Another favorite…here’s the SNL digital short “Dear Sister” for your viewing pleasure.

this one is a classic, and probably my all-time favorite SNL digital short.

Dick in a Box


one of those bad, bad days where you’re already stressed out about something and then you have a fight with your spouse about something so…nebulous…that when you meet your friend for drinks later on because you just had to get out of the house and vent a little, you can’t even really explain what the argument was about…? yeah. it’s one of those days.

i was looking at my toes earlier today and realized that toes (i think especially toes with hot pink nail polish on the toenails) look like aliens.

most people have very little control over their toes. for example, you can’t move them one at a time. why is that? is someone or something else in control of my toes, someone other than me? they don’t seem to respond to commands. when you’re thinking about this and you watch your feet as you wiggle your toes, i swear, it’s creepy. there may even be some alien involvement. 

think about it: is there a part of your body over which you have less direct control? i can even raise one eyebrow at a time, but a toe? uh, nope. can’t curl or wiggle just one toe at a time. sometimes i can move just the big toe by itself, but even that’s not guaranteed. and the 4 other toes? come on. they have some kind of pack mentality. they all go together, everywhere they go. it’s freaky. why are they all separate like that, looking like fingers for your feet, if they have no ability to perform even the most rudimentary finger-like tasks? i doubt i could even poke someone with 1 of the lesser toes. the closest i would get would be mashing all 4 of them into someone’s side. you can’t even point with a toe. you have to point all the toes at once, and then who’s going to be able to tell what you’re pointing at? seriously. we might as well have flippers for all the good it does us to have 5 distinct toes on each foot. 

so in conclusion, toes are like aliens. weird, freaky, difficult-to-manipulate aliens. and that’s not really something i want growing out of the ends of my feet.

So our good friend, let’s call him Rob, came into town for a visit a few weekends ago. And because Rob is a bit of a gourmand, we took him to our favorite restaurant in town–let’s call it Z. Nertz. The three of us had an amazing meal and some fantastic wines. Really, it’s one of the best restaurants I’ve ever been to, and it’s right here in my hometown. Yay! Before the amuse bouche was even on the table, Rob was making plans to return monthly just to dine at this great restaurant. And I thought we were the big draw encouraging us to come visit. Ha.

During the course of our 4-hour-long dinner, we got a chance to talk to the sommelier–a third-degree sommelier, to be precise–a highly educated expert on wines. Mr. Sommelier, who could clearly tell that Rob knew far more about wine than my husband and I do, directed the majority of his attention toward our friend. This was fine, because we were pretty sure Rob was going to pick up the check, like he tends to do. In any event, over the course of our 4-hour dining experience, we had several conversations with the sommelier. And I noticed something interesting happening. Rob started to get a goofy little grin on his face. His eyes lit up. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sommelier’s lips as they pronounced many an obscure wine term. He bought every wine the sommelier suggested with nary a blink. It was official: Rob had a mancrush. 

Really, it was adorable. The sommelier kept bringing wines he recommended we try with each course, and with each new wine he gave us an erudite-sounding explication of the wine’s provenance. (It wasn’t just that I didn’t understand the explanations; I didn’t even recognize all the words he used, and I’m not a generally ignorant person.) But Rob just gobbled it all up. He was in heaven, and it wasn’t just the fabulous meal–it was the company…of course, the excellent company of which I speak was not the company of myself and my husband–his longtime friends–but rather his newest, bestest friend, the sommelier. Yes, the mancrush was on.

I believe this was the first time I had actually witnessed the birth and developement of a mancrush all in one sitting. It was immensely entertaining–in fact, the entertainment portion of the evening was as delectable as the food and wine. Thank you, Rob, for a truly wonderful experience. I can’t wait to dine with you again at your mancrush’s restaurant. I just hope he feels the same way about you as you do about him.

i have large feet. but they’re not freak-show huge. we’re not talking guinness-book-of-world-records size. i’m 5’10” and i wear a size 11 shoe. the most unfortunate thing about having size 11 feet is the frequent frustration i face when looking for cute shoes. don’t get me wrong—i find cute shoes all the time. they just don’t come in my size. for some unfathomable reason, far too many women’s shoe brands—and sometimes not even the whole brand, just certain styles i love—just aren’t made in a size 11. the largest size will be a 10. it happens to me over and over again: i fall in love with a shoe, decide i must have it for this wedding or that party, and i then i can’t find it anywhere in my size. i start out hoping it’s just sold out in the first few places i look (being that most places only carry a couple of pair of size 11s, if they even carry my size at all), and eventually realize, sad and deflated, that the particular shoe with which i’ve become enamored must not exist in my size. and even though taller american women are becoming more and more common, larger shoe sizes can still be quite hard to find. this is unacceptable. i think my feet need these shoes: 

Kenneth Cole New York City Soul

Kenneth Cole New York City Soul

i think my feet would look especially sexy in these shoes. alas, we’ll never know for sure, because kenneth cole doesn’t make these shoes in my size. for shame, kenneth! tall women with large feet deserve sexy shoes too!

here’s something that really irritates me: you’re driving around, looking for a parking space, and finally you see it—the one open spot in the entire lot, and there it is, between two large SUVs. you’ve only got 4 minutes until the movie starts and it’s going to take you 3 minutes to run from here to the theater doors as it is, so it’s damn lucky you finally found a spot. you start to pull into the miracle space, and that’s when you see it—the compact car that’s been hiding between the trucks. shitfucker! that is so not cool! why does the geo need to park so far toward the front of its space that you can’t see it until you’ve already turned into the space behind it and nearly driven up onto its little car ass? you reverse, swearing, and continue cruising the parking lot lanes, stalking people as they head toward their cars and swearing every time you approach a big SUV or van that appears to have an empty space on the other side only to reveal yet another tiny car taking up a space it barely needs. it’s that moment of elation followed by that crushing blow that gets me—the relief at finally having found a spot in the sheer, random lottery of a parking lot and then the immediate reversal of fortune that sends you spiraling back down to the depths of desperation and bleakest, futile searching. it’s a cruel, cruel, cruel, cruel world.

is it bad if you spend 12 consecutive hours on your computer clicking around on the same website? it’s true, i came late to the facebook party, but now that i’ve arrived i’m like the guest who won’t leave. i fear this may be a problem. there’s something about seeing who i can find from my past in the massive web of cyberspace….

seen today, custom lettered on the back window of a car:

if your not a hemroid

in the car, two idiots.

22.2%  rate of spelling errors in a 9-word phrase. that’s impressive. although you’ve got to hand it to them—they did get the whole second line correct.

I…I, I, I just felt like I needed to say…
(by Woody Allen)

Um, well, I might as well come right out and say this…
There were some plums
sitting very innocently
in your icebox
and, well–heh, heh–I, ah, ate them.
NOW—NOW—I know you were probably saving them
for some special occasion, like
breakfast with a date–
perhaps a really hot date–
or—goodness, I hope you weren’t planning on inviting
your estranged father over for breakfast tomorrow.
<sigh> It’s entirely possible that I’ve ruined
your attempt at reconciling with your father…
But, but, but, you can hardly blame me, really.
I was starving and they were so delicious,
so very sweet and perky and cold,
and it’s record-breaking temperatures outside
and I’m sweating like crazy
and I really needed something cold
or I was going to overheat.
I’m prone to overheating, you know.
You wouldn’t want me to pass out
of heat stroke, would you?
I mean, that would certainly put a
damper on your morning with your father.
So in a way, I think I’ve
saved you from that experience.

by Ivan Velasco, Jr.