That's unpossible!

2002-12-12T18:40:00.000-05:00

Packing up the rage

A discourse on being laid off -- or clipped, as my pal Liz would say. Today, I had to pack up the laptop provided by my former employer. I wanted to buy it from them but hey, that would be thoughtful and convenient, so of course they said no. And of course they don't offer an explanation. I mean, it's not like someone else needs it. They just laid off 500 people. Bastards.

It's Day 6 of unemployment and it's only today that I actually feel pissed off about getting the ax. My first reaction was relief followed quickly by a very mature nah, nah, nah, nah, naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah nah. I laughed at my former co-workers who are still stuck in that soul-sucking job. I danced spasmodically in my living room. Really. Horrifying an image as that may be, I did it joyously. But today is a bit different. Today I face the the exhausting reality of The Job Hunt. And it's daunting to say the least. It's not like I don't have good role models -- Eric, for instance, holds the record for number of full-time jobs in a year. And my very own beloved, Elaine, just came out of a tough, year-long search with a nifty job. Still, knowing that others have made it through doesn't help a whole lot.

Ah well. I have 9 weeks of severance, a hot wife who loves me, two great dogs and three cuddly cats to keep things lively.

Did I mention that our new dog --- the one with three legs--- has a habit of biting the arms and legs off of all the animal toys? Talk about bitter.

2002-12-09T22:14:00.000-05:00

Prodigal Dogger

Dust off the adverbs Martha, I'm back and ready to write. It's been quite a hiatus, I'll grant you that. But writing never comes easy for me. It usually takes an act of god to make me sit down and do it. And god's been acting out alot around here lately. Pull up a modem, and I'll fill you in.

Back on September 9th 2002 my dog Clue just -- as they say -- up and died. One yelp and he collapsed dead on the floor. No, not an old dog...he'd just turned eight -- and as an Australian Shepherd, that put him about smack dab into middle age (not a comforting thought from where I sit on the aging continuum). Someone owes me another eight years with that sweet dog.

Fast forward to last Friday, December 6th -- the day I got laid off. Me and about 500 other people from my former company. Thank goodness my loving don't-ask-don't-tell-non-government-non-religiously-sanctioned-wife finally found full-time work. For those of you not of the inner circle, she had been severely under-employed for over a year.

Les bontemps roullez -- pardon my (French) spelling.

But today there is a happy note: a new dog in our life. Enter Cleo...an adorable, seven-year-old, three-legged Golden Retriever Tripod. She belonged to our next-door neighbors who also have twin two-year-old boys who like to step on, poke, pull and other wise annoy poor Cleo. Suffice it to say she snapped, and a tiny bit of blood was shed (a small cut over the one of the boy's eyebrow -- no stitches required). And so she has taken up permanent residence with us, bringing the total non-humanoid population of our home to: three cats, one and three-quarter dogs.

So if you've a mind to, check back in at That's Unpossible to learn more about my unemployed life with a tripod.

You know you want to.

2002-03-09T16:22:00.000-05:00

Yes, it seems all I have time for is taking Internet quizes.
And about the results of this one, may I say:

No shit, Sherlock.

Which Angelina Are You?

2002-03-06T21:42:00.000-05:00

Well, I saw this coming from a mile off.

	You are Fozzie! Wokka Wokka! You love to make lame jokes. Your sense of humor might be a bit off, but you're a great friend and can always be counted on..
*Take the What Muppet Are You?* Quiz!**

2002-02-21T18:40:00.000-05:00

Passport to an aging father, friends and Corporate America (part 1).

I have returned, although all similarities to MacAurthur end with this sentence. I’ve been on a six-day jaunt to:

1.Visit my father, who is now officially sprung from the hospital and recovering further at home (yay).

2. Visit with friends I rarely get to see any more (double yay).

3. Attend a two-day marathon “summit meeting” to discuss the various ins and outs of marketing and PR for SCSI hard drives (the anti-yay).

The friends-and-family portion of the trip was fabu. Dad’s getting better and flirting like mad with the visiting nurses. Like daughter, like father.

Of course there’s never enough time to see all the people clamoring for my presence (yeah, you heard me). The hardest part was going back to my home of 20 years to attend a lesbian dinner/dance event without Elaine (henceforth known as “The Diva”). Great food, good music, chic outfits, and me without my best accessory. The point was to see lots of women I know and haven’t seen in three years (all in one spot), and it was great. It would have been better, however, with The Diva.

One casual acquaintance asked after her:

Casual Acquaintance: “So, are you still with that woman? You know who I mean. What’s her name? The one with the breasts.

Bemused Me: “Um, all of my girlfriends have had breasts.”

Casual Acquaintance: “No, no, I mean the one with BREASTS” (hands hefting the air in front of her own less-than-ample throracic endowment).

Bemused Me: “Ah, that would be Elaine.”

For those of you in the audience who have not had the pleasure of meeting The Diva, know these three things to be true: She is “gifted.” She is smart. She has a house on Cape Cod. Or, as I like to put it: she’s got brains, cleavage and real estate.

I am one lucky Lauren.

More about my travels in my next posting: Watch this space.

2002-02-15T22:35:00.000-05:00

I took the test and whattya know? I'm two, two, TWO goddesses in one. I may be mixing my candy metaphors, but double your pleasure, double your fun. Heh, heh.

See which Greek Goddess you are.

2002-02-14T17:21:00.000-05:00

Scrooge is to Christmas as *blank* is to Valentine’s Day

There are heartless souls roaming the earth who hate Valentine’s Day. I’ve heard all kinds of justification for anti-Valentine vitriol.

“It makes you feel lousy if you don’t have someone to fuck.”

“It’s a fake holiday created by greeting card companies to make money.”

“It lets people think they can give you a gift this one day and make up for the way they treat you the rest of the year.”

Puhleeze.

To these sad cynical sacks, I say Get an Imagination. So what if you don’t have someone to get naked with? Tell your sister you love her, tell your Dad he did all right by you, tell your best friend she’s a hoot. Or just get naked with yourself and feel the love.

With all the crap going on in this world, the last thing I want to hear is people whining about a day to share a bit of love.

Where’s my insulin, dammit?

2002-02-13T21:22:00.000-05:00

There’s a crisis brewing in America – a national healthcare concern that’s on the verge of becoming an epidemic and threatening the very well being of our children. Kids just aren’t eating their vegetables. But there is hope on the horizon. The concerned folks at Heinz have stepped up to America’s kitchen plate with a sure-fire way to get kids to eat more, um, French fries. You heard that right, ladies and gentlemen: introducing Ore-Ida Funky Fries in not one but FIVE tempting varieties: Cocoa Crispers(TM), Cinna-Stiks(TM), Crunchy Rings(TM), Kool Blue(TM) and Sour Cream & Jive(TM).

Because let’s face it: American kids just don’t eat enough fried foods, so we need to make chocolate flavored fries. One of this country’s founding principles is freedom of choice – and now kids can choose from five new ways to achieve obesity. It took me twenty years, but hey, all I had was McDonalds and KFC. I feel so deprived.

2002-02-09T17:41:00.000-05:00

So I'm up in Massachusetts to visit my dad who is in the hospital with pneumonia – no worries, he’s on the mend, thanks). But while Dad takes a much-needed nap, I'm introducing my brother to the thrills of blogging. If he takes to it, let's hope he's more consistent about adding new content than I am --that shouldn't be hard considering how lame I am about writing new blog entries.

So Todd, say hello to my legions of blog fans. All two of them.

2002-01-27T00:12:00.000-05:00

If you've ever been to New York City and suffered through a cab ride, you know the unique pain that is a seat belt announcement. The absolute WORST one features Elmo from Sesame Street. Don't get me wrong, I've been a Muppet fan all my life, but when I hear the glass-cutting screech that passes for his voice, I want to beat the crap out of the little red hair bag. I'm sure not thinking about buckling up. You want me to wear a frickin' seat belt? Don't nag me with puppets, shit head, make me fear for my life. It should go something like this...

New York Taxicab Seatbelt Announcement

Hi New York, Ralph Nader here. Prior to my humiliating defeat in the last Presidential election, I was best known as an advocate for consumer safety. Take this Crown Victoria cab you’re riding in. I’ve got two words for you: “Ford” and “Firestone.”

So buckle up – 6.5 million recalled tires can’t be wrong.

2002-01-27T00:03:00.000-05:00

This came out of a comedy-writing class I took earlier this year.

The Taliban Girl Scout Handbook for Living

Congratulations on becoming a Taliban Girl Scout! Whether you’ve just joined or you’ve bridged from a Taliban Toddler Troop, you’re about to enter the exciting world of fundamentalist fear and repression.

This is your handbook filled with stories about oppressed girls just like you, activities, games, and facts about growing up female in a tyrannical regime. In this book you won’t learn a thing about camping and the outdoors, protecting the environment, playing sports, or enjoying the arts and sciences. You will, however, learn about surviving in a male-dominated society and what it means to be a member of the Girl Scouts of the Taliban, the first (and only) organization for girls in Afghanistan.

Some of your handbook activities you can do alone while others you’ll want to try with friends. On your own, put on your burkha and slippers and practice walking without making a sound so you won’t distract the men. As a group, have your troop form a circle and take turns throwing stones at each other to develop sharp reflexes and quick footwork. These activities – things to make and do – help you learn less about yourself and more about what’s important to the leaders of your proscriptive world.

If you can write, be sure to take notes in your handbook and track your regression. Have the non-readers in your troop draw pictures to illustrate your activities. The chapters do not have to be read in any special order.

Your Girl Scout leader – having cheated death and lived to see adulthood – can help you to decide which activities are right for you. She can act as a resource, too, suggesting the best locations to beg for food or first aid techniques to reduce scarring.

You’re following in a long line of girls who’ve made the Taliban Girl Scout Promise since the organization formed in 1994. Most of them have died by now, but along the way, they made new friends, tried new activities, and helped their fundamentalist community.

2002-01-25T10:06:00.000-05:00

Here's a piece I wrote about seven years ago.

Barbie and Me

When I was four years old, my best friend was Jay Bouldra, a sturdy midwestern boy with whom I shared a fondness for cowboy hats and six-shooters. We spent most of our days galloping around the neighborhood, stopping just long enough to fortify ourselves with butter-and-sugar sandwiches generously provided by the local sheriff (Jay's mother). The other girls in the neighborhood didn't know what to make of me, and frequently eyed me with great suspicion. Their leader was a six-year-old blonde named Cathy McCarthy, who, even at that age, could only be described as svelte.

One bright Nebraska morning, as I pedaled my Red Rover go-cart over to Jay's house, I came upon Cathy and her friends playing with their ever-present Barbie dolls. "Today," Cathy announced to me in her haughty first-grader's voice, "is my birthday, and I'm having a Barbie tea party, and you're not invited 'cause you're a tomboy." Laughing, the girls took their dolls and ran to Cathy's front porch. "Oh, yeah?" I cried. "Well, Barbie's stupid!"

Later that afternoon, Jay and I lay on our stomachs under a bush and surveyed an ugly scene. Cathy presided over tea, serving cookies to the other girls. Each girl wore a hat and dress that matched her Barbie's outfit. "Dumb girls," said Jay with disgust as he adjusted his six-shooters. "Yeah," I agreed, matching his tone. "Really dumb." It was time to implement the plan we had devised that morning.

After a last few hastily whispered instructions, I climbed into my Red Rover go-cart and tightened the string on my cowboy hat, while Jay circled around to the back of Cathy's house. By this time, the party-goers had moved and were playing at the junction of the sidewalk and Cathy's driveway--the perfect position for a strategic strike. I lined up my go-cart on the sidewalk at the top of the hill overlooking the tea party. Pedaling furiously, I bore down upon the unsuspecting crowd. Jay appeared around the corner of the house like the U.S. Cavalry, his six-shooters blazing. The deafening roar panicked the party girls, sending them screaming in all directions. I narrowly missed hitting Cathy, but felt the satisfying crunch of Barbies under the wheels of my Red Rover. Jay and I snatched the abandoned dolls and flung them into the air. They landed in bushes, snagged in trees; one swung from a rooftop gutter. Cap gun smoke hung heavily in the air. Slowly, the girls returned and gathered around us.

Losing his nerve, Jay bolted for home, leaving me standing alone, branded at age four as a traitor to my gender; a desecrator of Barbie.

Barbie and I have never had an easy relationship. Although I never cared for any of the dolls my mother so frequently tried to foist upon me, Barbie bore the brunt of my distaste. Scornful of her ultra-feminine appearance, I would invariably chop off all of her hair and dress her in my brother's G.I. Joe uniforms.

Why this fixation with Barbie? We are 35-year-old contemporaries, Barbie and I. I grew up with that plastic figure of idealized American womanhood, and I cannot help but compare our lives. Let's face it, while I struggled through years of adolescent angst, Barbie was driving around with her friends Skipper and Midge in the shiny red convertible that Ken bought her. She never had problems with her parents. But wait, just who were her parents anyway? We'll never know for sure, but I suspect Ward and June Cleaver. Wally, Beaver, and Barbie Cleaver. It could be true.

There were no zits for Barbie, no dateless Saturday nights. With more gowns than Nancy Reagan and enough shoes to make Imelda Marcos spit with envy, Barbie always knew what to wear. It's hard having an icon as a peer. Seriously, what a role model. There's Malibu Barbie, Disco Barbie, Debutante Barbie. Why don't we ever see Supreme Court Justice Barbie, Homicide Detective Barbie, or Twelve-Step Barbie? A larger range of options would be nice.

I've lived through civil rights, women's rights, and gay rights movements. I've gone back to college. I've started a new career. In short, I've changed. The biggest change in Barbie's life is that now she can tan. It seems that Barbie's as stuck in the fifties as ever. And while this may come as a relief for people who wish women would return to those idyllic times, I for one ask more from our cultural icons.

There are some people who find it peculiar that a grown woman has such animosity toward Barbie. Concerned, they pull me to one side and whisper, "She's only a doll, for God's sake." As if I didn't know. I haven't railed against the evils of Barbie in years. It was the hoopla surrounding her thirty-fifth birthday that started it all. First I saw the woman on Sally Jesse Raphael's show who spent over fifty thousand dollars on plastic surgery in an attempt to look like Barbie. A painfully unsuccessful attempt. Then one day I went to the mall.

I was doing a little window shopping, and as I neared the center pavilion, I noticed scores of little girls with their mothers in tow, heading in the same direction. Every girl had at least one Barbie doll clutched tightly in her arms. I started feeling a bit light-headed. When I finally arrived at the pavilion, there were hundreds of girls surrounding a raised platform. There, on the platform, was a living, breathing, human Barbie. She wore a shimmering pink gown and four-inch heels; her platinum blonde hair was done up in a French Twist. I broke into a heavy sweat. Barbie stepped up to the microphone, surveyed the large crowd, and said, "Look at all the beautiful little blonde girls." If you looked closely, you could see it. Every little girl who didn't fit that description shrank into herself. I started having flashbacks. It was Cathy McCarthy all over again.

At thirty-five, I don't have a Red Rover go-cart. Now I use my mind and my wallet to do battle with Barbie. I smile when I watch my Barbie-free niece at play. I'm a champion of my gender: a desecrator of Barbie.

2002-01-11T17:05:00.000-05:00

OK, so I didn't write this and worse yet, it's one of those list thingies that flood the Internet and clog inboxes all over the world. Still, it's funny, so shut up and read it,
damn you.

Martha Stewart vs. the Real Woman's Way

Martha's way:
Stuff a miniature marshmallow in the bottom of a sugar
cone to prevent ice cream drips.

The Real Woman's Way:
Just suck the ice cream out of the bottom of the cone,
for Pete's sake, you are probably lying on the couch, with
your feet up, eating it anyway.

Martha's way:
To keep potatoes from budding, place an apple
in the bag with the potatoes.

The Real Woman's Way:
Buy Hungry Jack mashed potato mix and keep it in
the pantry for up to a year.

Martha's way:
When a cake recipe calls for flouring the baking pan, use
a bit of the dry cake mix instead and there won't be any
white mess on the outside of the cake.

The Real Woman's Way:
Go to the bakery. They'll even decorate it for you.

Martha's way:
If you accidentally over salt a dish while it's still cooking,
drop in a peeled potato and it will absorb the excess salt
for an instant "fix me up."

The Real Woman's Way:
If you over salt a dish while you are cooking, that's too damn bad.
Please recite with me: The Real Women's motto: I made it and you
will eat it and I don't care how bad it tastes.

Martha's way:
Wrap celery in aluminum foil when putting in
the refrigerator and it will keep for weeks.

The Real Woman's Way:
Celery? Never heard of the stuff.

Martha's way:
Brush some beaten egg white over pie crust
before baking to yield a beautiful glossy
finish.

The Real Woman's Way:
The Mrs. Smith frozen pie directions do not include
brushing egg whites over the crust and so I don't do it.

Martha's way:
Cure for headaches: Take a lime, cut it in half and rub it
on your forehead. The throbbing will go away.

The Real Woman's Way:
Martha, dear, the only reason this works is because you
can't rub a lime on your forehead without getting lime juice
in your eye, and then the problem isn't the headache anymore,
it's that now you're BLIND!

Martha's way:
If you have a problem opening jars: Try using latex
dishwashing gloves. They give a non-slip grip that
makes opening jars easy.

The Real Woman's Way:
Go ask the very cute neighbor to do it.

And finally the most important tip for the holiday
season......

Martha's way:
Don't throw out all that leftover wine. Freeze into
ice cubes for future use in casseroles and sauces.

The Real Woman's Way:
Leftover wine?

2002-01-07T20:20:00.000-05:00

I don’t know why it is that lawyers catch so much crap in our society when we could focus our rage and frustration on insurance companies. The world would be a much more humane place if everyone in the insurance industry would kindly swallow a few bottles of pills, chase them back with a fifth of Jim Beam, and camp out in their garages with their cars running. The space ship is right behind the comet. Honest, it is. Would I lie to you?

I’ve been trying to get reimbursed from one insurance company (to the tune of $2500) for over a year now. I can’t tell you how many calls I’ve made, how many times I’ve been given incorrect addresses, wrong phone numbers, bad fax lines, you name it.

It’s deliberate; of this there can be no doubt. The evil plan is to wear you down to an ineffective, exhausted little nub so they either, A. delay payment and save money, or B. avoid payment altogether and save LOTS of money. Either way, they win while you make a beeline for the nearest mental health professional; and begin the nasty claims process all over again.

2002-01-02T18:20:00.000-05:00

Okay, I finally had to take off the pajamas and go back to that fresh hell I call work.
Allow me to backtrack a moment. I work with Joe at a company that's been doing a passable impression of the Titanic since last April (no Kate Winslet, although we DO have a Leo (short for Galileo). The week before Christmas, they laid off three more people and cut our salaries by 15 percent. Whoo-hoo! When I started a year and half ago, we had 25 people in the NYC office. Now, there are nine survivors, and no immunity totem.

They had us all take four (paid, thank god) vacation days in the last two weeks of December, and I was fortunate enough to leave the office on December 19 and not return until today, Jan 2.

Some of the things I did on my vacation:

-- Saw Lord of the Rings: it rocks.
-- Slept whenever and wherever I wanted.
-- Played Gruntz It's old, but addictive.
-- Cooked, as in from scratch. It's a wonder what you can do when you don't have to commute three hours a day.
-- Cleaned the house. See my girlfriend Elaine's feelings on that subject.
-- Looked for a new job.
-- Entertained Joe and Eric and Bonny and a visiting pair of award-winning Labradors (Siren and Caper).
-- Made a casserole that's so fattening, even Homer Simpson might balk. Oh yes, it was GOOD.
-- Avoided blogging just to bug Eric.

Now, Eric and Joe have made much ado about the dust they found in Elaine's computer. You'll find Eric's interpretation of the event (he guest-blogged) at Joe's site.
I feel compelled to enter the fray. When I first heard Joe's bloodcurdling scream, I thought, sweet mother of god, who let a nine-year old girl in the house? I raced into Elaine's study and found Joe in full-blown anaphylaxis, Eric laughing hysterically (at Joe), and Elaine doing her best not to die of embarrassment.

So, this much ballyhooed dust: how bad could it have been? Well, if I hadn't personally spread my mother's ashes in the Atlantic ocean, I'd swear she'd taken up residence in Elaine's G3. Mother, is that you?

My girl sure hates housework, but she makes a mean creme brulee. I think I'll keep her.

2001-12-15T09:44:00.000-05:00

Welcome to That's unpossible!

The title comes from the Simpsons (still the best comedy on television):

Ralph: "Me fail English? That's unpossible!"

I started this blog because it was the only way to get my friend Eric to shut up about why I haven't started blogging, already. Be sure to take a look at his blog. It's all fancy since he's Mr. HTML. Personally, I don't know my HTML from my HMO. Which explains why no one's paying my medical claims.

Warning: I'm an ambidexterous dyslexic who can't type to save her life, so there's bound to be typos. Deal with it.

I've been taking a comedy-writing class at NYU (taught by Emily Prager), and it's just about to end. The idea was that having deadlines would get me to actually write. It sort of worked. Now I have the blog, so I'll post stuff here --- let me know if it's funny or if I should keep my day job.

An Xercise in Futility

It’s a ritual I’ve repeated many times in my life – so many that I’ve stopped counting. You’d think I’d learn, seeing as how I am a reasonably intelligent woman. But no, time and again I’ve succumbed to the lure of mass marketing, the pressure of cultural stigma, and more to the point, the unrelenting guilt and shame that only a mother can instill.

I decided to get in shape.

And by that I mean a shape other than the one I currently inhabit. This particular bout of insanity struck after reading a book entitled Strong Women Stay Young, or as it’s become known in my house, Smart Women, Stupid Muscles. I’ve reached an age where words like osteoporosis and phrases such as “Yes you CAN turn back the clock” have a pull mightier than a McDonald’s value meal.

I mentioned the book to a coworker who promptly offered up (for free) a weight-training contraption guaranteed (little did I know) to bring a smile to the face of the Marquis de Sade. Determined to beat back years of physical and nutritional indifference, I convinced a neighbor with a minivan to help me pick up my salvation and bring it on home. A stop at Stewart’s Drive-In for hot dogs and root beer floats provided enough fortitude to get the job done.

The device in question is called the CTX: Circuit Training Xerciser by NordicTrack, a sufficiently intimidating name that should have tipped me off from the start. No good can come from Xercising. It’s Xhausting, not to mention Xcruciating.

It took three sturdy souls to load the beast into the minivan. We’d pulled the seats out to accommodate its bulk, and I spent the 45-minute drive home braced between it and the van door to keep from being crushed as we whipped around the curves on the Garden State Parkway. Apparently large and heavy does not equal stable (Thank you, Mother. Now go away.)

Back at my house, we conscripted a neighbor to make a foursome and hoisted the Viking Queen up the stairs to the second floor bedroom. As I straightened up, I felt a familiar ka-thunk in my back that could only mean I’d spend the rest of my weekend on the couch with a heating pad and a bottle of Advil, speed dialing my chiropractor. When I vowed to get in shape, the letter “C” wasn't what I had in mind.

As for the Xerciser, it waits for my sacrum to heal and my resolve to harden. In the meantime, I Xpect it’ll make a great hamper.