Dog etiquette

The face of a ho?



I was at the dog park with Patsy. There was only one other dog there - Rufus - and the two of them played hard, roughhousing, chasing, and rolling around in the dirt. Right at the end, just before we left, Rufus jumped on her back end and tried to hump her for all he was worth.

Patsy didn't go for it and snapped him off. She isn't into ass play unless it's herself licking herself for A REALLY LONG TIME, JESUS. No one else is allowed to go there, not the veterinary assistant with a thermometer, not Rufus, no one. But when Rufus chased our car and barked at Patsy through the window, she whined and barked for him inside and I commented that they seemed into each other. Does one attempted hump in dog language equal love?

Two days later Patsy's eye was pink on the inner rim and goop was seeping out. We took her to the vet and she was diagnosed with pink eye.

"That slut Rufus!" I said. "He totally gave her pink eye!"

I took her back to the vet a few days ago because we were out of antibiotics and while the eye is no longer gooey, it still seemed too pink on that one edge. Dr. Baker checked it out and told me that she didn't think it had been contagious in the first place, just an irritation, that pink eye is rare for dogs and that it would have spread to her other eye.

Apparently Patsy's third eyelid - Dogs have three, I did not know that - is just plain pinker than the other one. Fine. The other vet must have called it pink eye so we'd wash our hands 3,000 times more daily than usual, it's cool. Perhaps we inadvertently escaped succumbing to H1N1, I don't know.

ANYWAY, with the new non-contagious bill of health we were finally allowed to go to the dog park again and the last two days were sunny and warmer so all humans and dogs were happy. I was standing in the grass yesterday watching the dogs when I recognized Rufus' pizza delivery guy owner on the other side.

"Rufus has arrived," I texted Matthew.

And 30 seconds later, "And he's eating Patsy out."

She didn't put up a fight.

I would've left my panties but that's just me

I just hope that whoever left their bra in my parking space had an incredible night of passion. There beneath the 24-hour fluorescent lights of Long's Drugs and FedEx.

LIVE NUDE GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS

I take photos while driving in LA.

More boob than you can handle

Right before I left the country in March, I sat on the ground in JFK Airport and made a phone call.

I'd just learned that a friend was having boob issues. The boobs were suddenly, at the age of 31, growing maniacally. And I'm just going to put it out there that they were NOT SMALL to start with.

"Hi," my friend answered the phone. "Are you excited about Berlin?"

"Yes," I said. "How are your boobs?"

She told me that a) her boobs were each the size of her head, b) she was suddenly afraid of losing balance on her bike and pitching forward, and c) she hated feeling like a boob monster.

Whereas I would like, for just one day, to know what it's like to be a boob monster.

This friend was not pregnant, had to buy new shirts and bras, and her doctor said she should see a breast specialist.

While in Berlin, I got an email from her, a scared freaking out email about how there might be something wrong, besides the fact that it's the size of a watermelon, with one of the boobs. A doctor thought she might have detected something. A lump or growth.

I went to an internet cafe in and called her. The doctor couldn't find anything when she looked again but said she should schedule an MRI and a biopsy. To be on the safe side.

SCARY. Especially since she has been through the process of her own mother kicking breast cancer's ass and because 31 years old feels kinda early to start throwing around words like biopsy.

We love her boobs, even when - ESPECIALLY WHEN - they are ridiculously large. We don't want anything to be wrong with them; We just want to make fun of them from time to time.

This week she got an appointment for the big check up and our mutual friend organized flowers to be sent. We brainstormed on the phone about what the card should say and we wanted to outdo the pussywillow bouquet we sent for the mutual friend's cervical operation last year.

I pushed hard for changing Deee-Lite's "Groove Is In The Heart" lyrics to Boob Is In The Heart but that didn't go over well well. This is what we came up with.

And THIS is what the f'ing amazing florist in San Francisco, Church Street Flowers hooked us up with. We love him. We love our friend and her phenomenal boobs. And most of all we love the fact that her tests came back clear and perfect and healthy. Muah.

I'd tap the ho

There's something excellent about meandering through the Tate Britain gallery with your iPod on Spank Rock and not even realizing that you're whispering I'D TAP THE HO out loud.

exhibits A-F of why we've been friends for almost 20 years

There's lots of things I've appreciated on sticks before - juicy flanks of steak (Thanks, Ecuador) and corn dogs (Thanks, every state fair I've ever been to) - and generally speaking, I believe that the greasier and more unwieldy something is, the more it belongs on a stick. By that reasoning, funnel cake on a stick would be the apex of what I'm going for.

Whereas the image of my own head wasn't even a close second. Unwieldy? Hell yes. Greasy? Hm. What exactly were Jane and Seema trying to say when they made faces on a stick of me, Cathy, and Frank while staying at my house this past weekend?

I think they just really miss us.



And did they realize that Erik Estrada is my favorite celebrity? Why?

1. The obvious, CHiPS

2. His psychic network commercial in the early 90s

3. The fact that we share the same birthday?

Or just happy coincidence?

Dear hoo hoo

What should one send your friend when she has part of her cervix removed?

Pussywillows.

With the following card:

Dear hoo hoo,
Heal up real soon.
We will miss you.

Thanks for the inspiration (you know who you are).
xx

I'm not afraid to talk about your cervix

I'm not a person to run from a conversation about cervixes, although I used to be better about it. Or worse.

Ten years ago, at Evergreen, I stood in front of fifty classmates and lectured them on the glory and the power of menstruation. I was studying women's health and public health and while I never went so far as to wear purple and call myself a goddess, I might have participated in a girls-only drum circle or two. Afterwards I probably back to my dorm room to weave some macrame jewelry and patch my overalls; I don't really remember.

Once Jocardo asked me what a cervix looked like and I held up my worn-down-to-the-nub tube of Chapstick and flashed him the waxy donut end.

"THAT," I told him. "That's what it looks like."

Jocardo nodded and vowed to start buying Carmex.

Now I'm not as impassioned about enjoying PMS and the messages from the universe that it delivers and I honestly don't care if tampons are patriarchal because pads are a pain in the motherf'ing ass but I AM diligent about going to Planned Parenthood every year to check out my business.

Recently one of my friends had her own yearly pap smear and was told that she had pre-cancerous cells on her cervix. This freaked us out because the c word is inherently scary but she also found out that calling a cell pre-c doesn't necessarily mean anything.

Turned out, however, that her cervix had some severe cell growth, so a few days ago they knocked her out to scrape the cells and cut away a little part of her waxy donut.

I can barely sit still when writing the words "scrape" and "cut" in this context and when I spoke to her on the phone about it, I was walking down the street, shaking the words off with my wrists and legs between steps like they were body tics.

I also learned that all this scraping and cutting is due to a STD called Human Papillomavirus which makes the cells grow in the first place. And that HPV is FAR more common - 20 million people have it right now - than we realize. There are 100 types of HPV and most types are low-risk and without symptoms, so unless we get a genital wart or an abnormal pap, our body fights the infection off and we stay happily ignorant that we are one of half of all people having sex who get HPV at some point. The high-risk strains of HPV can lead to cancer.

After I got off the phone with my friend and shook off the last few tics, I pulled this Tell Someone postcard out of the folder where I'd kept it for a few months. I'd kept it because I like the drawing but never really looked at the back. Now I looked at it more closely and saw that, golly, it's about cervical cancer!

Thanks universe! Sorry I haven't paid as much attention to you since graduating from Evergreen.

Living on transvestite hooker block

I'm having a who am I and what the hell is going on around here day. My discomfort may be due to the fact that I tried to get fancy and waxed my girl mustache instead of bleaching it. I had a reaction so I'm now walking around with a disfiguring ZITSTACHE and the product I bought at Sephora to supposedly help has dried out everything so whatever patch of skin isn't erupting is instead peeling.

In trying to make the best of the situation happening on my face, I told Jane who was bummed on the phone, "If it makes you feel any better, I have a zit mustache."

And it did help Jane. So Jane feels better about her life but I somehow took 25 minutes to try on fourteen t-shirts in the morning before going with the one I picked out in the first place. And I was just dressing for was the High School Musical show rehearsal. Do I need a perfect t-shirt to sit in a room putting Spanish lines into a script that I'll later feed to the cast on stage as the new TELEPROMPTER OPERATOR for the South American tour? Hell naw! And don't even get me started on how random my job is. The point is that learning to use a teleprompter does not require the right t-shirt.

Earlier this morning I called Miguel, who is in town from Seattle for a coffee conference.

"Miguel," I said, "I'm sorry I didn't make it to the party last night."

"Oh, no, it's okay," he said, "I'm sorry, too, for..." before unsuccessfully wracking his brain to find something to be sorry about just out of habit. He's a very polite overapologizer.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"Hollywood Boulevard and Vine," he said.

"What! I'm riding my bike over to say hi before I go to work."

When I got myself and my zit mustache to Hollywood Blvd, I called him again, "Hey, I'm here."

"I'm in an oxygen bar with tubes stuck up my nose. I'll be done in five minutes," he said.

"Wow. Okay." Who am I to judge? But that is funny.

We threaded our way through the tourists on the sidewalk who were posing for photos with fake Gene Simmons and fake Michael Jackson and then crossed the street to sit outside a coffeeshop. Miguel asked me about living in Southern California and I automatically distanced myself from our immediate surroundings, "Look, this street is nuts. I've never even been over here before."

Right then, a man dressed as either Moses or Anakin Skywalker walked past our table.

"But my neighborhood, Atwater Village, is a regular place to live. Totally nice."

Later, after cursing my entire collection of t-shirts and typing way too many exclamation points into the teleprompter (MUCHAS, MUCHAS GRACIAS, BUENOS AIRES!!!!!), and after walking past Fergie in the hallway of the rehearsal space and mistaking her for just another gal with long extensions, super big sunglasses, and a miniature dog, I came home, sank into a chair, and decided not to go anywhere for the rest of the night because I can't even take it anymore, not today.

Frank left to see some music with his nephew, Josh, but called me right away to tell me about the transvestite who lifted her skirt to show some leg as he drove past.

"Oh, that's nice," I said.

"Yeah, and he or she is working our block exactly, right between our house and the light."

"Really?" I said.

But I didn't need convincing because that is this kind of day.

Durty Hur playoffs

I was driving up the 110 in Los Angeles when I got a phone call from Cathy.

"Where are you!?" She yelled.

"Los Angeles."

"So you're on the West Coast?"

"Um, Yes." I said.

"Well," Cathy said. "Seema's in New York and we want to know if you play for the east coast dirty whores or the west coast dirty whores."

"Oh really?" I asked, sensing leverage. "Maybe that depends on whether I'm still DW number five which, BY THE WAY, I'm not."

Note: When Cathy, Jane, Seema, Chris, and I started the Dirty Whore Club I knew it would breed competition since we are numbered 1-5 depending on our behavior but I didn't know how cutthroat it would get.

Noise erupts over the phone and Cathy laughs and hollers over some clamor in the background. I get the sense that she is calling me from either a) a bar or b) a rodeo and that c) she is trying to bribe me.

"Listen," I tell her. "I don't know whose side I'm on. I have to see what kind of offer Jane and Chris give me."

Cathy shrieks but I can't understand what she's saying over all the bedlam and commotion and I wonder if she and Seema are participating in a soccer brawl or police riot.

"I'm getting off the phone now," I say. "Bye."

A minute later I get a text message from Seema, "WE CAN GIVE YOU FREE TICKETS TO THE ROLLER DERBY" and I write back, "NOW YOU'RE TALKING".

May I Kiss Your Boots?

I flew from New York to Minneapolis/St. Paul and immediately after deplaning got a call from Gail. "I'll be there in about ten minutes. I'll pick you up outside baggage claim."

"What does your car look like?" I asked.

"Dark green Toyota," She said.

"And what is your car's name?"

Gail told me, "Diana. Because she's a hunter. She's killed a couple of deer."

"Cool," I said, "I'll be looking for Diana."

I sat on a bench outside baggage claim and got another call from Gail.

"Jess, I'm sorry, I'm stuck in traffic on 694 and going three miles an hour. I don't know how long this is going to take."

"No problem," I said, "I don't mind sitting here. I've got plenty to do."

I sat and stared into space until a man walked up and wordlessly held up a index card that said:

MAY I KISS YOUR BOOTS?

Instinctively, I shook my head no and he turned to walk away.

Hang on, I'm curious, what the hell. I called out to his retreating back, "Wait, why are you carrying that around?"

He turned around and said, "BECAUSE I'M A SLAVE and this is how I meet mistresses and those are nice boots."

"Thank you," I say.

He sat on the bench next to me and I asked, "Does it work?"

"Sometimes," the slave said. "So can I?"

I hesitated. "Do we have to exchange money?"

"Oh, no!" said the slave and managed to appear shocked by ME.

"Okay, then," I said.

I noticed that he had a handful of index cards and I asked him what they said. "Nothing," he told me and shuffled through them to show that they were blank.

I wonder if he makes cards particular to each potential mistress or if he happened to carry a May I Kiss Your Boots? card on a day when I happened to be wearing F'IN SWEET BOOTS.

Slave handed me a piece of paper and politely said goodbye while lightly touching my shoulder.

I skimmed the letter he gave me and caught the opening -

Superior Mistress, Thank You very much for allowing me to kiss Your boots. i consider it an honor. Certainly, my rightful place is at Your feet. i adore Dominant Females. If this is how i behave in public, imagine what i would do behind closed doors!

- and put it away, laughing about how my visit to Minnesota was more about seeing the leaves change and meeting my friend's 3-month-old daughter than urinating on a stranger in some basement.

The next day, while Gail made soup, I handed the letter to her husband, Dave, to read aloud to us (exerpted here):

i have years of experience serving Dominant Women, and i am thankful for the Mistresses who have trained and abused me. Contact me if You are ANY of the following:

The middle part of the letter outlined how the slave seeks messy, show-off, sadistic, and broke women so that he can clean their houses, work in their yards, give them money, and suffer for them. Once or twice he might have mentioned being tied up or having weights attached to his balls.

And I can't tell you how much I got a kick out of hearing earnest, upstanding, outdoorsy Dave say, "ESPECIALLY WITH SORE BALLS."

"Sore balls!" I shrieked, "Did you make that up?"

"Why would I make that up?" Dave asked.

The slave feels that he is following his destiny:

i have accepted my fate. i am entitled to NO gratification, either sexual or financial. i am serious about the concept of Female Supremacy, and Mistresses are fun to serve and be around. my best friends are Women that i have served. Have fun! Take pictures! Even if you have no experience as a Mistress, i am a good slave to start with. You will find me generous and kind. References available. Submissively, shorty. (Followed by phone and email)



I am not publishing shorty's digits out of respect for the fact that I appreciate his POLITE and THOUGHTFUL approach to slavery: e.g. leaving immediately when I shook my head no, returning only when I spoke to him, NOT ACTUALLY SAYING anything from the letter, and not coming back.

Any of those things would have been creepy but in light of their absence, I deem his style of sadism honest, if not downright mature.

Bitches & hos welcome

According to rapper Big Daddy Kane, PIMPIN' AIN'T EASY, but Andrew and John make it look effortless.

Hosts of a recent party at Bubba's Sulky Lounge in Portland, Maine, these boys who normally come off as innocuous as a couple of fruit flies - if fruit flies wore Hawaiian shirts, Mexican guayaberas, and comfortable sneakers - were pimped out in unrivaled fashion.

I had no problem sitting at a table with a sign welcoming bitches and hos and not once did I feel my integrity compromised.

And I didn't even come close to busting out lyrics from 'Pimpin' Ain't Easy':

If the girlies want my tip they gotta pay a fee - 
I love bonin', and all my friends they will agree - 
that when it comes to pimpin' hoes - it ain't easy -

I wanted to tax that ass like the government!
 Well, it's Friday night, ain't a damn thing funny -
 Bitch better have my money -


YEAH. Maybe because John and Andrew really aren't pimps and while I may be a bitch from time to time, I'm really not a ho. Therefore, ha ha. Good party. Thanks guys.



A week later I got a voice mail from Cathy wherein she asked me, "Why aren't you calling me back, you dirty whore?" Only days before, I'd called someone a cheap whore just for finishing the last bottle of Riesling.

BECAUSE IT'S FUNNY TO CALL SOMEONE A WHORE WHEN YOU KNOW THEY'RE NOT A WHORE.

I met Cathy, Jane, Seema, and Chris in New York and the first thing they did was put a tiara on my head. "You get to wear the pretty princess tiara," Jane told me. "until you call someone a dirty whore and then you have to relinquish it to someone else."

Well, that tiara stayed firmly on my head all night, not because I didn't call anyone a dirty whore but because none of our arms had the inhuman strength to pass it around as often as the rule necessitated. In the next three days, we called each other dirty whores no less than, I don't know, SEVERAL THOUSAND times.

They developed a ranking system and told me that I was dirty whore #5 and here I actually did take offense.

"Number FIVE? Out of five?" I protested with indignation. "Hey, I get action!"

I remembered how Jocardo and I used to casually refer to people as crackwhores until we realized a few people we knew actually were into crack and/or whoring and the term suddenly sounded less funny and more sad.

Just like how if Seema stopped being a doctor, Cathy stopped being an economic developer, Chris stopped being a sailor, and Jane stopped being an energy conservationist and turned to prostitution, I would be sad and desperate. Just as sad and desperate as they would have to be to sell their bodies.

Photo credits: Matthew Sperling, Marisa Diaz

Overexposed in Falmouth, Kentucky

This morning Jocardo and I went on a roadtrip to Falmouth, Kentucky. He had to deliver an amp for a theater production in Falmouth and felt apprehensive about how he might be received from the 95 percent white citizenry of the small Kentucky town. He didn't want to go alone. You see, Jocardo doesn't blend. It's not for any lack of adaptability on his part - Jocardo is impeccably gracious and polite - but he's simply a black man with a lot of presence. He has also experienced enough in the past to be acutely aware of situations in which he is out of place in the present.

We drove south on Route 27, found our destination, dropped off the amp, and were pulling out of the parking lot when we realized we needed windshield wiper fluid. We stopped at a Marathon gas station to buy wiper fluid and coffee and ogle the TREMENDOUSLY large Texas Hold 'Em lighters for sale. Working the lighters was a two hand operation, they were so big. They were so much bigger than a cigarette that I decided they must be for Civil War reenactments and the cannon firing that that entails.

At the register I became engrossed by the cigarette boxes emblazoned with a rippling Confederate flags and the words REDNECK OUTLAW. We'd almost left the Marathon station without incident when I decided to make a purchase. I was looking for my wallet and pulling things out of my bag when I saw that a pair of my black underwear were sitting in plain sight on the counter.

Apparently when I thought I grabbed my black hat from my suitcase this morning, I ACTUALLY grabbed a pair of underwear. Ooooops. I snatched up the unmentionables, sprinted to the car, and told Jocardo I'd given Marathon cashier man a peep show.

To which he replied, "You know right now he's going that whore has a black boyfriend AND extra panties in her purse!"

Porno houses and dreary commercial zones

Today Cathy leaves the United States. In planning her virgin trip across the Atlantic ocean, Cathy searched online for affordable hotels and booked a room in Paris. It's cheap, the photos looked good, and it isn't far from a metro stop. Cathy wants everything to go nice and smooth since the only time she's left the country has been to go to Canada. Later Cathy was reading Fodor's reviews on Paris and found out that her chosen hood is known for its porno houses and dreary commercial zones, making it one of the least desirable neighborhoods for living, dining, and sightseeing.

Bwahahaha.

She called me from New York to read the review and I started laughing before I remembered the nice thing to do would be to try to make her feel better. "Man, I hope you don't get knifed." She thought that was funny.

I wonder what French porn is like. Lemme know, kay?.

We decided her Parisian neighborhood is probably going to be like Bushwick with fresh baguettes. Or any stop on the JMZ after 10pm. After that it's all chateaus, lavender fields and winery tours.