sing out loud

Overheard this weekend as I walked back to my table after finishing a heartfelt rendition of “A Natural Woman”:

Guy #1
That’s hot.

Guy #2
That’s Hot?


I was talking about this with Dan last night, how I always enter the Karaoke joint thinking, “Tonight I’ll just play it cool. Sit back. Enjoy the show. There’s no need to act like a moron in front of all these people.” And then half an hour later I’m rolling on the floor, possibly touching my crotch.

“Oh, I know,” Dan said. “It’s how we met.”

This weekend I was going to “play it cool” and ended up onstage no less than six times. I touched strangers. A group of hipsters in 80’s gear danced in front of us so we couldn’t see the stage. I stole their hats and gave them to other people. And they let me. The last time I was at this particular establishment, the girl who couldn’t stop dancing like she was both Romy and Michele became the centerpiece of my rendition of Pearl Jam’s “Black.” I crawled between her legs and we got to at least first base.

A) Why do I do this?
B) Why do people continue to let me? 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