I'm Going to the Gym

It's been a full month since I broke my foot and I am about to go back to the gym. I can't run, but I can do the rowing machine and weights - maybe take a pilates class. I'll probably be in a t-shirt, running shorts, and my Uggs -- I am not sure if my bandages will fit in my sneaks -- but honestly, my heart is in desperate need of being used. It hasn't broken 6 beats per hour in weeks. And garsh dangit, I just feel puffy! Gym, here I come.


(tick tock)

So, here I go.


(tickety ticker)

It's so cold outside. I'll go in 4 minutes.


(ticka what?)

I'm eating a Cliff Bar right now. Apricot. That's rugged right? I'm gonna get up at the count of 3. One, two, two and a half, two and three quarters, two and five sixths, two point nine repeating...





(ricky ticky timbo no sar rembo charry barry buchi pip perry pimbo...has fallen into the well!!)

Maybe if I just contract my abs repeatedly, it will count. One, two, hooooooold.
Gonna vom.



(Ticka DOOOOONG)

Tomorrow would probably be better for me. I'll just sleep with my glutes flexed. That'll pay off.

Making a Grown-Up House

In New York City, it is completely possible for one to live like a college student indefinitely. No one can afford to live alone, so if you are not in some kind of committed relationship,* you must continue to live in the ludicrous land of roommates. And for many people, those roommates are strangers. Strangers who fill your DVD collection with porn or leave a ring of bronzer on your toilet seat or drink your liquor and add water to the bottles to hide the fact that some is missing (hence, making me believe that I have an insanely huge tolerance, and thusly, almost killing me when, at local pubs, I order a quart of Jim Beam and a flexy straw).



It's hard when you go visit your friends elsewhere, who have back yards, pets, and (gasp!) mortgages. I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO OWN ANYTHING HERE!!!

Calm down, Lang.

In NYC, to live in an adult home requires an adult salary, so us struggling artists, teachers, administrative assistants, bankers, and doctors will continue to be stunted in childhood. We will continue to fill our tiny refrigerators with only beer, and unable to cook a normal dinner because our kitchens are too small, we will live off of mac n' cheese. We will use disgusting tapestries as room dividers and serve our futon-seated guests on TV trays. And we will try to feel sexy when we make it to our g-fries and b-fries on lofted bunkbeds.

Ugh. I moved to Brooklyn to be more adult. I was living in a veritable condom wrapper in the West Village. There was no light, I had to lift my bed to close my door, and at 5'4" I felt like a giant, always being able to touch two opposite walls at once. There wasn't even a dead bolt on my door, which is when I realized that I had moved into the renovated broom closet. So, in an attempt to be more adult, save some money, have a little more sunlight, etc., I moved to Brooklyn. Now, I have the opposite problem. My apartment is large, but falling apart more and more each day. I've only met my downstairs neighbors so that I won't feel awkward when the floor gives way beneath me and I land in their baby's crib.

It's just too hard to fix things up...it's so spensy!!! I watch Trading Spaces to figure out how they make such nice things with such a small budget, but there is no way that I am going to sit outside and affix shellacked cabbages to a lampshade. At least not all on my own.



I guess that there are little things that I can do, though. Like move the girl-who-used-to-live-in-my-apartment's hookah out of the middle of the living room...or store my roommate's Play Station underneath the DVD player...or maybe move my "dress up" box away from my bed and into the closet. P.S. this is not a sexy dress up box, it is for my sketch comedy costumes. You guys have such filthy minds! I could also empty the recycle bin so that guests coming over don't think that I've been on a Meryl Streep-style bender. Maybe I could take the sperm-shaped soap-on-a-rope out of the shower. Or perhaps, I could throw away the full-sized merry-go-round in the kitchen and the water slide attached from my window to the garbage shaft in my building.

Baby steps. Ooh, but we did install a doorbell. Heeeeeeey! Ding dong! Here's to being a grown up!!

*I am currently seeking out a serious relationship with anyone -- anyone who can pay rent, that is -- so that I can turn a second bedroom into an office, a dining room, personal gym, black box theater, prison cell. If you want to set me up with someone, I have a few very specific rules: No murderers, but am okay with furries. Clowns are fine, as long as I NEVER see you in your makeup. And I have real weakness for professional athletes who win a lot. Some call it a "type," but I think that I just know what I like.

Twinsies

When you were in grade school, didn't you just die to have a twin? We even had "Twin Day" at my elementary school because the demand to dress exactly like one's best friend was so high. My elementary school was religious, however, so the kids who actually did dress like twins were immediately accused of witchcraft and burned at the stake.

Oh no!!

Anyway, my good friend, Jon, just informed me of a story where a biracial British couple gave birth to one white twin and one black twin. My mind exploded! I remember growing up in the South, trying to pretend that my best friend and I were twins, but finding it totally unbelievable because her 16th century ancestors were French peasants, whereas mine were English landholders. "No one'll buy it!!!" I'd scream, throwing down my Hypercolor tie-dyed leggings, which had turned icy blue from the heat of my rage.

Can you imagine, though, having a black/white/asian/native american/latin, etc. you??? It would be AWESOME! It would be human Barbie. And I know...they are fraternal twins, so they probably don't have exactly the same features, but let me dream. (And peeps, they look pretty twinish to me).



Anyway, the chances of this happening are 1 in a million. Basically both of their parents are biracial and the chance that they would have fraternal twins is already 1 in a hundred, but to have fraternal twins where the sperm with the black skin genes hangs out with the egg with the black skin genes and then the same for the sperm and egg with the white genes is almost impossible...or at least you'd assume in this day in age. You'd think that maybe everyone could hang out and be friends. That what would matter wouldn't be the color of their skin, but the content of their character. Damn, why are their gametes so racist? It's the 21st century, you know? It's so sad what some sperm think is okay.

But you know what is not impossible: a recording contract for these little princesses.

P.S. I'm gonna sign Becky Yamamoto up as my Asian twin. Ya hear that, Becky?

Give Yourself a Purpose

Please, everyone stop what you are doing and listen to the "Last of the Mohicans" soundtrack. And then start up what you were doing before, but now with the pounding of a war drum and the urging of the mournful yet determined violin leading you toward a victory like you've never known. I have listened to nothing else today and I feel amazing! Like the captain of a small to moderate-sized tanker. An incredibly sensual and passionate tanker. Ugh, please just follow my lead on this one...it will make your day feel so purposeful.

Please regard the following IM exchange with my friend Emily regarding LOTM.

Me: have just transitioned on my iTunes to the Last of the Mohicans theme song

Me: am unbelievably inspired

Emily: hahaha

Emily: all of my guy friends in highschool claimed the last of the mohicans soundtrack was the ultimate make out/doing it music

Me: If by "doing it" you mean sitting at your desk wondering when you'll have your next bowel movement, then yes, it is perfect for "doing it"

Emily: ewww

Me: sorry

Me: I'm grodes

Emily: haha

A Tribute to My Hero

LISA FRANK!!

I was just thinking about my psychedelic, unicorn-covered, hallucination-inducing folders/pencils/staplers from Lisa Frank. No grade school girl was without these amazingly trippy accessories and the only item more coveted was a little lady's Caboodle. Anyway, I got to wondering about ol' Lisa. And so I googled her and found out that she's still up to her old tricks, but also has the most magical and inspirational website for girls.

Not only does she advertise her whimsical, rainbowy products on the site, she also extends a day-glo glove-covered hand to mentor these tweens. She has articles on eating disorders, getting good grades, the environment, not to mention my favorite topic: "A Girls Dreams."The whole site rendered me so inspired that I bought myself an Ovaltine and started a chain letter.

Here's what the chain letter said:

Dear You, You have been selected to be the luckiest bastard in all of school. Listen carefully, copy this letter and add your smallest eyelash to the envelope, then send it to 43 other people telling each to add their own eyelash. When the envelope contains 3 million eyelashes, you will receive 1 million dollars. The million dollars will be left in a treasure chest in an unmarked location, which will be disclosed to you via telegram. Good luck! P.S. If you don't do it, you'll never get a car when you turn 16. Your parents will laugh in your face.

Oh! Also, on the Lisa Frank website, was a button that said "Gang." And it shows all of her characters and facts about them. It is so cute. Below is my favorite: "Rainbow Chaser!"

Hey Little Guy

My sock has completely fallen off of my foot and is just floating around in my Ugg. Doesn't my stupid sock know it's job? What a freeloader!

He's like that guy who carpooled with you in high school and left nasty Wendy's wrappers in between your seats and always dragged leaves and branches inside. And he would always piss in the cupholders and steal my lipsticks and then make out with my windshield. That's what you are sock!! You're that guy!

Combustion Chamber

Today, I had the distinct honor of being called "Quote of the Week" by fellow blogger Nacho Intolerant. Thanks, Nachito (pet name). But not only did I get to be "Quote of the Week," I got to choose the word that next week's "Quote of the Week" must contain, as Nacho searches through various blogs to find each precious quote.

So, being a lover of chance (talk to the blackjack dealer at Mohigan Sun about how I wagered $1000...that I could guzzle an entire slurpee in under 30 seconds without getting a brain freeze), I grabbed my 8 million page Webster's Collegiate Dictionary. And with my arm trembling under its heft, I threw open the pages, closed my eyes tightly, said a prayer to an unknown god, and placed my tender pointer finger right next to the word: "combustion chamber." Whoops. Is there anyone out there who is blogging about combustion chambers? Anyone? Todd? Randall? Valentina? Are you guys...no? Not at all? Okay, just checking.


I was supposed to choose the word and place it in Nacho's comments. I deliberated about choosing a different word, but that just seems like cheating. Hence, below is the comment that I left poor Nacho and next week's Quote of the Week will apparently have to contain an unreasonably unusable word.

Lang said...

Yay! Thanks for letting me be quote of the week!! I am obviously super honored. I have decided that the word for next week's quote of the week should be...(I am opening up my yuge dictionary and randomly landing on a word) "combustion chamber?" Okay, I landed on "combustion chamber." So, I guess you have your choice of "combustion" or "chamber" or both. Sorry, I have no idea what this will yield. Good luck! Love your blog. Hope my word doesn't ruin anything.

xoxo,
Lang (the dirty old prom queen)

I wish I were more helpful.

P.S. MySpace?

Hey how's it going? Ummm, you look really good tonight. So, uhhh, I joined MySpace. Funny huh? Umm, so if you wanna be friends...you don't have to...but if you wanna. If you're free..go to MySpace...and you know, we'll see how things go. No presh. I guess I'll see you around.

On My Way to Work Today

I found myself wondering, "where do domesticated cows come from?" (Not even joking, I was totally fixated on this thought). "I know that there are wild horses and wild goats and wild turkeys, but are there or were there wild cows. Was there a time when herds of wild bulls and heifers just galloped across the Great Plains and played on the beaches of the Rio Grande? Was there a time when the mighty cow was hunted by leopard and grizzly alike? But nuzzled with fellow comrades, the zebra and cockatoo? I mean, I know there are yaks, but what about wild cows?"


As I imagined a lone dairy cow perched atop a mighty snowcapped peak, another question passed through the vacuous caverns of my brain: "Am I autistic? Am I mentally 'weaker' than normal? Would someone tell me if I was? Does everyone know that I'm mildly retarded and no one wants to say anything? No, really, you guys just tell me...I can take it. "

Excerpted from My Student's Practice SAT Essay

Folks, can I quote something from one of my kids practice SAT essays? Okay, the essay is about why people change

"Many people change everyday, some change is extreme and some changes aren't really noticeable, but change is all around us."

okay so far so good

"People change everyday, I have changed dramatically so that I could live a better life."

Intrigued. Where is he going with this?

"I quit smoking cigarettes so that I could have a better chance to get with the girl of my dreams."

What??? Noooooooooooooooooooo!

Newsflash: Kids, don't talk about your cigarette addiction or "getting with" a hot girl in your SAT essay.


Here's my impression of this kid's college essay.

"So, I was hanging at Binaca's house and her parents weren't home and you know, I scored this E from a friend of a friend of Tony's. Anyway, I gave her a pill and said, "let's take our shirts off" and she said, "only if you go to college." So, like I feel like I would be a good match for your institution, because all the fly honeys be lovin' up in this shit."

I Coulda Been a Contender

Thank GOD! IT'S OLYMPIC TIME!!!! It's time for me to sit on my couch for endless hours at a time, eat fried wontons, and watch the world's greatest athletes perform feats of incredible talent, endurance, and strength. It's time for me to well up with tears at the slightest hint of the somber yet inspirational Olympic overture; and then to weep uncontrollably at the countless stories of struggle and dedication, while I bathe myself in orange soda and Pizza Hut popper pizzas. It's time for me to not leave my pajamas, sob incessantly, feel uncoordinated, wish to god I'd just die, and gain 50 lbs. Folks, it's the greatest time of the year!! It's the Olympics!!!!!! Yahoo!!!!


And what about those opening ceremonies? Weren't they something special? My roommate and I just kept saying aloud, "those crazy Italians!" and "Well, isn't that Euro!" and "I once made out with a guy on rollerblades whose head was on fire."
"You did? Me too!"
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"What a coinky dink!"
"Wait, was his name Darren?"
"Darren Samuelson?"
"Oh my..."
"GOD!"
"You slut!"
"You're the slut, slut!"
"I never want to see you again! I'm moving out!"
"Go then, bitch...hey, that's my Cream album...wait, let's not fight."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry, too. You're my best friend."
"No, you're mine."
"Stupid Darren."
"You said it, Sister." (hugs and tears + more hugs and tears + one pirouette)

(For those of you who didn't watch the opening ceremonies, there were guys on rollerblades with flames of passion flying out of their helmets).

Ooh, but I did get so choked up when the torch was lit. It always gets me every Olympics. As such a unifying moment, when nations embrace over one huge exploding inferno of peace, I can't help it...I feel one with the world.

(Everyone should know that, while I write this, Foreigner's "I Wanna Know What Love Is" is playing so hard on my iTunes. Imagine it while you read.)

Aside from love and brotherhood, I think another sentiment that is shared among all of the millions of Olympic viewers around the world is the sense of "I could've done that...If I had tried. Damn, if only I had committed myself to a sport and not to being mediocre." It's the same feeling that theatergoers have when they see "Stomp." Literally, go stand outside the "Stomp" theater and watch people come out. Everyone is banging their rolled-up programs on poles, trash cans, their children, other people's children, orphans, baby dolls, baby dolls' children, orphan dolls, etc. Everyone thinks that with a gently-used North Face parka and maybe a half-mile jog through the mall twice a week, that they would be the next Bode Miller.

That thought then seamlessly evolves into another thought which is, "If I had committed to a sport, in what sport would I have most likely achieved Olympian status." Now, my brother made it to the Junior Olympics and the World Championships in kayaking. Had he given up college for a lucrative career as a pro kayaker, he would've certainly continued on to Sydney and Athens. He's decided instead to become a professor of geology...ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, what a perve! It does bring up the fact though that the less popular sports are probably easier to excel at since there is less competition.

After using my TI-82, a protractor, some gunpowder, a few pebbles, arsenic, and the rind of an old Serbian peasant's melon, I have deducted that once again I really think that I could go to the Olympics in table tennis. I have a dynamite serve (as well as attitude). Archery is my second choice. Back to table tennis. I've been training for this my whole liiiiiiife!! Every time I find myself sporting a new Taz tattoo, soaked in burbon at 3 AM on the floor of Zeta Phi Beta Lambda, where do I crawl? Right over to the beer pong table. That's where I fashion a paddle made out of my own hand and begin to practice against a cup. I've never lost. And if you think that empty cup is letting me win...think again.


The other alternative is to play for a country where you are the only athlete in that sport. Has everyone heard of Grandma Luge? The only athlete in the Winter Games from The U.S. Virgin Islands and the only over-50 athlete to ever compete in the Winter Games. Does Turkmenistan have a rhythmic gymnastics team? They do now.

Doody Calls

THE WIENER PHILHARMONIC (JENNY, GABE, TOBY, MIKE, LANG, and JULIA)

I know I mentioned it before but if you are in the NYC area, please come see "Doody Calls"

MY SKETCH GROUP, THE WIENER PHILHARMONIC, ALONG WITH JON FRIEDMAN OF THE REJECTION SHOW ARE PUTTING ON THIS HILARIOUS SHOW AT THE PIT EVERY FRIDAY IN FEBRUARY AT 8PM.

Just to get a taste of our work, watch the following videos.

Also, I was sharing this with a friend over email, but then I thought I would share an amazing teaching moment I had yesterday with you all. You know, because it cracked me up.

student: Ugh! When am I ever going to use the quadratic formula in my life?!

Lang: Well Emily, maybe you'll find yourself trapped in an ancient cave, where the only way out is through a secret doorway that can only be opened by solving a quadratic. Think how proud you'll be when you save yourself and the rest of your team.

student: (silence)

Wheelchairs of Fire

I know that I am being a little lax about posting, but my broken foot has made me lazier than a dead raccoon on a shoreman's ass during a heat wave in Tuscaloosa. I'm getting better. Today, I showered. I also replaced my big shoe with an Ugg. Yes, the broken foot is now being supported by the finest sheep hide, courtesy of that criminal-laden island down under. Oh GOD, Australia has so many criminals!!! So...many...toned, burly, diamond-abbed, sun-soaked, shark-biting, gator-frenching, koala-punching, roo-birthing criminals!


Regardless, they make a damn good orthopedic shoe for this soft, weak, martini-guzzling, hoagie-humping, gigolo-paying, pillow-assed invalid.


It would seem that when one loses the use of her foot, her immediate reaction might be to be grateful for the use of her other foot, or for not being paralyzed, or for not being blind...but mostly, I've just been cussing out my bad foot. Mostly, I just say things to it like: "You're weak! Your brother would never do this to me!" or "A prosthetic is twice the foot that you are. A plastic fucking prosthetic!! Do you hear me? You know what? Ha! A TACO IS TWICE THE FOOT YOU ARE!! Don't turn away from me when I talk to you? Don't you dare hide in that slipper."

Also, not only do I more readily notice other cripples in the subway and on the street, but I've become much more competitive with them. I'm sickly jealous of the kids with those tasty sweet aluminum crutches.

Occasionally, I see an old lady with a cane that's nicer than mine and I blast by her on the escalator, as if to say, "I don't even need this thing. It's decorative. My homeless cane is an accessory. Like a belly chain. This is just a big wooden belly chain...that prevents me from tipping over onto the train tracks." Yesterday, I basically ran by an elderly man, who was using a combination of a cane in one hand and a crutch in the other, even though the pain was equivalent to a pair of jumper cables on my clit. I guess I'm just determined to out-cripple the other handicappies. And that's when it came to me...the Special Olympics. If I have a slightly fractured foot, which will most certainly be healed in a few weeks, could I potentially enter myself in the table tennis competition of the Special Olympics? What do you think?




ALSO SHOW UPDATE!! IF YOU ARE IN THE NEW YORK CITY AREA, PLEASE COME SEE "DOODY CALLS." MY SKETCH GROUP, THE WIENER PHILHARMONIC, ALONG WITH JON FRIEDMAN OF THE REJECTION SHOW ARE PUTTING ON THIS HILARIOUS SHOW AT THE PIT EVERY FRIDAY THIS MONTH AT 8PM. COME ON OUT!! IT'LL BE DOODYFUL!!

Neverending Sick Day

So, since I have this achy-breaky fart...I mean foot, I have been living the life of a sick grade schooler in paradise. I sit in my pajamas and eat fudge and watch Oprah (and cry). I have also watched all of Seasons 2 and 3 of the Sopranos. And I take cabs everywhere I go. And in New York, you can really have anything delivered.


Maybe, I am being a little indulgent, but honestly, I can't really do anything else. I can't walk.

I started to feel a little guilty today, so I tried to be a bit more productive. I did at least four double-crunch (where you lift your legs and arms) situps on my floor, but cracked up too hard when I saw my big orthopedic shoe coming towards me.



Being the responsible chickadee that I am, I came into work today (in a cab) and tutored one of my favorite pupils. I forgot to, however, turn off my iTunes, which were playing really loudly in my office. Mid-graphing problem, the Neverending Story theme song starts to blare out really loudly (I've definitely mentioned my love for this movie, but also, I have an even deeper love for this song -- NYC peeps, you can play it on the jukebox at Cheap Shots on 9th and 1st). I freaked, but my broken foot kept me from getting up to turn off my music. Scared of being caught with creepy fantasy music in my collection, I just started to talk really loudly and heatedly about decimals. I'm sure it sounded to this kid like decimals had beaten and raped me as a child... Oh my god, you guys, decimals are so cute. Look at this: . Look at him! . Hi there little fella! .

Sorry, sidetracked. I am not alone, though. Everyone has those songs on their mp3s that they can't explain and never want anyone to find out about. It never occurred to me, however, that this kid wasn't even alive when the movie came out and would in no way ever recognize the theme song to it. Anyone, want to tell me what their embarrassing mp3 is? What about you decimal?

. "I can't get enough of Soundgarden. Anything Soundgarden! That's my little secret."