Bourne Again

I chose to spend the day after Thanksgiving (yes, I obviously forgot to post this for a bit…) coming down from my turkey high pleasantly on the couch watching The Bourne trilogy. I am very aware that these movies are not exactly new, but I live by my own clock, baby.

I had seen The Bourne Identity (the first movie) when it just came out but was watching the last two FINALLY.

As always happens when I watch a movie involving the CIA or the FBI, I leave it thinking “I want to be a spy!” I make serious plans to study Martial Arts, learn how to shoot a gun, and start learning a new language (all important spy skills). Lucky for me I already know how to shoot a gun (yeah, I’m awesome) but I can’t shoot one like Jason Bourne! AND I LOVE JASON BOURNE!

And it is always so depressing when I finally realize, “Hey, Tootsie, you know this isn’t actually going to happen, right? That this is the same as when you played “House” when you were little except now it’s weird because you have a college degree and are in your 20s.” Luckily I have a B.F.A., Bachelor of Fine Arts (might as well be a Bachelor of Fine Farts for all it’s good for) so everything from playing make-believe to being a night-time “dancer” is fair game, but it’s still depressing.

But what if it doesn’t have to be make-believe? The CIA and the FBI are real, they must need some new agents once in a while. Why can’t this dream of mine come true?

EXACTLY, no one. It can come true! I do speak Spanish, they must need some agents in Spanish-speaking countries once in a while for burrito-smuggling (yes, I’m obviously avoiding the topic of drug smuggling…except right now…because I just wrote it).

Or maybe I did pick the right career. If I’m an actress I can superficially pursue all of the ridiculous careers I’ve been interested over the year. And maybe, just maybe (definitely) my desire to be a spy is directly proportional to my love of spy MOVIES. I don’t want to be a spy I want to be the chick who gets to mac on Matt Damon while jumping off buildings. Yeah, that’s definitely it.

I mean, when I watched The Beautiful Mind I wanted to be a Schizophrenic for weeks, so…I probably should’ve realized then that it was more a desire to play that role than to literally be that person.

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Bukz r Guud

Yes, it has been a long time since I’ve posted something.

Even my last few posts had been in my glass “break in case of emergency” box along with a liter of vodka, a luna bar (for protein), a Russian Passport for a Tootsya Woovich, a samurai sword, and a very detailed list of everyone who has wronged me. I just haven’t felt much like writing. So writing has joined the long list of other things I don’t feel much like doing:

THINGS I DON’T FEEL LIKE DOING:

1. Showering
2. Looking for an apartment
3. Wearing pants
4. Taking to people
5. Leaving the house
6. Getting up to go to the bathroom (do people ever get catheters purely for convenience?)
7. Exerting the smallest amount of energy to do anything at all…

Of course, I have been doing these things (…some of them…), I just don’t WANT to. I have the chronic Mondays.

But I have finally been inspired to write due to the horrifying fact that in the precise town I live in there one, count ‘ em, ONE BOOKSTORE.

THIS IS HORRIFYING! I live on the East Coast, outside a medium-sized city and there is ONE BOOKSTORE in almost a 30 mile radius. What is wrong with the world?

The thing is that deep down I have known this for some time, I just refused to acknowledge it. This is a temporary living situation for me, I’m moving pretty soon, but I’ve been here for a year and have been trying to ignore the cracks in the facade, but this just put me over the edge.

And what made me realize this was that I was at the bookstore (I repeat, the ONE BOOKSTORE, so that really slims down the possibilities) and they didn’t have the book I was looking for. Normally, I would hop in my car and drive 5-10 minutes to the other store. Or, even better, if I was where I used to live, I would walk 10 minutes and, BLAMO, other bookstore! But the fact that the only option was ordering it really made me sad.

It’s not just that there is one bookstore in my town. Oh child, no. There is one shared bookstore for all the towns that border my town as well. I want to say 7 reasonably sized towns that all surround a pretty large city. That is more wrong then glitter on a woman over 40.

But let’s examine something: why the hell AM I so sad about this?

First of all, I love to read. And I go through these phases where I just can’t stop reading, which is actually kinda great because I go through many non-reading dry spells. So excuse me for having a lady boner for literature and just wanting books at my fingertips!

Secondly, I love the experience of going to the bookstore. If I have the time I can spend ages in there just browsing, reading the first pages of a hundred books until I make my decision and then once I feel secure in the book(s) I’ve chosen I slyly sneak over to the magazine section and read trashy tabloids, which are perfectly juxtaposed against Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles (I do that on purpose) under my arm.

And lastly, not to get too over-the-top on this, but what does that say about the type of place I’m living in? Do people just not read here? Is it just not the thing to do? Of course, there could be a few small book-stores that only the natives know about but I really doubt that.

And I wonder if I’m the only one who cares about the absence of alternate bookstores. Maybe I just belong in a different era where not everything is a super-store (because obviously the one bookstore here isn’t a little independent shop) and there aren’t TVs distracting us from every other activity. And trust me, I love me my TV, I spend way to many hours drooling in front of it, but nothing can every detract from a good book.

The other day my mom told me she was buying the movie version of Gone With the Wind and the check-out girl saw and said:

Girl: I’ve never seen this! Is it good?

Mom: Yes, it’s a classic! But not as good as the book!

Girl: There’s a book…?

Shoot me.

We are Animals

Science is a magical thing.

Well, I suppose the whole point of magic is that it goes beyond the laws of science, but still it is pretty magical in a non-Harry Potter way.

I have been having small realizations lately about the fact that humans are just animals.

This seems like a very common fact, something most people have come to terms with, but I am still blown over by this from time to time. It is usually in terms of violence and war when people examine our resemblance to the other creatures roaming the earth, to the very pets we keep in crates and put on leashes, but it is in the mating habits of humans that I have noticed these similarities and it really takes a lot of the mystery away. It is by examining these basic, animalistic traits that I am learning how ultimately simplistic men and woman are in the dating world.

The other day I was sitting at a Random Coffee Shop drinking my iced latte, reading a copy of Glamour like a G when I saw an extremely attractive male Homo sapien walk by. He had wavy, dark hair, beautiful, dark, intense eyes and was of an average height and build. But outside of those very basic features, features that could describe a huge percentage of the population, and a large percentage of the cartoon population, there was just something about him I couldn’t explain that drew me to him. And I heard this little voice in my head say,

“I want to make a baby with him.”

EXCUSE YOU, Brain? You want to what?! You hardly know the man, nay, you don’t know the man, so pull your hypothetical pants on (like the red cigarette jeans on page 54 of your magazine) and zip up. Also wipe up the hypothetical drool, Liver is smirking.

And just as I began to interrogate myself, my brain went mute and didn’t repeat the thought, though it had definitely been there. My attraction to him was just on a “I want to pass down your genes* to my children because they rock” basis but that is really at the root of every serious attraction.

*(and I am not referring to the red cigarette jeans…pg. 54…Christmas is nigh…)

We delude ourselves (excuse me for my use of the universal “we” if this is not “you,” if you are of an evolved breed of human who makes all the right decisions in relationships…eff you) by adding all of this fluff to our relationships but it really comes down to very simple ideals. It’s about survival, it’s about reproduction, it’s about pheromones, and not much else.

As a member of the female sex (as my driver’s license tells me) I have forced many a friend to sit by my side and agonize over why someone didn’t call, what the intonation of his “hey” meant, why he gave me a “double hug,” and I have been party to hundreds of conversations like that and they have gone on for hours!

Typical scenario #1…

“Why didn’t he call me back? We had a great time! He told me I was a lot of fun and that we should do it again, but he never called! He put his arm around me during the movie and gave me a kiss on the cheek!”

Girl answer: I don’t know sweetie! Maybe he’s just been really busy lately and didn’t have time to call, I’m sure he’ll get to it. it sounds like you have something really special there!

“Science” answer: You didn’t put out.

Typical scenario #2…

“Why did he break up with me!? We’ve been together for a year and he just breaks up with me out of nowhere!? We just got back from a very romantic trip to the beach and had such a great time! He’s always said how he wanted to settle down!”

Girl answer: He’ll come to his senses! He doesn’t know how big a mistake he’s making, walking out on you! He’s just not ready to commit and that is HIS problem, not yours!

“Science” answer: He doesn’t want his kids to need laser hair removal. Also, you probably didn’t put out enough…

Typical scenario #3…

“Why does he want to hang out? I always thought of him as a friend but he texted me and says we should watch a movie at his place tonight. He says that he wants to talk about something. What do you think it is?”

Girl answer: OH my god! I knew he was into you! Maybe he wants to start seeing you! He’s been so flirty lately!

“Science” answer: He probably wants to talk about how he hopes you’ll put out.

Of course, I don’t want to belittle actual romance and a shared bond between two people, but most relationships/one-night stands begin this way. I feel men are very in touch with that blunt, animal-like side of themselves and can very easily break down what they want in a given moment. Women, however, just pile on a bunch of glitter and cupcakes to glorify and complicate a very basic human need and desire. I’m jealous of men for their often frank evaluations of their needs and feelings in a given moment. And also, nothing is this cut and dry, either. I have guy friends who obsess over every moment they spend with a date and I have girl friends who do not give a rat’s ass how long that hug was or how many exclamation marks he used when saying, “can’t wait to see you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” 32…

All I’m saying is we all (all us we’s who do have the tendency to dwell) sleep a little easier if we just broke it down to the science of what is going on. All that matters is      are you into him/her? Do you enjoy their company all around or do you want to just do the nasty? And, adversely, those things need to match up with how that person answers those questions. It’s really as simple as that. The actual chemical reaction going on in your body will take care of the rest.

Though we all know it’s not, it won’t, and a perfect scenario can still turn into poo. But C’est la vie!

People who ruin things

Dear People who like to ruin movies by obnoxiously calling what’s going to happen before it happens,

STOP.

Love,

EVERYONE ELSE. EVEN YOUR MOM.

I get it. You’re super smart, you know everything about everything, you’re the coolest thing since sliced bread (which I’ve never thought was so cool but…), you’re bringing sexy back,

BUT SHUT THE FUCK UP.

And I get that you need me to KNOW how incredibly smart you are for calling the end of No Strings Attached (they obviously end up together, it’s a Romantic Comedy not a documentary on the inbred hill-people of Kentucky) but I need you to…SHUT THE FUCK UP.

How about this? You write down the ending you predict on a piece of paper and put it in a sealed envelope. When the movie is done I will read it and praise you for your amazing psychic ability because, let’s face it, you’re not going to get much praise in this life. And then I’ll punch you in the balls. Because if this describes you then you’re an asshole. And if you don’t have balls I’ll punch you in the ovaries.

Is that a breeze or…

The other day I ripped my favorite skinny jeans in a very (cough) private place. My “danger zone” as Stewart from MadTV called it.

Let me set the scene…

INT. Kitchen. Group of people laughing around non-descript brunette with AWESOME jeans...and I’m bored.

OK, I’m a total ham and an opportunity presented itself for me to make others laugh and I was on it like white on rice. I was doing an impersonation of my old, bladder-control-less dog trying to pee on the floor, frantically spinning in circles. Looking back, I had realized that all the activity might be a little more than my pants could withstand but I had already committed to it!! There was no turning back.

So there I was, already looking like an idiot, running around on my hands and knees, spinning around and around, and I got to the most important part, the lifting of the leg, and ::LOUD RIPPING SOUND::

I’m cold.

Luckily, I was amongst friends so it became extremely hilarious, but secretly I was crying inside, imagining my pants with angel wings, flying up to heaven and spurning me for abusing them so.

The worst part of it is, I am not dealing with my loss very well. I’m beginning to resemble an old cat lady who keeps her departed pet in a shoe box for weeks before coming to terms with the fact that it’s dead, or as I like to call this woman, every Home Ec. teacher I’ve ever had. I’m resembling her in that I am still wearing the pants. I wore them to the movies, out to dinner, on a walk, and… I’m even wearing them right now…

But why shouldn’t I where them?! People spend money, money they could have a better use for on drugs, buying pre-ripped jeans. Why are some ripped jeans more appropriately ripped than others? Is there a degree in design (I use the word ‘degree’ very lightly…it’s fashion school, come on…) necessary for properly ripping jeans? Do they need to be taken to a mountain top in Greece where a Denim whisperer rips them after saying a prayer and putting holy oils on them?

Isn’t better to pay homage to an excellent part of slimming, ass-perfecting jeans that have been your faithful friend for longer than you’d like to admit?

This was an accident...

Hey there big boy, I'm cool

The whole point of ripped jeans should be to make a cool style out of something that you would normally have to thrown away. To make lemonade, as they say. Not to purposely look like a really bad stripper who can’t make enough dough shaking her money-maker to cover all of her legs with fabric. There are much better ways to look like a stripper. Why not look like a well-paid one to begin with!? One who can afford to wear fine pleather booty shorts and leopard-print, sequined booby-tassels? Exactly.

So I’m going to keep wearing those jeans and embrace the fact that I got for free what many velour wearing teens spend their lunch money on. And to embrace the fact that I’m a spaz! And because my jeans loved my ass all these years and they deserve to be loved back!

Yogurt Man

I love the sound of sneakers on a freshly-waxed basketball court. When I’m at the gym I go out of my way to walk on it as I “ogle” the middle-aged men trying to forget their lives and their respective hernias while they sweatily smack each others asses during a nice game of slow-mo b-ball.

What I hate about the gym? That the man on the bike next to smelled like a tub of sour Yoplait yogurt that expired around when he was born. I’m not sure exactly when that was but my guess is sometime during the Renaissance.

Imagine this plus armpits

There was a long line of bikes he was free to choose from, why on earth did he have to pick the bike directly next to me?? Was it the come-hither sweat that was pouring out of my eyeballs or perhaps the sesssy pudding-stained t-shirt I was wearing from the 3rd grade?

The stench led to a very ineffective work-out. It got to the point where I couldn’t inhale any longer so I would have to breath in spurts, only when I REALLY needed me some O2. But we all know how unnecessary air is when we are pushing ourselves physically, am I right?

One thing this experience has done is make me really thankful for my own body odor. I have this fear of forgetting to put on deodorant so I just carry some around with me. But even if I forgot to put it on for a decade and rubbed dog shit and baby vomit all of my naked body while I baked in the sun I WOULD NOT SPELL THAT BAD.

I hear that my trademark scent is coffee and cinnamon gum, which I am definitely happy with. Anything beats sour yogurt-covered balls…

You’re welcome for that image.

( Y )

When I grow up…

Tootsie: When I was little I wanted to be a cheerleader so badly.

Mom: Why didn’t you become one?

Tootsie: I dunno, somewhere between the time I wanted to be one and being old enough to be one I got really awkward…

Shamus’ Bucket List

Just because it is Thanksgiving (Happy Thanksgiving you all!…I reject ya’ll as a word…I’m looking at you Texas…) doesn’t mean I can’t post anything. In truth, it is harder to find a day where I am more prone to drooling in front of my computer for hours on end so this seems highly appropriate.

This is a post I have been saving up for a long time as I have been trying to test the waters a bit. It is a bucket list I wrote for dear Shamus a few weeks after I met him and I have even shared it with him. For those who laugh at how preposterous it is, I’ll have you know I have showed it to him and he was in agreement, EARNEST AGREEMENT, with everything on the list except for #4, which he saw as a heinous misinterpretation of his sense of style. As always, I speak of Shamus with nothing but tenderness and a slight confused shake of the head. Enjoy…

BUCKET LIST OF SHAMUS

1. See a little person

2. Eat off the big boy menu

3. Learn what the Latin tattoo on his chest means

4. Meet hair role model and guru, Pauly D

5. Upgrade girlfriend

6. Learn what the f*ck Giligan’s Island is

7. Befriend lesbians

8. Steal Tootsie’s ride and pimp it

9. Be a pimp…

That about sums Shamus up. My favorite one is #1 because my first week at work he came up to me, eyes full of wonder and said, “have you ever seen a midget?!” And I said, “Yeah…and you should probably avoid using that word.” And he said, “Where!?” Well, Shamus, I went to that secret island they are all kept on so they can’t take over the world, obviously.

I was a day camp bully

Hi, my name is Tootsie Woo and I was a day camp bully.

In my childhood I had three distinct identities. I’m told that those with multiple personality disorder aren’t aware of it so I think therefore I’m safe… Each identity was based off of the environment I was in and each was a different side of me that needed help expressing itself…

1. Tootsie the Meek: There was the me of elementary school who was entirely timid and self-conscious and who would base all of her decisions off of her current best friend. I hated my time at school because I felt awkward and invisible at the same time. I was the stereotypical loser (a trait I now proudly anouce) with a nickname to boot. Want to hear it? Of course you do, asshole,  it was Cuppy. Why, you ask? The legend went that I had gotten my first cup bra and had told someone about it, an evil ex-friend. At that age I sported the Limited Too training bra so that accusation was ridiculous but now I look onto those flat-chested wangs that called me Cuppy and only feel pity when they pump my gas for me and drool over my glorious ta-tas.

2. Tootsie the Rebel: Then there was the Tootsie of religious school. I don’t want to make this about religion so lets just say that I prayed at the Church of Peanut Butter (which is the only religion I ascribe to these days) and I had to take classes there where I read from our holy book of P and B twice a week since I was 5. There I was… AWESOME, as is our lord, Peanut Butter. All my friends were there and, seeing as we went to different elementary schools, we were always excited to meet up for these unintentional hang-out sessions. My friends and I would sneak away to the bathroom during class to do hood rat stuff…or to do each others hair while eating soft pretzels we stole from the high priest of Peanuts. It was such a departure from my life at school and made me feel like such a ten year old bad-ass. I even had two taller friends that I would make walk on each side of me like body guards.

3. Tootsie the Bully: And finally, there was day camp where I was Miss Woo and ran the whole damn show. I was: a day camp bully. I am equal parts proud and horrified when I think of my behavior at camp. I went there from ages 4 to 12 so I knew my camp-mates more than any of the jags I went to school with. There was Trish, who was obsessed with bugs (now she would probably be diagnosed with a learning disability…but she was just quirky then), 4 girls named Rachel, and a random British girl who would be shipped off to rural Pennsylvania every summer as per her divorced parents agreement (divorce was weird and unknown then). Then there was this one girl at camp that I never got along with. Of course, there’s always that girl. She was a whiny little bitch who’s dad worked at the camp so she would always get preferential treatment and camp Woo would not stand for it. I invented a game to show my dislike for this girl. It was called Hair and it was like tag but you played it in the pool and if Hair tagged you you would join her until everyone was Hair. Hair, naturally, represented this girl and I was very open about that fact. And though Hair was the pinnacle of awfulness and bitchery on my part, my most memorable moment was when another mean girl in my bunk slapped me across the face (it was an obvious power play) and I grabbed the broom off the wall and chased her around camp with it for a half an hour. Those were the days.

Luckily my three identities eventually merged and balanced out a bit. I tend to give people the impression of meekness because I know my capacity for meanness when I feel threatened and I don’t like people to know that about me. But when the game is on you better “hide your kids, hide your wife” and pray there isn’t a broom in reach because I know how to use it.

Saturday Night Liquor

Last night I topped off a bottle of wine and watched the newest episode of Saturday Night Live. Do I have to mention again how much I love this show!? Hopefully not, because I’m getting a semi just thinking about it (my brother taught me that word and I’m pretty sure I’m misusing it). I  LOVE SNL. Also, something was perfect about the wine and comedy combination. On the drunk scale I was somewhere between feeling myself up and saying everything with a Jamaican accent (refer to drunk scale at bottom) which made my comedy receptors super sharp…or my standards super low… Anyway, I haven’t enjoyed an episode that much in a while and it didn’t hurt that Jason Segel (my lover) was hosting and being wonderful and tall and awkward and musical as always. Of course, by the end I was inching towards cartwheels (refer to chart) and was not understanding what was going on…there was a sketch with girls in neon over-alls and I was BEYOND lost…but all and all it was a fantabulous show full of laugh-making and snort inducing jokes.

If I can do anything with this rambling, odd post (which I obviously wrote while watching SNL intoxicated…duh) it is inspire you to watch SNL, a show that is certainly returning to greatness with new top dogs like Bill Hader, Jason Sudeikis, and Kristen Wiig. And much like a nerd who hired a prostitute to take him to prom, maybe you will watch SNL and think its cool simply because I am on it’s arm at the prom…where am I going with this. Wait? Did I make myself the prostitute of that scenario? Ok, watch SNL, you jags!

Favorite quote of the night: “I’m dying! I’m dying and I never made sex to a girl!”

Drunk Scale:

The giggles

All your friends look more attractive (even Hump-back Harry)

YOU look more attractive, that purple lipstick WAS a good idea (no it wasn’t)

You only talk in Anchorman quotes

Feeling yourself up (boobs are weird!)

You only speak with a Jamaican accent (you’re offensive)

Let’s get nachos!!

You give really intrusive hugs and start jokingly unhooking bras

Drawing a mustache on your face with permanent marker

Aaaaannnddd you’re doing cart-wheels

Aaaaandddd you’re throwing up on Hump-back Harry while on the way to second base