Lady 1: I totally saw scrotum in yoga class.

All: UGH!

Lady 2: What do you mean, you saw it?

Lady 1: Like, it was right there, like hanging out.

Lady 3: Couldn’t you just look away?

Lady 1: Well we were doing this swan-dive thingy where you bend over (bends gracefully at waist with arms extended behind her), so your face is right at someone’s butt. And his scroat was, like, right there. Huge ball sack.

Lady 2: Hanging out of his shorts or something?

Lady 1: Yeah.

Lady 4: Yuck.

Lady 1: Yeah. I was traumatized.

3:29 p.m.


I passed a girl with a license plate that read “JBRATTY.” It was in a Princess plate frame, and she also had one of those sparkly pink stickers on the bumper that said, 100% Fine. Oddly, there are guys who look at these glittery warning flags and think, Ha-HA! Brataay. I like em with a little spunk. I know because I’ve met them. They’re the same guys who approach me at a bar, call me sassy when I say something less stupid than they expect, then shift uncomfortably from foot to foot when I blink at them.

6:13 p.m.


Lady 1: To be honest, it wasn�t that I didn�t find him attractive. I just didn’t think he was the type of guy who’d be attracted to me.

Lady 2: Why?

Lady 1: Well, I didn’t think he was into black girls.

Lady 3: Ah.

Lady 1: No I mean… How can I put this?

Lady 4: You don’t have to be too PC.

Lady 1: No, it’s just that Certain types of white guys are attracted to certain types of black girls. Like, there’s the guy who’s attracted to the petite, Halle Barry type of black girl

Lady 2: The white black girl.

Lady 1: Exactly. And then there’s the guys who’s attracted to the darker black girls because it’s more of a I don’t know. And then there’s the guys who just aren’t attracted to black girls. I sort of assumed he was one of those.

Lady 2: Why?

Lady 1: He just didn’t look like the type.

Lady 2: What, was he a rocker or something?

Lady 1: Actually, he looks a lot like Billy Idol.

All: OOOOOOOooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh!

Lady 5: Like all snarly?

Lady 6: He has a beautiful set of teeth. Perfect teeth.

Lady 1: I should have brought pictures.

Lady 6: You should’ve.

Lady 5: Is he all tatted up?

Lady 1: He has some tattoos

All: OOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!

Lady 1: We hung out together, and I stayed over, and we spent Sunday morning watching football.

Lady 2: That’s commitment.

Lady 1: Yeah, you could tell I really liked him because I was doing the girly thing, like, Now, first in ten What does that mean again?

Lady 2: Awesome.

4:13 p.m.


I used to work with Kate, and I miss her. Kate loved vendor gifts. She had a favorite pen that lit up when you clicked it, a straw cowboy hat sent with some promo materials, and a red bandana with a big startup logo in the middle. One day as I passed her cube, I glanced in. She was wearing the cowboy hat and had tied the bandana around her face. Her eyes widened when she saw me. What are you doing? I asked. She bugged her eyes, held the flashing pen above her head, and whispered:

I’m a secret space cowboy.

3:14 p.m.


Lady 1: Tell them about what you got John for Christmas. I think this is funny.

Lady 2: What?

Lady 1: Jane and I went Christmas shopping and she bought lacy undies for herself as John’s Christmas present.

Lady 3: Sweet.

Lady 1: I think it’s cute.

Lady 3: What do they look like?

Lady 2: (Describes skimpies.) My starvation diet starts tomorrow.

All: Hahaha.

Lady 4: Hence, the fat-free fudgecicles.

Lady 5: The fudgicles are fat free?

Lady 2: Yep.

Lady 5: Oh man! How could you do that to us?

Lady 2: They’re really good.

Lady 5: So close…yet so far. Well, I guess we could always dip them in frosting.

Lady 6: I think I’ve got some Magic Shell somewhere.

(Highlight of a short sanitary products discussion:)

Lady 1: Someone once said that removing a tampon is like pulling a dead, wet mouse out of a wine bottle by its tail.

All: Whoa!

Lady 1: Dead on though.

Lady 2: Yeah. Pretty much.

1:28 p.m.


Scenario: Discussing the week’s events.


Lady 1: This week has been kind of tough. Jim has this really good girlfriend who he went to school with who’s visiting. She’s spent all this time working as a doctor in Ecuador…

Lady 2: …Threatening.

Lady 1: And all the guys are friends with her, and when they talk about her, it’s always in these awed tones like, “Oh, Abri this, Abri’s so cool.”

Lady 3: (Pulls in air through teeth)

Lady 1: And she is cool. I mean, she’s done all this amazing stuff.

Lady 3: Bitch.

Lady 2: Ha!

Lady 1: No, she’s really nice. Like, I’m thinking, OK. I’m going to try really hard to like her, because I know that my natural inclination is going to be to not like her, and that’s not fair. But she turned out to be really cool.

Lady 2: Which is even more threatening.

Lady 1: No, I like her. I mean it’s been a lot better than I expected.

Lady 3: You’re a better woman than I.

Scenario: One of the ladies is in a band and wants to run a song by us.


Lady 1: (Singing) I kinda wanna, I kinda wanna see you again./ I kinda wanna, I kinda wanna kiss you again.

All: Woo hoo.

Lady 1: (singing) I kinda wanna, I kinda wanna touch you again./ I wanna let you in!


Lady 2: Tsk! She’s talking about emotional availability, you guys. Geez.

Lady 1: (singing) I wanna taste your SKIIIN!

5:08 p.m.


Lady 1: What have you been up to with work?

Lady 2: I made a play suit for this guy.

Lady 1: A “play” suit?

Lady 2: That’s what he called it. It was basically a body suit with modifications.

Lady 3: What kind of modifications?

Lady 2: Well it took me awhile to figure out what he wanted, he wouldn’t just spit it out. He’s like, “Can you make it really fitted?” and I’m like, “Yeah.” And he’s like, “I mean, I want it to fit me really well everywhere.” And I’m like, “Kay…” And he says, “I want it to have three little pouches.” So I say, “You mean you basically want a ball sack?”

Lady 4: Three pouches?

Lady 2: That’s what I was thinking. I’m like (confused expression, counts on fingers). I was like, “This is gonna have to be a small, medium, large thing, because I’m not interested in getting that personal.”

Lady 5: What color was it?

Lady 2: Bright yellow.

Lady 6: YELLOW?

Lady 2: Yep.

Lady 6: What is that?

Lady 4: Chiquita fetish.

Lady 5: He’s got the fruit hat at home, and a set of castanets.

Lady 6: Come over here, mama’s big ba-nan-ah!

4:01 p.m.


I went to the El Vez Boxing with God Tour on Friday, and Dave Foley introduced the band. About ten minutes later, I looked over and he was standing next to me. Dave Foley, Mr. David Foley, the-cute-one-from-Kid’s-In-The-Hall was standing right next to me.

Me: You are the funniest man alive. (ohmygod.davefoleystandsradientbeforemeinallhisapple-cheekedglory.) Extend my hand.

Dave Foley: Shakes my hand. Ha! Well, thank you.

Me: (iwillplowthornyfieldsinbarefeetfortwentyyearsifonlyyou’lltouchmyhandagain) You’re welcome. I’m Maggie.

Dave Foley: Nice, to meet you. I’m Dave.

Me: So I’ve heard. (takemehereandnow) Nice to meet you, too (youruggedcanadianbeast). Enjoy the show.

Dave Foley: Thanks.

(update: I’m not alone. Meena knows what it is to yearn for a cross-dressing Ralph Reed lookalike.)

2:27 p.m.


I’ve been collecting photos that look like the work of famous artists.

Alex Katz:

M.C. Escher:

John Singer Sargent:


4:50 p.m.

10.04.01 PAIN HURTS ME

I’m a wimp. I’ve tried to get past it, but I can’t watch an episode of “ER” or “Rescue 911” without getting tunnel hearing as I crawl from the room. So I didn’t do well with the Wisdom Tooth Removal video at the dentist’s office. It’s a high-level cartoon, for cripes sake. No blood, no close-ups, just detailed descriptions of the procedure and my over-active imagination. The dentist returned to find me with my head between my knees, and one arm groping blindly for the stop button on the VCR. Tomorrow morning I’m having roughly half of my jaw removed. Should be a treat.

7:38 p.m.


Ladies night excerpt:

Lady 1: Does your necklace say “Rockstar?”

Lady 2: Yep.

Lady 1: Awesome.

Lady 2: I wore it to a meeting today before I realized I had this lovely hicky. (Does Vanna White hand-display impression around hicky.)

Lady 3: Oh well. At least now they know you’re getting some.

Lady 2: In case you were wondering if I get any action. (waggles eyebrows)

Lady 4: What? This? Oh, yes… I was curling the ends of my hair and the iron slipped.

Lady 2: Ha! The crackpipe slipped.

Lady 5: Rugburn.

Lady 4: Ropeburn.

All: Awww.

12:16 p.m.


I’ve had three cold sores in the last six years. Each one of them has coincided with an event involving Dave Eggers. In college, I had a subscription to Might Magazine (coincidentally, the inspiration for my blog title). The staff had a farewell party in the Tenderloin, but no one would go with me (I was living in Davis at the time). I had all these tests the next morning and woke up with an angry cold sore. So, with a bitter sense of disappointment that still lingers to this day, I skipped it. A couple years ago, Mr. Eggers was doing a reading in SF that I was determined to see. Of course, deadline ran over at the magazine I was working for, and I had to stay late. I had a cold sore then, too. I finally got to see him speak last night. The audience was eerily consistent: tousled men in ’50s eyewear, artsy chicks in knee socks and pea coats. Mr. Eggers baked cookies for the audience, and rocked nervously while he told us about his taxidermy supply store in Manhattan and his poor experiences with UC Santa Cruz students. I brought along the Carmex. I would have stopped to meet him afterwards, but I was afraid that if I shook his hand my entire body would break out in fever blisters. So I got a cab instead.

4:24 p.m.

10.01.01 SPORTY

This weekend, I went kayak camping for the first time. The waterproof windbreaker, board shorts and salt air made me feel pretty sporty. I had to stop myself from greeting fellow kayakers with my chin (‘Sup?), and grinning stupidly at the tawny, tanned, fleece zipping, sports-bra sporting girls. Then I realized that seasoned outdoorsmen probably don’t assume that every seal they see has a shark lurking just beneath. They probably don’t wince at the searing pain in their shoulders after rowing for five minutes either.

5:22 p.m.


Me: Can you take me to 2500 Smith Street please?

Cabby: Sure. Lot of gays live in your neighborhood.

Me: Yeah. I guess they do.

Cabby: But you aren’t a gay, are you?

Me: … No.

Cabby: (Smugly satisfied at correct guess.) Me neither. I like gays, it’s my job to like them. But I’m straight person myself, so occasionally it’s nice to see the straight people. You know, you gotta have equilibrium.

Me: I never thought of it that way.

Cabby: What was going on in there?

Me: A dance.

Cabby: What kind of dance? Everybody looks nice.

Me: Lindy. A bunch of people are in from out of town for an exchange.

Cabby: Yeah, you look nice. All dressed up.

Me: (Shifts uncomfortably in seat.)

Cabby: (Leans out window jovially, calls to young guy walking down the street.) I got another one! (Extends hand.) Gimme five!

Young guy: (Pulls eyebrows together).

Cabby: (Motions with hand.) Gimme five!

Young guy: (Gives reluctant five.)

Cabby: That’s the last guy I dropped off.

Me: He didn’t seem too enthusiastic.

Cabby: Yeah, “I want a cab ride, buddy. Not an experience!” Heh….

(Swipes his hand over face, yanks ear, and rubs eye in a single rapid motion.)

(Minutes pass, Cabby talks incessantly in surprisingly intelligent albeit coked-up fashion. I learn he is 53, I learn he attended the same college I did, I learn he lived in Mexico with his wife and son, I learn he is higher than a kite looking for God in a tornado.)


Cabby: Wha? (Almost hits another car at a four-way-stop intersection.) Whoa. He blew that stop didn’t he?

Me: No. (Consider getting out of cab for 27th time since I got in. Decide Cabby will follow me up the street and begin to pray.)

Cabby: So what do you do?

Me: I’m an editor.

Cabby: For what?

Me: A little magazine.

Cabby: What magazine?

Me: A little magazine for Web developers.

Cabby: How much does that pay?

Me: Uh…

Cabby: ‘Cause my night vision is going, and I think editing would good for my eyes. That type of thing is good for your eyes.

Me: Actually, it’s really bad for–

Cabby: I have a son, Mark and he’s in school and I proofread his papers. I feel that’s something I can offer him, you know, to take his papers from… you know, to the next level. Like by editing them.

Me: Yeah. I’m on the right.

Cabby: How much do you make?

Me: Uh, about (Can’t believe I’m telling the cab driver my annual salary.)

Cabby: That’s pretty good. How could I get into that, because I do a lot of editing around, you know?

Me: (Gets out of cab.)

Cabby: (Talks at gunfire pace for an eternal three minutes with no pauses for air.)

Me: (Closes door, walks to gate.)

Cabby: (Rolls down passenger window, continues briefing me on his editing skills).

Me: (Nods, closes front door. Locks front door in every manner available. Leans with back to door like character in horrible Julia Roberts flick about a single girl fighting her way through the urban jungle. Has some ice cream to cement the deal.)

4:39 p.m.


Lady 1: I actually once wrestled in hot oil with another woman.

Lady 2: What? How did that come up?

Lady 1: It’s not as bad as it sounds, it was for an art project.

Lady 2: Riight. “Art.”

Lady 1: It was supposed to be kind of like a spoof of oil wrestling, but it was kind of weird because they asked us to fill in at the last minute so we didn’t really know what the piece was about.

Lady 3: Were you naked?

Lady 1: No, no. They just told us to wear a bikini or underwear or whatever we were comfortable in. It was kind of scary just before we went on. I’m thinking, “I’m about to get up in front of all these people I know and hot oil wrestle with another woman.”

Lady 2: No way. That makes you rad. That’s when your stock totally shoots up.

Lady 4: That’s when you go IPO.

10:41 a.m.