Things I Had to Try Really Hard Not to Say When I Found Myself Standing Next To Jenna Fischer at a Bookstore.

1. “Oh, my gosh! You’re Pam! And I’m Pam! I mean, I’m really Pam, and you’re playing Pam, but your Pam is awesome and I’m not fictional.”

2. “How’s your back? I mean… I read about how you broke it at the upfronts. I know that’s none of my business. Nevermind. Don’t answer that, I don’t care. I mean, I care, of course I care, but I mean I don’t care that you don’t want to tell me how your back is. Do you need me to carry your books?”

3. “Hey! My name is Pam and I write on a TV show and you play Pam on a TV show where one of your co-workers is named Jim and — guess what? — one of my co-workers is named Jim! So we’re like Jim and Pam, except we don’t like each other like that. I mean, we like each other fine, as friends, but we don’t flirt or anything like you and your Jim do. We mostly talk about So You Think You Can Dance. Wait, does that mean he likes me? Do you want to get some coffee right now and talk about what we should do about our Jims?” Continue reading

well, it’s another entry about my boobs.

Just got back from seeing Inside Man, or The Inside Man, or whatever it is. It doesn’t matter. I wanted to see it because Clive Owen is amazing, and if the entire movie was him doing that first monologue straight to the camera I would have been much more entertained.

Consequently, about half an hour into the movie I started thinking about writing this entry.

There’s a scene that’s in the trailer, so I’m not spoiling anything, where the bad guys make everybody in the bank strip to their underwear. This taps into something I’ve never talked about here, mostly because it hasn’t come up. I recently confessed my this confession to a co-worker, and while he did give me the, “Every day I learn something weirder about you” look, he didn’t suggest I keep this neurotic fun fact to myself, so I’ll blame all of this on him.

The scene confirmed my fear, and let me know that it was a perfectly normal, rational thought to have each morning.

When I get dressed, I always think, “Is this what I want to be seen in when the bad guys bust into the building and force us to strip down to our underwear?” Continue reading

It’s Still Too Soon To Tell This Story

Driving home tonight, I thought about Mardi Gras in Austin, and how it’s been a while since I’ve celebrated Fat Tuesday. In the South, there are days leading up to it with anticipation — the food, the beads, the planned parties. There was a time when New Orleans made it illegal to go topless (is that still the case?). But Austin, in its wonderful weirdness, legally allows people to roam shirtless.


Mardi Gras, 2000, was a particularly difficult month for me. I wrote very little about the bad things that were happening, but basically I went to Aspen, got back and my world, as I knew it, changed. It caused me to do things I wouldn’t normally do, like impulsively buy concert tickets for a show on the other side of the country, decide it was time to move to Los Angeles, or get drunk at Mardi Gras and party on a roof.

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Dear Pam,

I read with interest your entry on sports bras for the, um, chestally blessed on Friday. I found it very entertaining, despite screaming at the computer, “Pam, Oprah is not the boss of you!” But more disappointing than that was the fact that you neglected what might be the most interesting aspect of the Enell Sports Bra website. Despite their slogan, “Any Woman, Any Lifestyle!”, the good folks at Enell have expanded their product line beyond the torture device of your jogging nightmares.

I’m talking about the Enell Male Support Vest. From the website: “Many men have the need for a good support vest. If you are visiting this page, you may be one of them.”

I am not. I swear. My man chest is self-supporting, thank you very much (I know protesting makes it seem worse, like, “I just read it for the articles,” or “Some of my best friends are black!” but I want to be clear on this point). After careful consideration, I have decided this is the worst product in history to ever to need. Worse than adult diapers. Worse than headgear. Why? When you ladies head to the gym and strap yourself into the Enell, you can look at the small chested girls who hold, from a practical standpoint, a momentary advantage over you and say, “Yeah, you’re more comfortable now, but as soon as I get out of here I’ll once again unleash these puppies on the world, twisting the minds of weak-minded men like Obi-Wan on Moss Isley.”

Should I, or any other man, ever be caught wearing a vest designed to minimize my “bounce,” it would be bullet in the brain time. You’re done. Finished. Locker room towel snaps to the ass and furious wedgies would be the least of your problems. That it’s available in three fashionable colors and is made from a high tech wicking fabric doesn’t change that.

So maybe you should consider yourself lucky that all you did from wearing your Enell is nearly suffocate to death (which, by the way, would have made me quite sad and inspired feelings of guilt for not promptly returning your copy of “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs”). At least you weren’t committing social suicide. Remember, Pam, silver lining.

And Oprah is not the boss of you.


Bounce With Me, Bounce With Me.

I bought an Enell Sports Bra, because Oprah told me to. It arrived yesterday afternoon, and despite all better judgment, I decided to give it a test run. Literally.

It’s not a pretty bra, but with a little imagination, you can pretend you’re into some weird bondage stuff with it, because… well, because I’m pretty sure it’s an actual instrument of bondage. Twenty hook-and-eyes go along the front of it, which is easier said than done when you’re binding yourself into this Ace bandage with hooks, trying not to pinch your precious skin between your fingers, as you shove yourself into position. Once you’re all hooked up, it looks like you’re ready for some kind of cheesy Sci-Fi scene. The boobs are so flattened and frozen in position that you actually feel like the top half of a Barbie, only able to swivel from side to side at the waist. Continue reading

Tanned In the Place Where You Live

I’d like to think I’ll try anything once. (Here’s the point where stee shouts “Woo-hoo!” jumps up from his computer and starts making a list of all my female friends, ranked in order of hotness.)

So when Hilary called a couple of weeks ago to ask if I’d be interested in getting a fake tan with her, I waited until she said she’d pay for it before I agreed.

I’m a pale girl. Writers don’t usually get to spend that many hours outside, and you know, the sun is bad for you. I wear sunscreen. And jeans. But eventually I’ll have to get these pictures taken that will be seen for the rest of my life, so that makes you start thinking crazy thoughts about yourself. Like: “I wish my hair would be longer by the wedding. Maybe I should wear extensions.” Answer from my stylist-adjacent friend: “Are you nuts? Those would cost eight hundred dollars, and you’re just going to pile them up on top of your head anyway.”

But Hilary gets me thinking about the fake tan, to which Liz responds, “Brides are crazy. My other friend who’s getting married is about to try the same fake tan. Nobody wants an orange wife, Pamie dot com.” Continue reading

A Big Day

It’s been one of those days where I haven’t really had time to stop and eat, much less take a moment to collect myself. I haven’t even eaten dinner yet and my day isn’t finished, but I’ve had such a big day that I want to write it all down before I possibly forget anything.

I drove over 75 miles today running errands, taking meetings, picking up friends at the airport. I wore my cellphone down to the last battery pulse talking to friends all over the country. I’ve made plans and discussed memories, I’ve discussed religion while eating stalks of celery. I told my life story twice and met new people and sat in a soundproof room that probably was just used for very important people.

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So, there was the ABC World News Now segment, where you could watch me babble in the middle of the night about Gilmore Girls and John Ritter. We all missed that one collectively, as there was no warning, but apparently you can download it here.

I’m giving you warning on the next one. Tomorrow night, I’m going to be on The Tonight Show. Yes, the one with Jay Leno. No, not with Jay Leno. I wouldn’t exactly set your VCR’s. I’m not even sure if my segment will air. Yes, it’s just as shady as it sounds, right down to the phone call giving me the part yesterday.

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Measure for Measure

A couple of months ago my friend Liz and I went shopping. She was looking for a camisole for an upcoming show, so we hit a few lingerie stores. This, of course, led us to Victoria’s Secret.

I felt conspicuous holding my Coffee Bean cup as I fingered lace tops, watching the salesladies watch me. Liz couldn’t decide between two different tops and I explained the difference between a top with a shelf bra and one without. She grabbed her own breasts. “I don’t need a shelf. I’m fine on my own.”

I told her about some tops at Banana Republic, and she decided to head over there to check them out. We headed down the spiral staircase and out the door, passing a saleswoman with a measuring tape around her neck. As we walked back into the bright sunlight, something made both of us stop walking.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to get measured at one of those places,” I said. “Just to see if I’m wearing the right bra.”

She smiled. “I was just about to say the same thing. Let’s go.”

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