from happyrobot - updated 6/9/2026 12:35:11 AM https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp en-us https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=9948 But now I'm back!

Let's start off with something random. 

Your "Dancing With the Stars" update!
(Don't judge, I get paid to watch it sometimes.)

For those of you unfamiliar with the DWTS phenomenon, meet Len, the cranky, stiff-upper-lipped Brit. He's DWTS answer to Simon Cowell, with an extra serving of old school.



He wore his tux just for you. He's spiffy, he knows it, and he thinks your footwork is abominable.

Watching Len in action is one of the best parts of the show. Last season after that wildwoman Cloris Leachman showed him some skin he said , “I always wanted to a toy boy…this could be my big chance!”

Well, he's in fine form this season, you'll be happy to hear.

Everyone is getting a hoot out of having Pamela Anderson on the show, and Len's no exception.



What's not to like?

After her foxtrot the other night, Len looked Pamela IN THE EYES, and said..."You need to titivate your routine."

The crowd went nuts and he chastized, "What? Go look it up!!!!"

Ladies and gents, my new favorite word:

tit·i·vate1   /ˈtɪtəˌveɪt/
–verb (used with object)
1.to make smart or spruce: She titivated her old dress with a new belt.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=9844 hung over his bed
an Ace Ventura poster
Unframed. Enough said.

cops pulled us over
"I just had wine with dinner."
(not six G&T's?)

fooling around you
turned on the dave matthews band
I am allergic.

he's great in the sack
but his last name sounds like mine
Are we related?

]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=9835 Trixie The Wonder Cat is a cat of many talents. She can pee in the toilet.  She loves to party. She can work a sidekick. She enjoys climbing on your shoulder and pretending to be a parrot. And she was headed straight for the shelter if no one was willing to take her in.
So my friend adopted her.


My friend already owned one cat, a very beautiful, but fierce little thing. Let's just say that #1 Cat was not all that thrilled for Trixie to move into her territory.  They would fight over the bed at night, and my friend got more than one scratch on her face from being trapped in the middle of a literal cat fight.  No, my friend is not Nelly. Band-aid aside she looks nothing like him, but we can borrow his name for now.
Sadly, #1 Cat passed away suddenly.


While #1 Cat was suffering through her final hours, the oblivious Miss Trix stretched out in a patch of sun shine.
This made Nelly very angry.
"Trixie is just lying there enjoying herself while #1Cat is dying! How dare she!"
Nelly and I agreed that she was irrationally upset with Trixie the Wonder Cat, so I offered to take Trixie in while she mourned for #1 Cat.
Nelly agreed.


One trip to the vet and $500 dollars later, I was upset about all the poking and prodding that had been done to my furry ward. I marched into the nearest pet store, set down Trixie in her carrier, and cried, "Show me your most popular cat toys!" Like I was some sort of clueless father who had sent his child to boarding school in Switzerland a few years back and suddenly remembered he left his son there the day before he turned 11.
Turns out burlap mice are very popular with the feline set. I bought 12.
Much to my fiance's dismay, I never gave back that cat.
And yes, Rich I still have your photoblaster!


BONUS STORY (because it's been a while):
When my then-boyfriend first met, Trixie, I was complaining a lot about her name.  I explained to him that even though I would never change the name of a nine-year-old cat, I would never have named her Trixie. "Trixie sounds like the name of some stripper in East Tennessee. That's exactly the kind of name that's going to send this cat to the pole. And it won't be my fault, because I would never saddle such a sweet kitty with a hooker name like that," I went on and on,
"Seriously, have you ever heard of a cat having such a slutty name?"
"It's time I tell you," my boyfriend responded, "That my mother's name is Trixie."
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4749 I was out with some of my hot fellow co-eds the other night. It was about 3AM and we were drunk on ludlow street. Suffice it to say, there is a little regression that comes with being back in school. and also a drunken desire for chocolate cannoli.

we go into a deli on houston street. none of us have cash. (yet another inevitable school side effect.) the three of us are emptying our purses out for spare change and laundry quarters to get a cannoli. it's only $1.75.

apparently we were loud enough for a homeless man to overhear us. he is noticably crazy and has a cane and airbrushed pants.

"y'all are sexy. i'll buy you a cannoli."

my friends and i exchange guilty looks.

on one hand, we have the steadfast desire for chocolate. on the other hand, we have the lingering bad karma of having a homeless man buying food for us.

we split the cannoli 3 ways after thanking our crazy cannoli buying homeless man profusely.

"I have to pass this guy every day." my friend moans. "I'll have to give him a cannoli tomorrow in exchange."

When she does, i told her to ask where he got those fly airbrushed pants.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4647 "what do you want?"
my father asks

i can't say.
i woke up this morning
with a child's fist
inside my throat

"pancakes?
a little omelette?
turkey bacon and grits?
some pancakes?"

"a little omelette might be nice"
i suppose
"with some turkey bacon
on the side."

i eat my nail as an appetizer
lime green flecks of cheap polish
stick to my lip

he sets pancakes in front of me
"I am sorry" he says
"I thought we had syrup
sugar-free
but apparently we are all out."

I check the cabinets
he is right
i eat the pancakes anyway
with 2 spoonfulls of jam

the fist goes down for now
but it will grow back
hungry
for omelette tomorrow






]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4628 -----Original Message-----
From: Pimp, Medium
Sent: Tuesday, August 10, 2004 4:35 PM
To: 'madonna _rep@wbr.com'
Subject: 15 minutes with Madonna
Hi Madonna's person:

Readers of Heeb Magazine, the New Jew Review, have expressed a great deal of interest in the Kabbalah Center. Is there any chance that Madonna would be willing to talk with one of our editors about her experiences for a few minutes over the phone? It would be great to have a first hand glimpse of Kabbalah straight from its strongest advocate.

Thanks very much,

Medium Pimp
Associate Editor
Heeb Magazine


-----Original Message-----
From: Person, Madonna's
Sent: Tuesday, August 10, 2004 4:39 PM
To: Pimp, Medium
Subject: RE: 15 minutes with Madonna

Madonna is not doing any interview at this time.


Hija de puta!]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4613 Seven more days working for the man people! Siete dias mas!

All i can do is surf the web looking for places to turn 32.

(and by 32 i do mean 23.)

Operation get Raquel wasted by her co-workers has been implemented as of this evening. Apparently I have to make up for the amount of alcohol not imbibed by my lovely Austrailian and quite pregnant friend who will be drinking virgin sea breezes.

Wish me luck.

*An addendum: In the elevator I asked my Aussie co-worker if they had senioritis down under.

"SeÑoritis?" she asked

"Yes" I promptly responded, "I want to be a Hispanic man, but tragically, I am merely a half-Hispanic woman."

Key take-aways: the Austrailian term for senioritis is bludging.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4605 1- She is from south dakota

2 - She and her boyfriend are both indian - he is red dot, she is feather. At one point in their relationship his parents wanted them to break up so he could have an arranged marriage to a nice indian girl. Her point was, but i am indian! They got back together.

3 - she was convinced for the first 14 years of her life that she was half Jewish because she was told Jews "believe in the Old Testament". She thought, "Well, I believe in the Old Testament." And voila! She magically became, at least in her head, half Jewish for the duration of her childhood.


Thanks Craigslist!
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4511 It’s ok to spend $2,000 a month on the infamous snack drawer, but when it comes lunchtime, you can forget about it sucker.

-----Original Message-----
From: Honcho, Head
Sent: Wednesday, June 23, 2004 9:19 AM
To: Pimp, Medium; Of Pimp's, Co-Worker
Cc: Of Pimp, Boss; Resourses, Supposedly Human
Subject: Time Sheets

All,

Had our recurring update meeting with Supposedly Human Resources last week. She reminded us that all admin personnel need to subtract the time that they take for lunch off of their time sheets. As such, can you please make sure that you start doing this effective immediately? By copy to the Medium Pimp, after you complete your timesheet and Pimp's Boss signs off, please forward to me – as I will review yours along with Pimp's Co-worker's and will forward both time sheets both to HR/Payroll. Not sure how to handle to the extent that either of you have not previously reported this time off and should have. If this is the case, please call Supposedly Human Resourses to discuss and advise.

Thanks,
Head Honcho

Head Honcho
Vice President & Assistant Annoyance,
Executive Director Big Important Department
The Office of The Man
One Large Shopping Center
New York, New York


-----Original Message-----
From: Pimp, Medium
Sent: Wednesday, June 23, 2004 9:24 AM
To: Honcho, Head
Subject: RE: Time Sheets

Hi Head:

I will be happy to bring my time sheets to you for your review. I have always accounted for lunch time on my time sheet and will continue to do so.

Best,

Medium P.

[The subtext of my reply: I gots 8-and-a-half weeks left here, motha fucka. And if you’re lucky, you get 2 weeks notice.]
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4478 people. i am abusing my blog for a boldfaced roomate search.

ISO: one roomate -preferably female, preferably non-smoking, non IV drug using well-balanced human being, no hair or eye color preference, to live in a conveniently located apt in charming brklyn heights a block from the Promenade with yours truly, the Medium Pimp. To be honest I am more of a Small Pimp, than a Medium one, and spend relatively little time in the apartment itself, as I am usually off exploring and pursuing extra-curricular pursuits. Ya know, pimping and the like.

SO, what i have to offer: one large private room in a converted one-bedroom. yes, it's small - no, there is no common space - but you don't have to walk through anyone's bedroom to get to the bathroom and it is super cheap ($750) and less than 5 minutes away from the R, 2/3, 4/5, A/C/F.

Please please please pass this on to anyone you know who is well-balanced and looking for a place to roost in the 718. have them log a comment on this here shameless blog with an email address.

Gracias, my fellow robotos.



]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4466 I awoke yesterday morning with an avenue q festivity induced sleep-deprived over to hear Bobby Lopez's voice on NPR saying:

"We were all ready to hear a 'Wuh' sound - and then they said a vowel!!!"

Mazel tov kids! What a dream come true - to get a Tony from LL Cool J and Carol Channing - unreal!



]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4459 but not everyone else does."

Thus reads the card in which the red thread kabbalah bracelets are sold. Creepy, no? It reminds me of that "ilove you" virus that went around like what, two, three, five years ago? Wasn't that fun? Ah, ilove a nice robot virus. That shut down the old office for a good day or so.

The bracelets, now made infamous by Madonna and Britney, are intended to ward off the evil eye. The evil eye, which i myself gave several times on the "2" train this morning, is just plain old bad mojo. The Kabbalah Center people refer to it as "envious eyes" or "looks of ill will". My advice to you - don't give it to anyone on the "W" anymore. Cuz I love you fo sho, but not everyone else does.

"A person possessed of an evil eye carries with him the eye of the destroying negative force; hence it is called "destroyer of the world," and people should be on their guard against them and not come near them so that they should not be injured by them!" [Zohar I, p.68b] So buy some strands of thread for $26 or else!!

So you are supposed to wear this sucker on your left wrist, because the left side of your body is the "receiving side". The string is supposed to come from the red string wrapped around Rachel's tomb. Rachel from the Old Testament, people, not my 5 year-old second cousin. Rachel represents the physical world and her "light" or positive energy is supposed to protect you from bad stuff. The bracelet is supposed to be tied 7 times which of course also has mystical significance - "the 7 luminous emanations of energy that transmit energy to our world from the heavens above". Whatever that means.

My fave kabbalah story so far is that when there was bad blood between Missy Elliot and Madonna during the GAP commercial shoot Madonna had her spiritual advisor come to the set to pray for Missy. It's a wonder her advisor didn't toss in an extra "Everybody in Khakis" prayer for the Material Girl's commercial pandering. (Not that that's new, I know I know.) But reportedly on her current tour after performing Material Girl she now shrieks, "Just kidding!!!!"

I wonder if she does that after "Shanti/Ashtangi" from Ray of Light as well as translated below:

I worship the gurus' lotus feet
Awakening the happiness of the self revealed
Beyond comparison, working like the jungle physician
To pacify loss of consciousness from the poison of existence
In the form of a man up to the shoulders
Holding a conch, discus and sword
Thousand headed, white
I bow respectfully
Peace
JUST KIDDING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4458 oy.

I am still recovering from my 10 year reunion. 10 years since I graduated from Oberlin College people. a whole decade! Who’s feeling old? Where’s my walker?

Spouses and babies and flashbacks oh my!

We came ready to party. For real yo. Even if it meant crashing undergrad house parties at the same old off-campus party houses with new nicknames. I think my old off-campus house “Jabba the House” was demolished. Named for how nasty a sight it was to behold, not for any girls chained to it. I couldn’t even bring myself to check if that clapboard shack was still standing. It was too much of an eyesore for my sore (and very blood shot) eyes.

Yes, somehow my friend Greg (he is big and blonde and awesome and just graduated from Yale) and I convinced ourselves it was a fine idea to stay awake until 4 AM or 3AM at our earliest. Even if it meant winning an extra round of air hockey during which I went all American on Greg’s Russian ass. Or maybe it was vice versa. It all got fuzzy after 2:15 cuz NEWSFLASH - Oberlin is no longer a dry town like back in my day.

It was just like old times staying across the quad from Robin and Mr. Gise and down the hall from Greg and hearing his next door neighbor complain about what loud orgasms could be heard emanating from his room. He hooked up with an hot undergrad! Kudos Greg! It was a jolt to present day when I almost gave a guy from class of ’56 a heart attack when I came out of my room in my regulation dorm bath towel. I think they issued me a hand towel by mistake.

The good news is Oberlin is still trying to save the world. I was snuck into the Cluster dinner on Saturday night during which they speechified to great length on the environment – of course, it's Oberlin people! They have a fantastic new green enviro building in which they scheme up ways to retard rapid climate change and hold forums on pedagogy and poop. Some alums spoke that have actually returned to Oberlin – despite it’s location in the center of a cornfield sorta close to the dubious city of Cleveland – to start organic sustainable restaurants using local produce and buy up city blocks and car dealerships to promote more eco-friendly businesses. I was suddenly overwhelmed remembering my own bleeding heart days and glanced with glassy eyes over at Greg. He was sound asleep.

And how could I forget what a neat little art museum they have there. Right in the entranceway you are greeted by the Serrano piece Ejaculate in Trajectory! Ah Oberlin! I also forgot all about the art rental program run by the museum lending art to the students to hang up in their dorm rooms. And I’m not talking cheap ass no-name slouches either – they let Mondrians and Miros and Picassos out for the whole year. I got 2 beautiful Asian screens one semester. I loved the screens but hated my roommate. Ah, those were the days.

Well, I'm going to slip back into my reverie now and dance to old Prince songs in the dark and sweaty disco and eat tofu and drink quarter beers in my mind.

Hey wait a minute - no one carded me all weekend!! Well, that was a short lived reverie.

]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4416 I am performing in a Heeb Magazine sanctioned storytelling night on Thursday night and am, of course, still figuring out what the hell i am trying to say.

I've done a fair amount of performing in my day. Oh, let's just say I've done a veritable assload of performing since the tender age of 6, but rarely have I performed as myself. It is so much easier to hide in the safety of a character on stage. Especially a full body costume character. Now that's easier, but also a lot hotter.

So, my story is about when i shot a training film for the Orthodox Kosher Yellow Pages. Okay, first of all, yes, there is an Orthodox Kosher Yellow Pages. Secondly, yes, I was featured in a film which taught sales people how to sell ads for it.

And it was a funny and bizarre and random experience - but for it to be a good story, it has got to go somewhere in the end. And to be honest, i went home and went to sleep afterwards still pretty much the same Medium Pimp. So i am sifting through my life right now for an epiphany about something else that i can graft onto this story to make it whole.

I am open for ideas, or if someone out there in interwebbernetterland has experience with epiphany manufacturing, please contact the medium pimp ASAP.

]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4405 We evacuated the The Office of The Man aka The Great Mall this morning. It always reminds me of school fire drills only it was far more exciting to get out of class and speculate whether or not it was a real live emergency, as compared to a jaded staged adult exercise that takes me away from my interwebbernetter. The last time we evacuated the Offices of The Man was for a post 9/11 drill. That, you can well imagine, was a heck of a lot more somber occasion. For this one, I was merely bored out of my mind. I started making random phone calls until my sprint pcs phone service was no longer available. So I sought out a co-worker in the sea of collared shirts with rolled up sleeves to chew the fat with.

Me: Jump ship! Women and children first.

My Co-worker (let’s just call him John, because his name actually is John): Yeah it’s really something. We haven’t done this since the blackout.

Me: That’s right, the famous blackout of ’03! I was at home for it, so I missed out on the whole blackout experience. I had a show that night. Or rather, I was supposed to have a show. I was all set to march across the Brooklyn Bridge to get to it until I realized, no electricity makes for a very dark and very quiet show with no one watching. So I went back home and folded programs.

John: No, really?

Me: Yes really.

John: Wow. So you still doing shows or did you give all that up?

Me: Yeah sure, Ben and I are working on one right now.

John: That’s cool. So you still auditioning and all of that?

Me: No, not really so much anymore.

John: Oh, so it’s just like a hobby now.

My Stomach: Flips once, then flops.

Me: Do you have any hobbies, John?

John: No, not really. I go to the gym.

Me: That doesn’t count! That’s not a hobby!

John: Napping? Is napping a hobby? I’m real good at it.

Me: Well, sure, I guess, but don’t quit your day job.

John: I’m also thinking about trying glass blowing. That sounds like fun, right?
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4362 A true story as seen in the Office of The Man in The Great Mall:

A woman in her 50’s fixes a plate of sandwiches for herself from a food order placed for another department. One tuna, one ham and swiss, one half mystery spread with tomato on focaccia. Some pasta salad on the side.

Departs kitchen and rounds the corner towards the bathrooms where the women’s room is located right next to the men’s room. There are signs with traditional symbolic drawings clearly denoting which door is for which gender. If you can discern the difference between skirt and pants, you are pretty much good to go here. The women’s room is on the right facing both doors. The men’s room on the left. Both cut through to the other side of the building.

A fellow co-worker who is headed into the women’s room spots said woman with fully stacked sandwich plate veering to the left.

They both pause for a moment.

Stand-off at the bathroom doors ensues.

A tense moment was felt by both.

Sandwich plate woman shrugs.

“I’m just taking a short cut!”

And with that, turns abruptly and walks into the men’s room past 11 urinals with a full plate of food.

Why didn’t she cut thru the women’s room?
What would make her want to carry a plate of food past a gauntlet of urinals?
What exactly is in that spread that is on the focaccia with the tomatoes?

Tune in next week when the Medium Pimp discovers the answers to these workplace puzzlements and topples a mega media conglomorate empire with a single plate of sandwiches.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=4353 Last Saturday, I learned how to ride a bike.

You heard me.

I used to tell people that I knew how to ride one, but I just forgot.

70 degrees out in Prospect Park. I’ve got a bright pink monkey sweater on my chest, a hot tomato red bike with stripes from my boyfriend under my ass, and a 6-year-old smack in front of me, which is not exactly a safe place to stand quite yet.

Her arms are crossed.

“I know how to ride a bike. I started out on a 3 wheeler, and then I moved up to 2 wheels.” She taunts me.

“Really? That’s cool. I think my folks tried to teach me when I was your age too.” I volleyed back.

“I learned how to ride when I was 5.”

(Big fucking whoop.), I say in my inside voice. My outside voice booms, “Oh, wow! How old do you think I am?”

“30.”

Damn! I’m already sweating and embarrassed, being the only adult that ever learned how to ride a bike in Brooklyn, at least in the humiliating broad daylight. And now even a six year old can accurately approximate my age? Exquisite cruelty. I am 31.

My boyfriend steps to my defense, also exhausted having run alongside me up and down the length of a block at least 100 times holding me upright on the tomato.

“She’s doing really well! She just learned today!”

The little girl looked at him non-plussed. Then back at me.

“Wanna see me ride?” I proffered?

“Sure.” She replied, unsmiling, chin thrust forward, not budging.

“Well, you might want to take a few steps back then, cuz I’m not that good yet!”

Finally with my boyfriend/expert cycling professor’s assistance, we backed her 6-year-old smart ass self up and I took off sailing down the block with both of them yelling after me, “Pedal faster!” “Keep going!”

And I did. I rode down the path, turned smoothly and came back around towards them, almost hit our new six-year-old friend and stopped. I did it. Even under the pressure of such a tough, little, pouty audience. I haven't felt that free in a long time. Or that sore-assed.

People who had seen us before, at the start of the afternoon when I was leaning heavily on my teacher’s chest and jerking the handle bars around like I was getting a grip on a mechanical bull going full speed, came over to congratulate us.

“I can’t believe you can do it already!” “That was so fast!”

Well, even if I do forget how to ride a bike, at least I know I’ll never forget learning to ride one.

And with that, the Medium Pimp is back.


]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=3857 Honestly, I can't remember Hallotween very well. I was a real trend setter in my day, so looking back my halloween costumes are hard to differentiate from my everyday clothes.

I do remember that my father would wait outside for us to come home in his hooded red terry cloth robe and jump out from behind a wall in the courtyard. Without a doubt the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced.

I do have some later and equally as formative costume experiences. The Annual Drag Ball at my college was quite a spectacle - I went as the mustashioed bodyguard of a 6-foot-tall blond (and male, of course) Carmen Miranda.

No one recognized me, even in my tell-tale purple and gold mariachi shirt. For the record, I make a super ugly guy, but it didn't stop me from doing the drag again in NYC.

My first Halloween in NYC I was living with a fabulous gay man who was very tall and sleek and Southern. Naturally, he saw his chance to be Scarlett O'hara in the Halloween parade, and let's just say he had the blankets for the ballgown. He started stitching in July.

His boyfriend and I were quickly recruited. He was bald and very lightskinned. Not really a Rhett type. I suggested Mamie, but he had some issue about going downtown in blackface. I mean what up wid dat?

So it fell to me to be Rhett, as I had previous mustache experience and a riding crop. No questions please. And The Boyfriend would be Tara.

That's right, he fashioned a huge full scale replica of the plantation itself and wore it up and down the streets of the city. Very impressive. Scarlett was pretty fetching too. As for me, well people kept saying, "Hi Charlie!" and "Oh, the little tramp!" so that clearly was not half as successful.

Tara was deserted on the corner of West 19th Street with my moustache marring her lovely brick facing. Tonight, no facial hair will be required. Put out the press release, I am going to a reality tv party as.......a goldfish bowl. Or chicken of the sea if I can fashion a quick beak.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=3794 Two of my friends were married this past weekend in beautiful Fort Tryon Park.

I was bridesmaid #6.

Opting for a low on the totem pole number was a personal choice. In the regiment of the bridesmaids, it is wise to shoot for a low numbered position. This way, not much is expected of you and so when you actually accomplish one of your “bridesmaidly duties” (i.e. planning strip club visits, getting the other bridesfolk inebriated, etc.) you rise swiftly through the ranks while simultaneously looking like a million dollars. Whether it cost you that much or not.

Speaking of costing that much: the dress is a keeper. In fact, as long as I go to the gym a little more often it should come in useful over the holidays and the other 12 weddings and proms I am attending in the next few months.

The wedding party was convening at the Hilton. I was 20 minutes late due to an ill-fated shoe store incident in which new shoes were not acquired, despite an aggressive attempt. I showed up glowering in my old ugly shoes. The gay bridesman immediately said, “wow those shoes are so…… masculine”. Full of the kind of sarcastic intent that only a gay man or a mother can pull off and make it hurt so good.

I borrowed “more feminine and gay approved” shoes from Bridesmaid #1. She won so many points with this move, she almost became the Bride at that point. I had given up rising through the ranks at this point in our competitive bridesmaid schema. After all, bridesmaids #2 and #3 were the brides identical 16-year-old twin sisters and they were tall and gorgeous. But #4 was the gay bridesman, and I could kick his ass for the shoe comment and get away with it.

I was quickly distracted from ass kicking when I was called into action. You see, I was essentially the flower girl. First in line down the long 3.5 minute processional that essentially went down a hillside on a paved road, curled around and went back up the rocky hillside covered by a thin white satin sheet which hid the bumpy terrain. All in the one size too big shoes of Bridesmaid #1.

So Ian, the "country club gay" wedding planner, gives me the go to start the long slow sparse conga line down to where the reverend Earl and the Groom were waiting. I was working a Luigi drag, for those of you who are versed in the intricacies of jazz dance. So you can imagine it was pretty slow and damn graceful in a slightly cheesy way. No jazz hands though, we were instructed to hold our flower bouquets below our belly buttons and angled out. You can picture in your minds eye what that looked like: Thorny rose dicks.

Four years later I was still walking around this hillside. Onlookers were yelling down to the line: You look good, girl! Keep going! Go team! I go behind a bush where I am shielded from the wedding attendees – so promptly turn around and do my best silent medium pimping punk rawk jump into the air for the benefit of the rest of the procession – still in full view of the attendees.

They lose it, and start to guffaw.

I am obviously funnier then I give myself credit for.

I turn around smug and self satisfied and find myself staring at a squirrel that won’t budge. Squirrels kind of freak me out, just because they are skittish and move quickly and that is just the sort of behavior I have always associated with rabid animals.

A couple psych-outs and the squirrel goes to spread rabies among the rest of the wedding party. I take another turn and there are more onlookers, this time kids with skateboards and Colt 45’s. Classy. They see me working my luigi step drag move as I am back in the sightline of the wedding guests. Step right drag left….. step left drag right…. All at the pace of your grandma climbing mount everest.

Hey, is this a wedding or a funeral? They yell.

Fuck you! I yell back.

With my inside voice, of course. Inside my head that is.

But I don’t care, because finally the end is in sight! I get to the long aisle of white satin and my date catches my eye. (In the immortal words of Nenah Cherry: Who’s lookin’ good today? Damn!) Then I start out on the cloth. This can’t be good. This is a clumpy ass hill I am walking on and I can’t even see where I am stepping because of the cloth. I am going down for sure, I think. I see the Reverend Dr. Earl Kooperkamp as my heel catches and I know this is the end for me. I am about to ruin the wedding and I am already Bridesmaid #6. I can’t be demoted any further. This is not a good thing.

A great miracle happened there: I regained my balance and did not fall. In fact, nothing out of place happened for the rest of the ceremony. The bride and groom are a beautiful couple - delightful and funny throughout, the vows are sweet and traditional, the a capella blessing did not train wreck, no one says that the bride and groom can’t be married because they are actually brother and sister, Bridesmaid #5 sniffles next to me but manages to hold it together and not start sobbing. The only thing unusual is that there is no glass broken, so I’m not convinced it was legally binding.

Nonetheless, we all go up to the party and eat and drink and dance our hearts out. Finally, sweaty and tipsy, Bridesman #4 swings me wildly during a particularly boisterous move to “Oh, What a Night”. Down I go – flat on my back with Bridesmaid #1’s shoes up in the air. At last. The fall I had been waiting for. And one more solid reason to kick some Bridesman ass.

I’m still convinced that I am cool though. And no, I didn’t catch the bouquet.
]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/lavie.asp?id=3770 nothing like arriving late to work at Office of The Man and having to ride up 27 stories with the CEO.

he was chatting it up with some blowhard who was bragging about wearing a tie and walked off the elevator saying that he was leaving for Afganistan on Tuesday.

the doors shut and it was me and the CEO.


I said: Afganistan? What, was Bora Bora booked up for Columbus Day?


he laughed. and i booked it off the elevator.


rick ocasek is a far less stressful elevator companion.

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