EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: More about the bad things that happen when you include the word “girl” in your blog title.

Excerpt:

Have you looked at your search engine keywords thingy lately?!

  • Father fucking girl
  • Erotic stories of little girl pajama parties
  • Naked girl fighting
  • Thick free black girl

Man, you have all the cool parties.

3:58 p.m.

To the person who found my site by searching for “this girl i’ve been following:” I found your sleeping bag and toothbrush in the crawl space under my house. They’re on the porch. I’m keeping the photos. (Call me.)

10:45 a.m.

The first Sunday of every month, San Francisco pug owners gather at a local park for Pug Sunday. Imagine dozens of wheezing, perplexed pugs romping, sneezing, and peeing on anything immobile. They aimed blankly at purses, picnic blankets, each other, their owners’ legs. The best part is that someone brought along a border collie, who proceeded to herd the gasping pugs into a neat little writhing circle as their owners called out, “Prudence! Prue! Come away from there!” “Winston, don’t pee on that nice lady!” “Remington? REEHHHMINGTON? There you are! Oh, no. Wrong pug.” Aaaaaag!

2:44 p.m.











EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: Modern dance.

From: A college friend.

Excerpt:

“Dance is the bomb, and I don’t need to tell you that! I wonder what Jenny Smith [college choreographer, whose name has been changed to protect my ass] is up to these days. I still think it’s the funniest thing that she would always be Miss Purity, but all her dances would totally be about sex. She’d be like, ‘It’s not sexual. It’s SENsual. Now rub your chest and roll on the ground.'”

4:45 p.m.

My friend Sean posted an almost comically offensive Black History Month lunch flyer that he found in his office. Can you believe that this was produced last year?

9:57 a.m.

EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: A fellow editor finds reason to celebrate.

Excerpt:

“after this deadline is over we should have a ‘we have jobs’ party.”

4:25 p.m.

So we had an earthquake drill at work today. I was across the street (coincidence) getting tea (sheer coincidence) when a piercing siren indicated that my coworkers should crawl under their desks and shield their necks and heads with their arms.

Now I’m concerned. Having missed the corporate drill, I fear that I will have no idea how to get under my desk and cover my head when the inevitable earthquake occurs. I will surely stand in the middle of my cube shrieking, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” as the ground opens to swallow me.

1:36 p.m.

I have now been humming Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” for 24 (waking) hours. I am near the breaking point. If my self-destruct feature kicks in and I stop posting suddenly, blame Janet (Miss Jackson, if you’re nasty).

1:37 p.m.

Annie articulates the new feminist battle cry:

“Somehow, just somehow, I must stop Jennifer Love Hewitt.”

10:40 a.m.

I got this from Salon–which means most of you have already read it–but it’s about a local girl, so I feel some responsibility to spread the word. A San Francisco artist is working on what she calls the bush project. She’s asking women to shave their pubic hair and send it to her in little baggies for use in an art installment protesting George Bush’s election. Her roommates are displeased.

11:27 a.m.

My friends and I were watching a profile of Buford Furrow (the guy who shot five people in a Jewish community center) on “60 Minutes II” last night. The anchor had such an Einsteinian moment that all of us burst into simultaneous laughter:

“When Judge Cody released Furrow, she ordered that he continue on his medication, stay away from alcohol and never touch a firearm again for the rest of his life. These were big changes for a heavy drinker, a mental patient with a passion for guns.”

3:47 p.m.

Three unrelated things that, when combined, represent my current mood:

  • When my nextdoor neighbor is frustrated, her preferred relaxation method is screaming and raining blows on her 12-year-old daughter. She was particularly frustrated this morning. I emerged from the shower to call 911.
  • Left for work and ran into a sweet boy I met a few months ago. He introduced me to his very new girlfriend and absently shared the story of how he’d asked me out and I’d said no. Was forced to exchange awkward small talk with them for my entire commute.
  • Parted ways with the new girlfriend and waited on the curb next to an Asian woman. A homeless man passed us and leaned across me to face her, “We’re just playin’ with the Chinese. See-ya-later!”9:16 a.m.

Who are these women who come to clubs wearing fishnets, come-hither skirts, appropriately obvious tank tops, and… laptop bags? I know they didn’t come from work, so I have to wonder what the hell is in that bag that they must have with them at all times. I watch as they order Cosmos and sway on the dance floor, trying their damndest to look carefree and nonchalant. This effect is difficult to achieve, no matter how much body glitter you’ve applied, when you’re hunched under the weight of a 30 lb. bag.

It perplexes me, but I have theories. Perhaps this woman must carry a full arsenal of concealer, base, blush creme, liner, lipstick, and shadow every time she goes out. Maybe she has an alternate outfit stashed in there (say, some snow pants and ski boots in case the weather turns). Maybe she thought it would be too risky to leave the severed human head in her car. A little advice, ladies: lipstick, and $50 bucks fits in your pocket. The head goes in your freezer.

9:39 a.m.

What’s more crass than a billboard for liposuction services? A billboard for liposuction with a horrible catchy phone number: 1-800-GO-4-LIPO! Like you’re just gonna drop by after you’ve run some errands. “I’ll be back in a bit, honey. I’ve got to grab the dry cleaning, maybe go for lipo.” Are these billboards a California thing? I take that back, they must be a California thing. I’ve seen them for breast implants too, but the phone number was so chilling that I’ve blocked it. I think it was something like 1-800-SO-PERKY, or 1-800-GET-FIRM. Ugh. UGH!

9:59 a.m.