it. Itâs in her best interest, of course, and Iâm sure she knows it.

Example: There was a recent string of photographs of Paris shopping. (I know. Youâre shocked.) On her arm was a handbag. When the paps showed up, she told them to hang on, ran to her car and changed purses. Then she came back and posed for more pictures. The new purse? One of her own line.

I have to say, I love that about her. I love that she knows how sheâs perceived and how to manipulate it. I love that sheâs got a sense of humor. I love that sheâs using them as much as theyâre using her.

When sheâs 40, when itâs okay for her to admit she has a brain in her head, I think thereâs a fair chance sheâs going to be pretty fabulous.

Update: Following the popularity of her YouTube rebuttal, sheâs releasing âParis for Presidentâ t-shirts, to be sold at Kitson on Paparazzi Row (also known as Robertson Boulevard) in Hollywood. What was that about turning a buck?

Back in the BBQ saddle again

author@ahream.com — Wed, 6 Aug 08 11:06:00 UT

Snobbery is wrong. I admit this. But I just canât help it. I was raised in Kansas City where a hickory smoked rib is a perfectly acceptable teething biscuit, which is why after five years in L.A., I had yet to eat one bite of brisket.

I was, frankly, scared. BBQ in L.A.? Put one avocado anywhere near my rack of ribs, and I might never recover. So when I decided to venture out into the wilds of Venice and into a serious dive of a BBQ joint, it was like the first blind date after a torrid, steamy romance. It might be great, but youâre prepared for the inevitable comparisons and disappointment.

Iâd been sniffing around this particular joint, Glencrest BBQ, for four years. Literally sniffing around. Itâs on my way to the gym and often the best parking is right in front. And right around 8 a.m. is when they start up the smoker.

What I couldnât discern from the outside was what kind of BBQ the place served. No indication anywhere, and the internet was of no use at all. Sure there were amateur reviews but nothing at all about the regional variation* a K.C. born-and-bred girl could expect. Blind date, indeed.

Once inside, they threw me. The whole place was the size of my living room with an open kitchen that, well, shouldnât have been. The A/C was broken, the linoleum mismatched and the bar stools swiped from a Ford parts department. They said so right on the seats. All of which, I considered promising. Itâs all about the smoke. Good BBQ does not come on white table cloths.

The menu, written on a chalkboard, listed sides like collard greens, sweet potato pie and red beans and rice. It was going to be southern style through and through, I thought. I ordered the ribs with beans, coleslaw and cornbread to go and, ten minutes later, lugged five pounds of food back out the door for just over ten bucks.

Back home, I opened the container and did a double take. The sauce was thick and a deep reddish brown just like my beloved K.C. style. Not at all what collard greens would lead a girl to expect. I dipped my finger in and licked it. It was, well, neither. Not any southern style Iâd ever had. Too thick for that. Not K.C. for sure. Too much vinegar and not enough sweetness for that. The ribs themselves were huge. No dainty baby backs here. These were full-on brontosaurus bones. The biggest of which were perfect. Tender, moist and with that gorgeous pink color just under the surface that only hours of smoke will give you. The smaller ones, however, shouldâve been pulled before the moisture vampires had gotten at them.

Two of the three sides were uneventful. The third, the coleslaw â well, let us never speak of that again.

All in all, it was fine. Not the torrid affair Iâve been carrying on back home with a slab of brisket and a hunk of hickory wood, but at least Iâm back in the game.

*A quick and probably unnecessary primer: There are four major types of BBQ in the U.S. â Texas style, Carolina style, Memphis style and Kansas City style, all with innumerable variations and digressions. Texas uses primarily mesquite wood and a thinner, more vinegary sauce. Carolina tends toward fruit wood, omits tomato from the sauce altogether and is heavy on the pork. Memphis relies on a paprika-based rub to color the meat and sometimes forgoes sauce completely. And Kansas City style, which I think we can be sure Jesus himself prefers, uses hickory, is heavy on the beef and most importantly comes with a sweet and spicy molasses-based sauce thick enough to coat the back of a spoon.

You know your husband is a metrosexual when…

author@ahream.com — Mon, 4 Aug 08 15:44:00 UT

Recently, my husband suggested I might benefit from trying his brand of exfoliating facial scrub. He was right. It is better. Weâre trading beauty tips now. I have no wish to explore this further.

2008 Olympics: Just when you thought it couldn't get worse

author@ahream.com — Wed, 30 Jul 08 11:51:00 UT

Dear International Olympic Committee,

You are, undeniably, the dumbest bunch of bastards that have ever sucked air.

Best,
Ashley

p.s. Please send swag.

I love the Olympics. The summer Olympics, in particular. I will spend hours watching tiny people dive off impossibly high platforms. I live to see world-class swimmers do whip lash-inducing flip turns on the underwater camera. And I will watch track and field until my eyeballs fall out of my head. I cannot get enough. But for a moment, even I had to consider whether or not it was ethical to watch any at all.

China.

Fuck.

The fact that Chinese officials are now admitting that they have no plans to allow journalists unfettered access to the internet is so predictable and so petty compared to everything else thatâs happened, that I â a former journalist myself â canât even manage to get more than moderately annoyed about it.

Really, whatâs blocking the Amnesty International webpage when youâve already been so busy:

â Increasing surveillance and jailing dissidents
â Barring performances from Hong Kong, Macao and Taiwanese performers who âharm the nationâs sovereigntyâ
â Stamping down on parents grieving after the horrific school collapses
â Refusing visa renewals and deporting foreigners

And, of course â

â Killing at least 18 monks, including a 12-year-old boy, during nationalist protests in Tibet

Never mind the fact that the air is so polluted around Beijing that the U.S. is issuing athletes breathing masks.

My favorite moment â if one can have such a thing in the face of this utter debacle â was when a member of the IOC told a Norwegian newspaper that ââ¦we have discovered that [working with China] is more difficult than we originally thought.â

Really? Seriously? I must know. What the hell DID you originally think? At what point did working with a notoriously oppressive regime seem like a good idea? Tibet. Taiwan. Tiananmen Square. A little rhythm gymnastics was going to make that all better? Tell me, dear IOC, Iâm dying to know.

Close encounters with the wildlife

author@ahream.com — Sat, 26 Jul 08 15:25:00 UT

Twice a week, I lace up my trail runners and head up into the Santa Monica Mountains. I go early when the mist is still hanging low in the valley and sane folks are still in bed. Itâs my time to get clear and balanced, to let the clutter in my brain fall away with the miles. There arenât that many people out that far or that early and listening to the steady whap-whap-whap of my own feet on dirt is about as close to zen as Iâm likely to get.

The animals are up, too. Rabbits, lizards, king snakes, squirrels, quail and hawks. And most impressively, the mule deer. Huge and mostly fearless they watch my clumsy human strides with big, black liquid eyes before tiring of my noise and bounding off into the brush. Theyâve got enormous, upright ears and a bouncing gait more like a kangaroo than anything. Iâm extremely fond of them, and they donât seem to mind me overmuch.

But then again, Iâd never scared one before. Or had one scare me.

I was well into a fourteen mile run and at least five miles from the nearest car or piece of indoor plumbing, whap-whap-whap-ing along. The mist hung on extra long that morning, and the marine layer was thicker and farther inland than usual. It was the sort of morning that couldâve been spooky â thick clouds above you, white fog bubbling up from below â if you were the sort of person who felt that way about the woods. I was just grateful for the cool breeze it brought, thrilled for that stroke of luck on a run in July when the heat is usually enough to beat down the most determined runner. The trail was nearing its highest point, running along the mountain ridge, far, far higher up than Iâd ever seen a deer before, so when I rounded that sharp, blind curve, I wasnât expecting her. And she was most definitely not expecting me.

It was a doe and not even a particularly large one as far as they go, but she was panicked. And panic in deer, like in people, does not make for clear decisions. She turned to run, but instead of away, she came at me. It didnât feel like a charge, just blind fear, but she was fast and strong and covering ground. And I had no way out. I couldnât turn and out run her, and I couldnât evade. To my right was a sheer drop to the valley floor, and to my left a cliff much too steep to climb. I braced for impact.

At the last moment, no more than five feet from me, she turned sharp to her right and tried to flee up the side of the cliff. Itâs the dry season in Southern California. The ground cover is dead or dying, losing its grip on the sandy, rocky soil thatâs hard as concrete in places and loose and slippery in others. Itâs a very unstable sort of place, and it was a very unstable cliff. Her momentum carried her not more than twenty feet above my head when the ground started to give. She flattened her body, letting her legs splay out around her, but she was coming down and bringing a fall of dirt and rock, lots and lots of rock, with her. And I was standing underneath it.

I could run then, and I did. Fast. Out ran the falling rock, the ripped up brush, the plume of dirt and the deer coming down on top of it all. When I was clear, I turned back to watch, much in the way of car accidents. The doe landed on the trail, got up and fled down into the valley, moving like the whole world was coming to an end, which I suppose for her it was.

For me, I took a moment, letting the adrenaline drain out of system, amazed at getting that close to something like that. A smarter person might have been afraid and then relieved at having dodged the bullet. I was just thrilled.

Then I turned and went whap-whap-whap-ing back along the trail.

I have no control. I just like to pretend.

author@ahream.com — Tue, 22 Jul 08 08:43:00 UT

I am a planner. I like notes and schedules. Office supply stores turn me on, and at this moment, there are twenty-two sticky notes and three spreadsheets taped to the wall above my desk. So it will surprise no one to learn I outline my books ahead of time.

Itâs possible that outline is color coded and includes a timeline. I neither confirm nor deny it.

There are serious advantages to this. If Iâm not feeling a scene, if Iâm just not bringing the funny or the scary or the maudlin or whatever it is thatâs called for, I move on. I write another scene. I know whatâs coming. No worries.

It gives me the illusion of control.

But then sometimes the cop just handcuffs her.

He wasnât supposed to cuff her. Suzy was pissing him off. He was frustrated. There was some yelling, some threatening. And okay, he hasnât been getting much sleep, what with the bodies that keep turning up. But he was absolutely, positively not supposed to cuff her. He was particularly not supposed to cuff her to his own arm. She has to run off at the end of the scene, go chasing after the bad guy. And now sheâs got a homicide detective attached to her like a Siamese twin. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

This was not in the outline, people. Not in the outline.

And donât even get me started on the thing with the horse.

Really it was my own fault

author@ahream.com — Fri, 18 Jul 08 10:20:00 UT

I knew I was taking my life in my hands when I did it. My husband and I went to a Duke Spirit concert â British rock-slash-punk with a lead singer attempting to channel Grace Slick. Open-air, God-awful sound quality and standing room only on the floor with a balcony up above. Too short to see anything, even when I climbed up on the edge of a planter, I abandoned the main floor and scurried up to the balcony. Lots of tall people up there, too, but they were all lined up single file along the edge. So I sat down. On the floor. Of a concert. And peered between their legs to the stage below.

I knew I was taking a number of risks. I could get stepped on. I could get beer dumped on my head. And letâs not forget my face is now at butt-level, which just opens up a whole new spectrum of unpleasant possibilities. But damn it, I could see, even if I was taking a face full of secondhand pot smoke from down below. (Which isnât that bad in the grand scheme of things. Iâll take it over cigarette smoke any day of the week.) What I didnât foresee was the pregnant lady.

I would have moved. I swear it. But it all happened too fast. No warning. Shock and awe. A woman seven, eight months pregnant stepped over my head to get at a railing spot. SHE STEPPED OVER MY HEAD. She was wobbly. She was unstable. She was very, very pregnant and obviously not thinking clearly. There was nothing between the pole vault over my noggin and the sea of humanity and concrete a story below but one piece of glass lining the edge of the balcony. Iâm sure it was very strong glass, but she was top heavy and had momentum. This was not the time for a quality control test.

I ducked. Her husband grabbed her. He pointed me out, cowering on the tile, as though I could be missed scrunched up like a rolly-polly bug. âProtect the soft underbelly! Protect the soft underbelly!â

Yeah, I stood up after that.

Forget the monologues

author@ahream.com — Mon, 14 Jul 08 07:10:00 UT

WARNING: There's some stuff here that's probably not suitable for work...unless you happen to work in porn. Then it's probably okay. Odds-on it's still offensive though and in poor taste. You should really just leave now. No, you should.

Making the internet rounds is a spoof of the uber-popular video game Guitar Hero called âVagina Hero.â In the original game, players use a button operated âguitarâ to control their onscreen doppelganger. In this one, the controller is, you guessed it, a button-operated vagina.

(Top 10 phrases I never thought Iâd type: âbutton-operated vagina.â)

There are a few women commentators that find the concept along with the distinctly guy-oriented instruction manual extraordinarily offensive. I find it extraordinarily hysterical.

Excerpt: âThe E-Zones (or "EZ's") correspond to the same colored buttons on your Vagina Hero controller, dubbed âHodgePodge.â Why HodgePodge? âJust look at it. What the fuck is that? We designed it and we don't even really know. We tried to stay true to real thing, but that's the best we could do.ââ¦As the EZ's approach the middle of the screen, you need to tap the corresponding EZ button on your controllerâ¦You could also just mash all the buttons at the same time with your fist and hope to get lucky.â

See? Really, itâs just a cry for help. These boys are LOST. They need an instruction manual, a map, a NASA-engineered simulator, something, ANYTHING. I have single women friends. I hear their dating horror stories. There is a reason women tend to date up in age. The learning curve is long, and we just donât have that kind of patience.

Run like a girl

author@ahream.com — Fri, 11 Jul 08 12:21:00 UT

âYou should wear skirts more. You look really good in skirts.â â Harry in âWhen Harry Met Sally."

The latest fad in running gear for women is â I swear itâs true â skirts . And for the life of me, I donât understand it.

Women Iâve talked to â trail-running, ultra-running women â say running in a skirt makes them feel pretty and feminine during what is a distinctly un-pretty and unfeminine sport.

Okay. Hereâs the thing. An ultra-run is at least 50 kilometers on trail through some pretty gnarly backcountry. Iâve dodged snakes, poison oak and once a marauding horse. Iâve scaled fallen trees, forded streams and been up to my ankles in mud. I routinely pick bugs out of my teeth and gravel out of my cuts and scrapes. I get very, very dirty. And I sweat. A lot. After a really good run, I am not fit to be near humans. For one thing, I smell awful. And thatâs just for starters.

So how, exactly, is that skirt going to help me out? Like maybe you wonât notice the gnats stuck to my neck, drowning in pools of my sweat, due to the entrancing nature of my hemline? Perhaps my eau de gym sock will go unperceived?

If skirts really possessed this magical power, Iâd wear them all the time. Bathe? Comb my hair? What for? Iâm wearing a skirt! Skirt trumps hygiene!

And the other thing â the quasi-psychological/political/social thing â is that when Iâm sprinting up the side of a mountain, passing a large portion of the men doing the same course, I donât give a shit how feminine I look. If ever there was a moment when it shouldnât matter what Iâm wearing, itâs then. And at the end of the race, when the overall results are posted, men and women listed together, there is no column for well dressed. There is, however, one for âgot your ass kicked by a girl.â