Daiva and I are hosting the new, wonderful and entirely FREE evening that Ars Nova is banging out every Thursday during ANT Fest. Tons of great acts and lots and lots of miserable love! See you there!
10PM
511 W 54th St
I never know if I’m going to be able to sleep any given night. My head is six inches from the window. I live, with my husband, above a laundry. Other businesses on our street are: a dry cleaners, a small bodega, a clothing shop that does not have a name but is for “poor people” according to the owner and a storefront Chuck E. Cheese inspired party place that promises to throw your child any kind of party, including pajama parties. There is also a bar. We’ve never been to this bar for a variety of reasons. The two that come to mind are the time my husband saw a man put his fist through the passenger side window of a car with two people in it. He then walked around to the driver side and smashed that window with his fist as well. Another time, a man stormed into the bar screaming at his wife for drinking in the afternoon while her kid was waiting in the car. Clearly it’s a place where all of your hopes and dreams come to die- so we’ve decided to keep our distance. Last night, I fell asleep despite a man screaming as loud as he possibly could, “YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE!” – over and over again. He finally walked out of earshot. So, I slipped into a peaceful slumber. That is, until I was rattled awake at 2:30AM as a woman, with a British accent, shouted “MOVE OUT! MOVE OUT! I HAVE TO SHAME YOU TO COME HOME TO SEE YOUR KIDS! MOVE OUT!” I could barely hear her boyfriend’s mumbled response. She was a beast. I was hearing that moment every woman has, the “A-ha” moment Oprah likes to talk about. This British lady had had enough and she was marching her shit bag of a boyfriend out of her home and away from her neighborhood. Before she woke me up, I was having a dream about combining PDF files into one document, so I was happy to move on from that. But, I couldn’t fall back asleep. I kept replaying the woman’s words in my mind over and over again. I felt sorry for her. It was like the Nanny 911 lady woke up and was like, “Why the fuck am I living in a shitty neighborhood in New York with a shitty, drunk boyfriend and terrified kids?” I wonder what happened to them. To her. I hope I can sleep tonight.
-cc
Dear Universe,
So…ok…I went to my friend’s wedding and I made out with her brother…her younger brother. I did that. I made out with the bride’s little brother. And I know that that’s not one of the new leaves we talked about me turning over this year, but there comes a time in every girl’s life where she accidentally makes out with her friend’s little brother. It’s just part of becoming a woman, and I will almost definitely do it again…on accident…but hopefully not at a wedding…because I’m trying to be lady.
Love always,
Daiva
Lovely wordpress (our webhost) has a nice little diagnostics page where we can check the stats of our site. As part of this feature, they report the top searches that lead people to our website. I thought it would be nice to share them with you from time to time. Our most recent searches are the following:
two girls, deficating, two girls for 5 bucks, two girls for five bucks, red tube three girls fucking each other earing jeans pants
For those of you who are looking for Two Girls One Cup, keep looking. But make sure you know what you’re getting into…once it has been burned into your brain it will be there forever. And I mean FOREVER. It’s all fun and games until someone throws up all over their new I-Mac…
For those of you looking for red tube three girls fucking each other earing (I’m assuming you meant “wearing”) jeans pants (normally we just call them “jeans.” The “pants” part is implied) – I feel like we’ve let you down. We could try and make that video but I’ll need some guidance – is the “red tube” a feeding tube? Are there holes cut into the crotches of the “jeans pants?” Or are they just unzipped? Lastly, does the tube need to be red and is it mandatory that there are three girls?
Ok, thanks! We’ll keep everyone up to date in the latest trends in internet porn searches as they become available.
-Cathleen
Today, while in line at CVS, I accidentally fantasized about my dream wedding dress. It’s not my fault, “Come Away With Me” was playing on the Muzaq, and there was at least one celebrity wedding photo on the cover of each tabloid at the register…I was hypnotized. I came to when the guy behind me started yelling, and then I threw up a little bit in my mouth when I realized what I had just done. Luckily, I was immediately distracted by my ExtraCare Card statement. I only need to spend $5.01 on any John Frieda hair products to earn my reward, and can save $4 on any two Refresh Lubricant Eye Drops. So…phew…I have A LOT going on right now.
Love Always,
Daiva
I was raised at the intersection of Social Justice and Liberation Theology. (If you don’t know what that means, don’t worry. I’m still trying to figure it out.) My mother, an ex-nun, shunned manicures as toxic and petty and liked her hairstyle like she liked her shoes: Sensible. Needless to say, this stunted my ability to be effortlessly glamorous. My mother’s idea of glamour is a floral skirt set from Penny’s and Navajo earrings from New Mexico. Things that come easily for other women –flawless make-up, rigorous gym routines and well groomed body hair — are about as natural for me as playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship with an amputated leg during a tropical storm. So, I have to work a little harder.
I get by…barely.
I had to start dying my hair about a year ago. I’ve never done highlights or anything like that. Too expensive and too complicated. I was raised to keep things simple and avoid too much flair. Why worry about how you look when you could be worrying about the homeless. So, more often than not I resemble a vagrant who’s recovering from some sort of garden-variety addiction. (I am genetically predisposed to have bags under my eyes.) But over the past year, a significant amount of grey hairs have begun nesting in my thick and coarse black hair. Shriveled, wiry little bastards who have decided to frame my face.
So, I’ve had to start dying my hair.
As a result, I’m stepping it up. Slowly but surely, I’m incorporating a beauty routine into my life. I wear make-up. I whiten my teeth, I wax my brows, I try to remember to get semi-regular bikini maintenance, I got a gym membership, I get manicures before shows, I wear deodorant (no joke, used to go without) and I’m dying my hair. My mom has started dying her hair, too. It’s like we’re both coming of age together. I like to think we’re both all set with inner beauty. Paid that shit forward. Time to act like a couple of ladies…
-Cathleen
One of the many advantages of living in New York City is the copious amounts of Chinese women who are eager to rub you at rock bottom prices. I visited one of these women recently and boy oh boy, did she rub! When I went into my little curtained off cubicle, I called out, “should I take everything off?” I thought I heard, “yes.” So I proceeded to pull my underwear down, revealing my sexytimes in all of their ungroomed glory. Just as I was doing that, the curtain opened and the Chinese woman screamed and said, “No! Not underwear!” I muttered a pathetic, “sorry,” pulled my drawers up and jumped onto the table. And that is how my massage began.
I like to pay people to touch me. When you pay someone, they are thorough. My husband, Paytaire, is a great man. Probably the best man. Certainly, top shelf. There is no finer husband out there. His character is sound, his humor strong, and his body odor controlled. But when I need to be rubbed he does what they all do, a quick once over that lasts 45 seconds followed by 3 minutes of talk about how his joints hurt. F that. Listen, I don’t like to rub people for an hour either. I get it. It sucks and it does make your joints hurt. I don’t know how the Chinese women do it. I choose to believe that it is ancient Chinese wisdom at work, that they are somehow transferring into my muscles a sacred qi that has been passed along for multiple generations. Why mess with an amateur, like your partner, when you can pay $50 for the best (who, by the way, are on the second floor of a dirty building that smells like potty cabbage and green beans.) So for all of my FLSAL (Friends Living the Single Angry Life), even when you’ve got a man, you still need a Chinese lady.
-Cathleen
Hello! Welcome! Please come in, take a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? How about some biscuits? Take a look around if you like. You’re welcome to return whenever you’d like. We’ll always be here…staring awkwardly at you with a gentle hint of desperation in our eyes. Below you’ll see some blog postings. They are from the archives. If you have not read them before, please enjoy! For our old friends, we will be updating regularly (and when we say regularly we mean weekly not yearly.) Again, thank you for visiting. By the way, your hair looks really nice.
Love,
Two Girls For Five Bucks
I go into the center, not knowing what to expect. I sit in the waiting room until my therapist calls me. We go into her office and have a seat.
“Why are you here?’ she says.
“I’ve always wanted a colonic,” I reply.
Simple enough. We chat about diet. She looks over my questionnaire and makes suggestions and comments.
“Avoid the carbonated water,” she cautions.
“But I love my Poland Spring, I drink one a day.”
She ominously warns, “You’re just pumping gas into your body, no wonder you feel so bloated all the time.”
My heart breaks, I say a silent good-bye to my Poland Spring Sparkling Water and we walk into the therapy room. She asks me to undress below my shirt. Once she leaves the room, I take my pants off and lie on a table and cover up with a blanket. When she returns to the room, she takes the tube, lubes it up, has me turn on my side, and inserts that sucker into my anus. Let’s talk about that for a second. Not very comfortable. I got the pre-poop hot flash and realized that four inches of plastic was going to be in my butt for the next hour. It was then that I became concerned about making it through the session. I’m sure if you have anal sex it feels better and not as medical, but from this brief foray into anal play, I’m not sure it’s for me.
My therapist was a pro. As she massaged my stomach to help ease the release, she chatted away about diet and health as if it were totally normal that I was pooping on a table. At first, only gas came out. I guess I had a backlog, but then slowly but surely, debris started to makes its way out of my intestines. The colonic machine has a nice illuminated window where you can watch the “stuff” fly by before it goes into the sewage system.
I will tell you this, I felt alive in a way I never have before. I was really in the moment – horribly uncomfortable, lying on a table deficating with another person present. You can’t fake that.
When the session was over (and no, I did not get all the poop out, apparently that takes a few sessions to get to the good stuff, like gum and quarters, etc.) she had me run to the bathroom, which was down the hallway, with the blanket wrapped around my bum, and “finish up” on the toilet. I awkwardly stumbled into another patient walking in the hallway. I was trying to convey with my body language, “you need to get out of my way because I am going to poop on you otherwise.” I think she picked up on what I throwing down, so she shuffled off and I made my way to the toilet.
How did I feel? I felt tingly and detoxed. I’m not sure how else to describe it. I was in a little bit of shellshock afterwards. I went to Whole Foods and bought a bunch of fruits and vegetables as well as flax seeds, so I could keep the magic going at home.
When I got home, I crawled into bed and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, sleeping.
Would I do it again? I’m not sure. The procedure is very uncomfortable. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t necessarily feel good either. But you do feel “better” afterwards because you got the poop out of you. Isn’t that what life is all about — getting the poop out?
-Cathleen
