Survival Lesson #54: What To Do During a Power Outage in the Middle of your Colonic

So you're laying there, on the funny doctor's table with your legs comfortably bent and a pillow under your neck. Your head is turned down and toward the left so you can see the drainage tube and all the yuckiness it carries away from your bod. You are sitting in a disturbing puddle of water (and unfortunately, fecal matter). The tube of death is inserted into your rectum, and you are unable to feel like a normal person anymore because, well, normal people avoid situations like these and here you are paying someone to do it to you.

A desktop fountain runs gaily across the room. The radio is on, reminding you of what people on the outside are doing while you are taking an extended dump and ridding your body of compacted, toxic doo doo. The lights are dim. The machine is humming.

And then the power goes out.

You frantically turn the knobs that regulate water flow. Who can guarantee that when the power comes back on, it won't accidentally send a blast of water all the way through your intestines and out your mouth? No one, that's who. So the knobs go to "off" and the silence is deafening.

The tube is still in there, you know. In your bottom.

You're kind of afraid to pull it out. It took some effort to get in, and once it's out, the cleanup must begin, so you figure that you might as well wait it out and ignore it as best you can. There is no casual return to Tube Town.

The fluorescent lights flicker. The machine sputters. Hope rises in your chest. And then everything goes black again. Why isn't your trusty hydrotherapist coming in to see how you are? You don't know. Is that snickering you hear?

Try and think back to the first time you kissed a boy, or the morning after the first time you did it. Those are happy memories. Go back there, where the air was clean and bright, and the taste of a hamburger lights up your tastebuds. Yeah, go there. And while you're at it, think about when you graduated college and everyone went out for dinner afterwards, or that road trip you took with someone you had a crush on. What about your first paycheck, first homecoming dance dress, or when you sold out an entire movie theater with a film festival you put on? Think of those things. Not being in the dark, with a scary tall machine looming over you, and an unsettling presence in your behind.

Begin to count the dots on the ceiling. Plan out the rest of your day. Examine your manicure. Slowly try to relax all the muscles in your face, one by one. Hum an old spiritual, preferably "Old Man River." Try and recite as many lines as you can from The BIg Lebowski, or maybe Maid to Order starring Ally Sheedy. Try and put a finger on why Pomeranians look better in little purses than Chihuahuas do. Have a fake conversation with the Dalai Lama. Or, recount an actual one.

Suddenly, the lights come on. The machine whirs to life and you know you can turn the water on. You take your time, because you know that the minute your intestines start filling with that 99.9% pure water, life will get all crampy and icky again. And for a brief, shining moment, you were having a wonderful time.

Sigh. g

That's Mrs. Pilates To You

I am in love with a machine.

You heard me right, my darlings. Now I know how Helo on Battlestar Galactica feels, or what it's like to have Vicki, the little girl from Small Wonder, living in a corner of my room. Sort of.

My new pilates machine is here. The first one, at a reasonable price on a payment plan, broke the second time I used it. The combination of my strength and height stretched the elastic cords to uselessness. Heartbroken and gaining inches, I surrendered to one of the foremost dealers of pilates equipment in the world. Then, without a payment plan or low cost, I made the purchase.

It is heavenly.

This is the first piece of exercise equipment I have ever purchased, and I believe it might be my last. It was a cinch to put together, glides smoothly on its track, and does everything I want. I even have the accessories I need to make some real body magic happen. Goodbye, waist! So long, saddlebags! It's been nice knowing you, triceps!

If you want to come over, we can have a pilates party. I can show you how to do the mermaid and the frog, and maybe even the Flying Wallenda. And if you're lucky, you might even be invited to the wedding. Mari Windsor will be there, and so will Daisy Fuentes. And hopefully we will be blessed by the spirit of Joseph Pilates himself.

going to the chapel. g

The Passion of the Christ

This is a photo of Jesus trying to talk Mister Lego Man out of committing suicide. In all his bearded compassion, he gave it his all and tried to make Mister Lego Man understand that life was a gift from his dad (our Lord) and that it was worth giving it another shot.

It worked. After this pic was snapped, Mister Lego Man rose triumphantly, ate a burger at ESPN Zone, and jacked a lady's purse. It was a beautiful end to a beautiful day at Disneyland.

For the record, it's also pretty cool to get to have sex with the old JC himself. Great hands, that guy has. From all that carpentry, I guess.

amen. g

don't let your vagina talk to strangers

You are responsible for the safety and well-being of your vagina. It needs your guidance, your love, and your attention. Abuse it, and it will check out and become a serial killer and soon you will be watching Made-for-TV movies about your vag going psycho and killing a bunch of teenage girls. Or something like that. Anyway, love your self-cleansing, rain-foresty organ. It needs you.

It's like your myspace page.

You should be clear about the outcome you want. Do you want to be popular, fun and fancy free, and ready to roll with some curve balls the world throws, or do you want to be cozy and intimate? Once you determine this, act accordingly.

You're not allowed to add oodles of people you don't know, plus every band that requests your friendship, and then complain that "everyone on this place is fake." You cannot further assert this assinine idea by posting poorly written bulletins imploring your "real friends" to respond to you. That goes against the whole idea. I am your friend because you added me. Don't MAKE me respond to this self-centered piece of shlock you posted in a self-righteous frenzy at 2AM.

Plus, I know that your threat to "delete everyone who doesn't respond" is as empty as Paris Hilton's head at a science fair. You're not going to delete me. I was there for that time you drank too much Jagermeister and licked that cute barback's face. It was me who patted your bottom when you dressed up nicely for Valentine's Day. Together, we drink green beer on St. Patty's and watch movies at the Treehouse Cinemas (aka My House). Please don't do me this way, baby. Destroy these chains of bulletin-induced bondage and make this world a more pleasant place to be!

Be kind, my darlings. Be kind to yourself, be kind to others, and don't go posting half-assed requests for attention. So if you'll excuse me, I have to go get a pap smear.

hoo hoo. g

Devious Honey 2: Devious-er Than Ever

I have heard of it before and have even seen it being done. I know it's an art, and I know it takes amazing physical prowess to do it at full tilt. Admittedly, I have done it myself, regardless of how meek or unpolished it was, but it was always as a lark--I didn't think I could learn to do it. And I most definitely never thought my journey would begin while escaping the verbal bile of a drunk man inside the Hollywood branch of the Borders.

Stripping.

Out of breath and slightly panicked, I ironically ended up in fitness. While flattened against the yoga books, my gaze fell upon "The S Factor: Strip Workouts for Every Woman." I smirked, imagining how ridiculous it must be to strip for fitness. But when I opened the book, I was immediately intrigued. "Love every part of yourself!" the book implores. "Learning how to unleash your femininity is the best thing a woman can do for herself!"

It makes sense to me.

I flipped through it with a mock casualness, trying to convince everyone around me that I was so enlightened I already knew how to strip and this was just a review. When I realized that no one was around except for a homosexual man who was having trouble deciding between The Zone Diet and South Beach, I knew it was time to drop the act. I do not know how to look good taking my clothes off...at least, like a stripper does. And I know nothing about pole dancing.

Any normal woman would have thrown her hands up and dismissed the whole thing as a fad. Not me. I flipped to the back section where the pole techniques were illustrated. "That doesn't seem so hard," I mused as I used the gay man's arm as a makeshift pole. "Check me out!" Without warning, my pole decided on Atkins and bolted to the cashier station, but I was unabated. I was going to learn how to strip!

The book starts at the beginning, trying to get women to accept their bodies and get comfy taking it off. They list songs to dance to, talk about how to feel the rhythm, and even include stretching in the mix. Then, the good stuff begins. They illustrate exactly how to remove clothes the hot way, and how to draw it out to maximize the tease. The moves are all laid out so even the most retarded wannabe stripper can figure it out, and at the end of the book they even lay out a step-by-step routine.

This thing was well worth the price of admission.

There is a quiz to figure out what kind of stripper persona you have naturally. Mine is "The Dark Soul," who is deep, moody, complex, intelligent, and powerful. Sure, you can be a handful. But what a handful! And talk about sexy." I happen to agree with this because I scowl a lot when concentrating, and being hot takes concentration. But now the thing that's left is a stripping name. I have to give this wildcat inside a name.

Havana Tuesday? Frankie Champagne? Ginger Jones?

Nothing seems to fit, except for the name stitched onto my hoodie: Devious Honey.

I think it works. Now that I'm a stripper-in-training, I've got my stripper mixes on my iTunes, and I am ready to head to their studio in West Hollywood. Oh sure, you thought it ended here, but stripping knows no limits here in H-town. They have a studio in WeHo where you actually get pole time. You can't strip off your g-string, but you can take everything else off. Or you can leave it on and save it for when it really counts...

I guess I owe the drunk guy in the Borders a thank-you. Hopefully one day I will see him again, as he is stuffing wads of ones down my panties. Oh, a girl and her dreams...

pour some sugar on me. g