Melbourne Int'l Comedy Festival Road Show: Western Australia

Friends, readers, strangers, and stalker (you know who you are, Rachel Templeton):

Hello! It's been quite a while since I've updated the blog. About, oh, ten months. A lot has happened in that time. A human fetus could have gestated, been born, and learned to blink in response to bright lights in that amount of time (you know who you are, newborn babies). A negligent container ship pilot could have completed a prison sentence for his role in a spill of more than 53,000 gallons of oil into the San Francisco Bay in that amount of time (you know who you are, Captain John Cota). A person could have gone through a mild seasonal depression, written a new one hour show, traveled to Australia for four months, eaten obscene amounts of Barramundi, and returned to Montreal in that amount of time (you know who you are, DeAnne Smith). It's a fair amount of time, is my point.

Thank you for your patience, friends, readers, strangers, and stalker. In exchange, I present you with a detailed account of my tour of Western Australia.

Well, mostly detailed. The thing is, I'm writing this from Montreal, sipping a limonade avec gingembre, where I sit in a cafe surrounded by sexy geeks staring at laptop screens, while accordian-heavy and increasingly disturbed French music plays in the background. The tour is a blur to me now. The ho- and motels I stayed in blend, in my memory, into one giant, beige carpeted room with grossly overpriced Toblerones on display, passive aggressive "We Care About the Earth! Do You?" signs in the bathroom, and a television continually playing the preview for "He's Just Not That Into You." I've decided to ascribe my hazy memory to the number of time zones I've crossed in the past few weeks and not, say, to potential lead poisoning I picked up in Port Pirie.

Here we go.

Margaret River (pop. 4,415) was the first stop on the tour, and where this:



and this:



greeted us backstage.

That's right, a half-eaten package of hand-labeled "GINGER" cookies, and a box of tap shoes. Oh, Margaret River, you have a way with performers! How did you know that my ideal way to "get in the zone" before a show is to chow down on stale, suspiciously-packaged sweets and strap on my dancin'shoes? Tippity-tap, tippity-tap, mmm mmm mmm!

The coolest part about the show in Margaret River was that we performed to a sold-out house of just over 400 people. It's not often that I get to be seen by 10% of the town I'm in. Or that .25% of that 10% would serve me breakfast the next day, simultaneously boosting and deflating my ego with the sentence, "I loved your stuff last night, but I'm not sure the crowd really got it." Uh, thanks?

Next, we drove to Bunbury, a town charming in its directness. The Bunbury library is unmistakably that:



And the fact that the town has just one Thai restaurant is not only acknowledged, but celebrated:



It's the "Choose Respect" signs that, while straightforward at first, become perplexing:



Sure, it's fine message for a town to promote. What unsettles me, though, is that the town feels it needs to tell its inhabitants to respect each other, and then reminds them what respect means. "Respect is to treat with care and consideration." I saw this sign on a doctor's office, a place I'd assume where people were always treated with care and consideration. What was happening in Bunbury's doctors' offices to prompt this campaign?

"Listen, tubso, you got a blood-pump so choked with grease you're gonna be dead by September if you don't lay off the sausage rolls. Now, scram!"

"Yeah, yeah, babies cry, it's what they do. Come back when that shit-machine's blue or old enough to tell me what the god damn problem is. Now, scram!"

"Mysterious lump? I got two of 'em, lady, and I call 'em my ballsack. I got bigger fish to fry. Now, scram!"

Maybe that's why the town's most prominent sculpture is a giant, disapproving head:



I'm not sure if Choosing Respect was what the woman who came up to me after the show and said, "You were great! I love your lesbian vagina...(insert uncomfortable, five second pause)...names" was doing or not. I will believe she was.

Only the second stop on the tour, Bunbury taught me a life lesson. Eating corn flakes out of a teacup with a tiny spoon in a '70s-style motel room off the main highway while watching a movie starring that girl from "My Girl," I realized that the touring life may not be all glitz and glamour. Thank you, Bunbury.

On to Geraldton! But first, this sign on the side of the road:



Did I say the touring life wasn't all glitz and glamour? I take it back. I can't imagine anything more glamorous than indulging in a cappuccino and/or exotic tea, as advertised on a light-up sign on the side of the road. Simple, elegant, understated, it is probably my favorite photo of the tour.

I have to admit, I loved Geraldton. While I was there, I breakfasted at Go Health Lunch Bar (named as if poorly translated from a non-Romance language, but nonetheless full of delicious treats), strolled art galleries, learned about the Batavia shipwreck at the museum, ate homemade ice cream, and didn't get carried away by a rip tide at the beach (our stage manager was not so lucky). So enamored was I with the town and its unexplained ship-ka-bob



that the ominous Christian propaganda on the front of the Salvation Army store didn't even phase me.



Where will I spend Eternity? I may just stay in Geraldton. Thanks for asking!

My love of Geraldton could have clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the fact that I had to get up at 4:30 a.m. to board a flight to Port Hedland that clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the omnipresent layer of red dirt on everything in Port Hedland that clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the fact that Port Hedland has two taverns, one named "Last Chance Tavern" and one that holds the world's record for the most stabbings in one night, that clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite the blistering heat, one could not go swimming in the beautiful, blue ocean surrounding Port Hedland for fear of being stung, bitten, or otherwise killed that clouded my perception of Port Hedland. Or maybe it was the hazy cloud of industrial-strength Raid that I slept under after being terrorized by Port Hedland's massive cockroaches in my hotel room that quite literally clouded my perception of Port Hedland.

I might have been inclined to call Port Hedland a hot, salt-minin' pit of despair if it weren't for this:



What you may not be able to see is the "No couples, grubs, or drunks" statement at the bottom of the room for rent ad in the left hand corner. Port Hedland, you've won me back! A town where you can get your freak on at a doctors and nurses party, get your recreational skippers ticket whenever you feel like it ("Give us a call and tell us when you want to do it") and get a room for a mere $275 a week (provided you're not in a relationship, on the sauce, or a beetle larva), is a town that's all right by me!

On the drive to Karratha, we stopped at Whim Creek. We weren't planning on it, but we were suddenly struck by a capricious and eccentric idea to do so. (See what I did there, vocab lovers?) Whim Creek, according to Whim Creek, is a must:



Remember that red dirt I was telling you about in Port Hedland? Well, it's everywhere in Western Australia. So overtaken by the crimson dust, people can't even be bothered to write "Wash me" in it.



Because that wouldn't be funny enough. What's a hoot, though, is labeling handicap bathrooms like this:



Wheelies! Leave it to blunt, fun-lovin' Aussies to give their differently-abled brethren a nickname and some speed lines! This sign makes being in a wheelchair look so awesome, I almost wish I didn't have full physical control of my lower limbs.

Despite full physical control of my lower limbs, I didn't get out much in Karratha. As far as I could tell, the main highlights of the town were its shopping center and its ability to attract cyclones. When we asked the hotel receptionist what there was to do in town, she shrugged her shoulders and stared. I'll remember Karratha for two things: the moist burp by which I was heckled, and the amount of dust in the theater's green room.



Next stop: Perth! We were in Perth for a week, which I mostly spent window shopping and taunting people with real jobs. My favorite past time in Perth became eating fancy lunches at places frequented by business people, and then staring at them with open mockery when they had to leave to return to work. "Nice life, suckers! I'll be here eating salmon tartar and thumbing through the entertainment section of the paper while you sit in front of a computer screen in a fluorescently lit office cubicle, weakening your vision, but still clearly able to see your dreams wither and die."

Most of Perth was hiding behind plastic construction fences, on its way to being built up or knocked down. In the midst of all the construction, I never one saw one person working.



The best store in Perth has got to be this one:



I know they have Aboriginal artefacts, but d'ya reckon they sell didgeridoos?

Esperance was our second-to-last stop on the Western Australia leg of the tour. It's also the place where things tend to fall out of the sky, like wild birds poisoned by lead, and pieces of the Skylab space station. ("It's a bird! It's a plane! It's...well, kind of both of those things. But much more foreboding.")

We were there briefly, so my main memory is of the motel room. And what a motel room it was! It had three beds, and a bathroom bigger than my Montreal apartment. The bathroom actually had two chairs in it, should one get winded walking from one end to the other and need to rest. I hadn't felt lonely on the entire tour until, in this Esperance motel room, I realized I could have had four other people and a rugby team in need of a shower traveling with me. And there I was, small, alone, cold, sleeping in a scarf and beanie.

In an effort to warm up and alleviate my loneliness, I thought about maybe guttin' and cleanin' some fish. Luckily, I saw this sign posted near the door:



Ah well. No fish foolery for me.


On the drive to Kalgoorlie, we passed Norseman



and its cave of activity. Activities include erecting ladders, smoking, and scaring children.

Then, there was what looked like the worst-ever place to picnic, in Widgiemooltha:



First of all, yes, Widgiemooltha is the real name of a real place. It's no Salmon Gums or Mount Remarkable, but I like it.

Secondly, I may not be great with spatial relativity (any of the bruises I've incurred by simply trying to move from one room to another in my apartment could serve as proof), but it looks to me as though the festive yellow concrete stumps surrounding the table would not allow one seated on them to actually reach the table. "I'll just scootch this forwa...oh, nevermind. Pass the cole slaw?"

Kalgoorlie is amazing. It's a historic mining town, and home of the Super Pit, an open-cut gold mine about four kilometers long, one and a half kilometers wide and 500 metres deep. Standing at the edge of the pit, listening to the faraway rumble of gigantic trucks below, I was so mesmerized, it was easy to forget I was witnessing complete environmental degradation. But hey, if it's gonna look so cool! I would pay almost any price for gold now, after seeing the sheer amount of drudgery and toil it takes to get that stuff out of the earth.

I could post a picture of the Super Pit. Or I could tell you how the mine will be used up by 2017. (Sidenote: if you're ever performing in Kalgoorlie, don't mention it to the people in the crowd, all of whom are somehow financially dependent on the mine, 'cause they're a bit touchy about it.) Or I could describe the mechanized toilet stall in the middle of town that played an instrumental version of "What the World Needs Now is Love" but I won't do any of those things. I will leave you with this:



There you have it, friends, readers, strangers, and stalker! That's my experience of Western Australia. I know it may have been a lot to get through, so here's handy reference, likening each city the tour played in to the Australian celebrity it most resembles.

Margaret River = Olivia Newton-John.
Cute, and full of wine.

Bunbury = 1930s race horse Phar Lap.
Straightforwardly doing its thing. Then allegedly killed by gangsters.

Geraldton = Crowded House.
Awesome.

Port Hedland = AC/DC.
Way too heavy and one-note at first, but won me over with its unrelenting commitment to being itself.

Karratha = Natalie Bassingthwaighte
Not bad, but essentially, there's nothing there.

Perth = Nicole Kidman.
Nice to look at, but under constant construction.

Esperance = Air Supply.
Made me feel cold, lonely, and as though I should skin fish.

Kalgoorlie = Heath Ledger.
Beautiful, awsome, and ultimately doomed.

Stay tuned for the South Australia leg, coming soon!

Wow, That's Heelarious!

Okay, full disclosure: I ran across the Heelarious website a few months ago. I was too busy (full disclosure: eating waffles and being lazy) to sink my bloggin' claws into it. But now, thanks to some time off (full disclosure: 3/4 of a "special" cookie at a friend's lake house), I believe I've stopped seething long enough to form some coherent sentences (full disclosure: I'm still seething, and I may or may not be entirely coherent). I'm ready to take Heelarious on. Oh, I'm ready.

Heelarious, for those of you who haven't heard, makes high heels for babies. No, you haven't just ingested 3/4 of a "special" cookie1. You've actually read that correctly: high heels for babies. Or, as the website says, "her first high heels." At least three of those words are so wrong they're worthy of their own post-doctoral dissertation on sexism, gender inequality, and the misogynist fashion industry, but this is just a humble little blog. Plus, I can't seem to settle on a title for such a dissertation. "'Her First High Heels': Why Passively Allowing Sarah Jessica Parker to Rise to Power Will be Modern Western Society's Ultimate Downfall?" or "'Her First High Heels': Wow, How Dumb?"

Obviously, I'm biased. Let's get another opinion. This is what Diane Sawyer, 62nd on Forbes' "The World's 100 Most Powerful Women" list, has to say about the high heels: “They’re squishy! They’re to dress your baby up when they’re going to fancy events, so they can have their own high heels.”

Ignoring, for a moment, the tragic fact that waking up in the wee hours to host "Good Morning America" has apparently left Diane Sawyer one sleep-deprived neuron away from communicating exclusively through exclamations and a simple series of handclaps ("Squishy! Baby dress up fancy! Clap, clap, clap!"), let's take a closer look at her statement. Lest baby's first high heels seem, at best, ridiculously frivolous, and at worst, dangerously objectifying, Diane Sawyer thinks they're totally legit. You know, for when babies go to fancy events.

Okay, Diane Sawyer, I'll bite. Let's say, for some reason, a new mom has to go to a fancy event (and we'll define "fancy event," as something slightly more elaborate and dignified than discount day at the local grocery store). Let's say, for some reason, this new mom has to bring her baby to said fancy event. Who knows, maybe the nanny got deported or the new mom couldn't find a proper date and has a really poor sense of appropriate boundaries. Maybe, at this said fancy event, the new mom wants to parade around the bouncing, joyous reason why her nipples are leaking and she hasn't slept more than four hours at a stretch in months. Okay, Diane Sawyer, I'll play. The baby is attending her first fancy event.

It makes perfect sense then, Diane Sawyer, that the baby would need her own high heels. We all know how important it is for babies to feel like they have their own debilitating footwear, just like Mommy. It's especially important when babies are at that tender age from 0 to 6 months, when they're viciously eyeing everyone else's belongings (provided the belonging is within 18 inches of their face, where they can actually focus on it), wondering why they don't have their own, tinier, cuter versions of things. "Hey, wait a minute," a 1-month-old baby may miraculously have the cognitive development to think. "How come that big lady over there, the one they keep calling 'Mom,' has those things on her feet and I don't? Aren't I a person, too? Don't I have feelings? Wow, it's like I'm not even at this fancy event! It's like no one even respects me! In about two seconds, I'm going to start wailing and see how long it takes for them to figure out that I'm upset not because I'm tired or hungry or have a wet diaper but because I don't have my own high heels. I want my own high heels! WAAAAAAAAH!"

Correct me if I'm wrong (and I'm not, so don't), but aren't the only real reasons for wearing high heels aesthetic? There's nothing about high heels that doesn't say "sexualized object." (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) It's just a fact; I'm not even particularly anti-high heel. (Full disclosure: I feel about high heels the same way I feel about straight marriage and eating soft cheeses. I'm not against them in general, but I am against them for me. I mean, if someone out there wants to be in a straight marriage, wear high heels, and dig into Camembert, I respect their decisions. I don't understand those decisions and I probably secretly judge those decisions, but I respect them.) Call me uptight (but I'm not, so don't), but I don't think there's anything all that hilarious about dressing babies up in high heels. I guess some people-- I'm looking at you, Diane Sawyer-- would find a baby in high heels funny, so I'll step outside myself for a moment and try to imagine what that would be like.

Ha, that baby's in little high heels! That's so funny! Ha! She's wearing shoes specifically designed to make her legs look longer and slimmer! How comical! How zany! How incredibly wacky! That baby is wearing shoes that, if they were on an adult woman, would decrease her range of leg motion! Hysterical! Not since I saw the "I'm too sexy for my diaper" onesie have I been this amused! High heels on a baby! Ha ha! Oh my god, I'm laughing so hard my ribs hurt! My face aches! A baby in high heels! I can't breathe! I just peed my pants! I'm about to pass out! Ha ha ha ha! Hee hee hee! Ha hee hoodly hoodle! Heh! Hah! Heah! Tee hee hee! A baby in high heels! Guffaw!

You might think I'm being too harsh on Heelarious (but I'm not, so don't). What takes the concept completely over the top for me is that the shoes come in leopard print. What's next? Baby's first thong? Baby's first frosted lipstick? Baby's first chlamydia screening? Nothing good or pure or innocent comes in leopard print. Nothing. Try to think of even one thing (but don't, because you can't). Trust me, there's not a more inherently slutty print in the whole of the animal kingdom. You see someone in zebra print? They're saying, "Hey, I've spent some time in Africa and I've read Hemingway." You see someone in tiger print? That says, "Watch out! I like to fancy myself a bit wild!" You see someone in leopard print? All that's saying is, "Jello shots? Bring 'em the hell on! Don't mind my cold sore!"

The website says that the product is "not intended to harm children in any way." Well, thank goodness. It's official: being used as mommy's little sexualized accessory doesn't harm kids at all. At least, it doesn't harm children in the way that high heels do. I mean, it's not a hammertoe kind of harm. It's not a degenerative-changes-in-the-knee-joint kind of harm. It's not a bunion-and-blister kind of harm. It's just a bunion-and-blister-on-the-soul kind of harm.

The website assures us that the products were designed with "safety and comfort as their main concern." Hmm. I'd counter that "safety and comfort" couldn't have been the "main concern." I mean, I'm sure making money in a consumer-driven society was the main concern. High up on the list of concerns was probably marketing to egocentric, middle-to-upper class parents. Somewhere on the list of the concerns was making sure the product release coincided with the Sex and The City premiere. If "safety and comfort" (full disclosure: I love using people's exact words against them) were the "main concern" (full disclosure: I am also a huge fan of quotation marks), the Heelarious website would feature babies in bare feet.

Wouldn't that be "heelarious," if someone recognized the ridiculous range of pointless baby accessories and told new parents it was okay to chill the heck out? If someone said, "Sure, yeah, now you're parents. And guess what? You will be a little less cool and hip and trendy than you used to be, but that's okay. After you're done with the sleep deprivation, you can keep working on your personality. The (hilarious!) way you dress your baby won't have to be your only form of self-expression." That's the website I would like to see. (Full disclosure: I suspect it's out there, but I'm too lazy to search for it now. I have some waffles to eat.) Oh, and the other website I'd like to see is the one where Diane Sawyer sticks her bare feet into a tank of flesh-eating fish. ("Oooo! Tiny fish kisses! Clap, clap, clap!") Luckily for me, that website is right here: http://jezebel.com/5027735/diane-sawyer-fearlessly-faces-flesh+eating-fish


1Actually, I don't know, maybe you have just ingested 3/4 of a "special" cookie. In which case, I apologize for making assumptions about you and your ability to alter your mind while reading about the increasingly disturbing trend of baby clothes marketed to appeal to adults' sense of humor or irony or ironic humor. (Oh, yeah, I'm sure your baby listens to the Ramones. You are both so hip. I'm very impressed.) Sorry, did that sarcastic parenthetical aside to hypothetical parents throw you off? Are you even following this anymore? Maybe you should go eat some waffles and be lazy; you can read this another time.

It is my Gladness: DeAnne Victory Winner

I won! Joy not write me back for I am victory winner of scam apartment game! Easy to see for all I am too trust wordly and honest and good person Christian to mess with DeAnne Andrea Dean Anderson!

Joy was getting a little tedious, and I'm glad our correspondence is over. What surprised me, though, was how many of you guys have had run-ins with the Bradley-Derrick crew in various cities. Do they really end up scamming people into giving them money? This is what I say we do. Email joy.derrick1@gmail.com or johnnyderrick@ymail.com with the subject line "interested in your apartment" and then put this smiling kitten in the body of the email:





Please play! And if you do, leave a comment so we know how many folks did it.

And now I send you thank you best regards. It is my sadness to say goodbye to last one chapter. Best luck for apartment search to everyone sincere and kindness!

It is my Gladness: PROFILE ACCEPTED

My profile was accpeted! This time I decided to up the ante a little. Here's my response to Joy's message:

Regards Joy,

Oh thanks you for writing back to me. Yes, my very willingness in the flat! I turst in you also I would not want to experience what I experience last year with finding flat and then flat haunted with ghost of sea creatures, i.e. very noisy octopus ghost always making earl grey tea when I am trying sleep! Also starfish look cute and starry and chewable and innocint but guess what Joy Derrick? Are total asshole ghosts! Are very inconsiderite always thinking are BETTER THAN YOU because living in spirit realm and have pyloric stomach BUT guess what JoyDerrick they ARE NOT better. Good Lord Almighty Everlasting God made everyone special so that's what I tell asshole starfish ghosts (telepathicly because they do not have ears) anyway well would not want to experience that again. Also the plankton.

I would like to move into flat July 11.

Also what is your address please for sending payment?

Lord bless you and your family and flat, all incl, and Juice Machine. Pls send me address ASAP for fast payment am very eager to move into new place!!!

Best welcome regards, DeAnne

And then I attached this photo:

Here's Joy's original message. It's a bit lengthy, but I know you're interested in following this saga, so it's here for your perusal. Highlights include the fact that the daughter was involved in approving my application and that the house was "destroyed" last year. Um, so, where will I be moving into exactly?

Hi DeAnne ,

Thanks you very much for your reply, I can see your willingness in this flat. I want you to know that i'm satisfied with your profile and also believe l can trust in you because l will not like to experience what l experieced from my last tenant again.I will like to know the exact date you will like to move into the flat,l showed your profile to my husband and daughter, They said they are ok with it.l want you to know that we can let you stay in my flat till the period of time you wish to.

I want you to know that the rent fee is among the flat utilities all included, so you can use them anytime but make you take proper care of my properties.We will come and pay you a visit after you have moved into my home to see how you are maintaining it,I will be receiving the first months deposit payment from you via Western Union because l think it reliable,secured and fast,l wish you best of luck in your work, from your profile l can see that you are responsible and a hard working person may the almighty Lord lead you in what ever you wish to do.l see no reason why l should collect damages deposit since you have promise that you will take proper care of my home l think we're ok.

Amenities
..........................................
# Bedroom : 1
# Bathroom : 1
# Extra Toilet : 1
# Extra Guest Room: 1
# Sofa Bed : 1
# Bed Linen

Accommodation Features
...................................................
Wood Floor :
Heater :
Central Heating :
Equiped Kitchen :
Tv: Cable/Satellite TV:
Video/Stereo:
Internet :
Air Conditioning:
¡E Full Kitchen
¡E Refrigerator:
¡E Garage/Car park
¡E pets allowed.


Kitchen Features
...................... ...........
Washing machine:
Juice Machine :
Iron :
Toaster:
Oven :
Dishwasher :
Coffee Maker :
Microwave :
Refrigerator:
Stove:

As soon as the first 2 month has been confirmed by me via western union,l will go ahead and commence on how the flat keys/documents will be delivered to you via DHL courier service on next day delivery and it will be delivered to the address you provided in your application form.Let me hear back from you as soon as possible so that l can go arrange for the delivery of the keys/documents.

Once again l'm giving you this flat on trust and do not dissapoint me because l dont want our house to be destroyed again, if you wish to move in with your own properties,we still have one extra room that is empty so you can easily put our own things that you think you dont need in there.

Here are the contents that will be delivered to you via DHL courier service.

1) Entrance and the rooms Keys
2)Paper/Permanent Flat form(Containing your reference details)
3)The Flat documented file.
4)Payment Receipts.
5)Full address and description of the flat.

My husband will like to talk to you,you can call him as soon as you get this mail his number is 0112348083710680 or +2348083710680

Get back to me via email if you will need me to send you the information which you will use to make the deposit payment via western union to my husband secretary in new jersey.

Thanks and God bless you...

Best Regards

Joy.

So, what's the next move? Will Joy send me their address? What, exactly, happened between DeAnne Andrea Dean Anderson and the ghost-plankton? Check back in for updates!

It is my Gladness: God bless you more as you do this

Oh, Joy! She wrote back! I won't paste the whole message here, but you can be assured that she "appreciates [my] expression." And there was this:

Please we are giving you all this transaction is based on Trust & Honesty and again I want you to stick to your words,We are putting everything into Gods hand,so please do not let us down in this property of ours and God bless you more as you do this.

Luckily, I know for a fact that God finds this hilarious. Here's my response:

Regards to Joy (and daghter!)

Thank you much for immeidate response I am very much Eager To move into beautiful apartment! I have good feeling with you and Rev Johnny. you are right, all is based with Trust & Honesty and standing on words.

I am kind harded and very honest person. You can have faith on me. Pls tell me when we can meet, when I can move into flat!!

Thank you welcome regards,
DeAnne

ps. application form keep private and confidential very important to me! Thank u

*********RENT APPLICATION FORM*******
(Private & Confidential)

1)Your Full Name

DeAnne Andrea Dean Anderson

2)Present Full Address(where you reside now) & Phone Number to Reach You

No present address, God does not help me find place, need to move in immediate!

514-676-3452

3)Age

43 and 3 months.

4)Are you married?

No. Great sadness.

5)Sex

Sometimes, but not too loud for neighbors don't worry.

6)How many people will be living in the house?

1 Just me. (Sometimes I hear voices, but they are not occupying physical space!)

7)Do you have a pet?

No. Not a pet because not trained and not nice like pet but there is a dog that sometimes lives with me. He is name Richard.

8)Do you have a car?

NO!!

9)What is your religion?

I am Christian, much daily prayer time, favorite Matthew 7:12!!!

10)Occupation?

I am periodicals librarian, love very much to acquire, develop collection, organize, preserve, and catalogue periodicals. $54,700/yr income.

I also am spices librarian (unpaid, at home work) and things-found-in-other-people-recycling-bins librarian (unpaid, at home work). Again i love with all things to A.D.O.P.C: acquire, develop, organize, preserve, catalogue.

11) How Many Month Deposit ??? 1 or 2

2. Is 3 Okay?

12) When are you ready to Move In ?

Soon Immediate for no house now.

13) When are u planning to leave the flat ?

1 year at least. Or when the voices tell me. whoever comes first.

Then, with no explanation, I included this picture:



Oh, and for those of you not up on your scripture, Matthew 7:12 reads, "So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets."

When will Joy ask me for a deposit? How did Richard the dog come to occasionally co-habitate with what we can assume is an order-obsessed DeAnne Andrea Dean Anderson? Why does God only have one hand? Check back in for answers!

It is my Gladness, part 2

It's on!

I wrote to "Joy" (for that message, which is brief, see the comments on the original "It is my gladness..." post) and received this very blue message back:

Hi DeAnne ,

Thanks for the email and also yes,My husband in respect of Rev Johnny Bradley who owned the place and also it is situated In 3450 Drummond ,Montréal,QC H3G 1Y1 Canada and also want you to know that it was due to my husband transfer that makes us to leave the place and also want to give it out for rent and looking for a responsible person that can take very good care of it as we are not after the money for the rent but want it to be clean at the time and the person which is reliable and responsible that will rent it to take it as if it were its own.So for now,Am here in United States right now in our new flat and also with the keys/document of the flat we are willing to rent to you.

We try to look for an agent that we can give this document before we left but could not see and we are as well as don't want our flat to be used any how in our present that is why we took it along to us here and as you know that,my husband over in the West Africa for a Mission of God,so I hope you will promise us to take very good care of the home.So get back to me on how you could take care of our home or perhaps experience you have in renting home.

Hope you are okay with the price of $622 Per Month for the place with hydro,heat laundry facilities,air condition, internet connection and so on 750 Square Feet, I look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible so that i can forward you an application to fill out and discuss on how to get the flat for rent,also are you ready to rent it now or when?you can view our flat picture at the attach file as you can see the pictures of the place are beautiful that is why we need a maintenance and up keep of our flat.

Thanks so much
Joy Bradley.

Attached were pictures of a huge and gorgeous flat from various angles, and this picture of Joy and her daughter:



What I love most is the joyless expression on their faces. I can only imagine the inner dialogue goes something like this:

Joy Jr.: "Mommy! Look! I am sniffing this flower to mask the reek of unhappiness and disappointment that emanates from your body!"

Joy: "I hate you."

This was my response:

Regards Joy Bradley-Derrick,

3450 Drummond in Montreal H3G 1Y1 is lovely neighborhood so happy to live there! I am responsible and trustworldy to treat flat as my own mantenence.

I understand you take document and keys to u.s. and your husband honorable kind Rev Johnny Bradley Derrick loves the lord and wants to make West Africa a nation of lord lovers also.

I have a lot of experience in renting home. I take care of home with washing, brooming, etc. and stay vigilant to not let home flood or catch fire or have many mice or cover in mud slide, etc.

The price of $622 sounds good to me for place. Please forward me application. I am ready to rent immediate.

I attach picture of me so you know me a little.

Thank you regards,
DeAnne

And then--is this unethical?--I searched for a photo on the internet and attached this:



Who wouldn't want to rent to that smiling face? Why does Rev Johnny Bradley Derrick have three first names? Will Joy write back? For answers to these questions and many more, stay tuned!

It is my gladness to moreso Now introduce the kind and honest Rev Johnny Bradley!

Total score.

That's how I feel upon finding pieces of bubble wrap to gleefully pop (seriously, how good is that?), upon finding gluten-free sweet treats to gleefully shove down my gullet (shout out to my Crohn's-inflicted brethren), and, of course, upon finding scam emails in my inbox to which I can gleefully respond (see the Nanny Square entries).

So, I've been looking for apartments on Craigslist. That's pretty much all you need to know to enjoy this most recent exchange. You probably don't need to know that I've also been trolling the personals section, shocked, amazed and I must admit intrigued by people who describe the woman they're looking for as "having little to no gag reflex" and then go on to say, " I am fireman, and you could do much worse ladies, I can promise you that!" Well, hello, dreamboat.

But back on track. I responded to an apartment listing that sounded a little too good to be true. Sadly, when things sound too good to be true, they usually are. (What? Someone who's looking for a person with little to no gag reflex? That's totally me! I'm totally gonna respon....oh, wait. He's a fireman. Sigh. I can't stand the thought of such a wonderful, special, and eloquent someone who I would no doubt totally fall for endangering his life like that! I just can't risk getting hurt. Not again. Not this time. I knew it was too good to be true! No, no, don't mind me. My absent gag reflex and I will just be crouching in this darkened corner for a while, weeping.)

Here's what I sent the guy:

Hi,

I'm really interested in your apartment for rent and I'd like to see it as soon as possible. Are you available to show it on Sunday, June 22?

Thanks,
DeAnne
[And then my phone number. Which I flatter myself to think would be unwise to reproduce here, with so many readers gazing at this space expectantly, waiting for any opportunity to gain access into my thrilling private life. Have I mentioned that I troll personal ads for kicks? Well, hello, dreamboat.]

Here's what I received, about 24 hours later:

Thanks for your email and it is my gladness to hearing from you.My name is Rev Johnny Bradley the owner of the house you are making enquiry of...Actually I resided in the house with my family,such as my wife and my only daugther before and presently we had packed due to my transfer from my working place and now situated in united states and presently my house is still available for rent including the utilities like hydro/heat drywasher and security and bills,Everything in the flat is well fully furnised.

Moreso Now,I went for a crusade in West Africa and i will like you to get in touch with my wife in united states for more discussion as She is with the keys and the document to the flat.Pls i want you to note that,I am a kind and honest man and also i spent alot on my property that i want to give you for rent,so i will solicit for your absolute mentenance of this house and want you to treat it as your own,is that taken,it is not the money the main problem but want you to keep it tidy all the time so that i will be glad to see it neat when i came for a check up.i do that once in a while.I also want you to let me have trust in you as I always stand on my word.

Send my wife Joy an Immediate message, on ( joy.derrick1@gmail.com )and she will attends to you better on how to proceed

Thanks and you are welcome
Regards
Johnny Bradley

Total score! I love it all, from the alliteration of "Johnny and Joy" to the way he seems to be having a level one, English-as-a-second-language conversation with himself in "Thanks and you are welcome" to the fact that he so casually sneaks in: "...when i came for a check up.i do that once in a while.I also..." Pardon me? You do that once in a while? Oh, okay. I guess it's no big deal, since you didn't include any spaces around that sentence. I look forward to your visits, then. In fact, when you came for a check up, I'll probably greet you with a, "Well, hello, dreamboat."

I'm hoping to keep this correspondence going for a while. Note my expert ability to overlook his instructions to write to Joy Derrick, in the hopes that he'll feel compelled to write back:

Thanks you Rev Johnny for your quick and thoughtful responds to my inquiry. I am pleased gladly to know the drywasher is included in the flat fully furnised and that bills are included.

I curiously inquire your crusade at West Africa. Do you carry a swords? What is the name of your horse? Pls more details to me from Africa crusade, my interest is great. Anywayso good luck to you. Victory to conquest pagans!

I see trust fully you are a kind and honest man. I also want you to kind note that, i, take property for rent to treat as my own for my absolute mentenance. i am a very tidy and neat person.i always stand on my word, too. have trust in me Rev. Johnny.

how can we proceed for keys and property agreement? pls let me know I am very eager to move into flat take care properly.

You are welcome,

DeAnne

Will Rev Johnny respond? How's progress on the West African crusade? What the heck is a drywasher? Answers in the next installment of "It is my gladness!" (*fingers crossed*)

WTF: Robot Teddy Bears

You know how you're just living your life, running from one place to the next, eating canned mackerels over the sink or googling the exes of your exes (or whatever it is that you do), when you're hit with information so incongruous with what you know to be good and right and logical in this world that you stop dead, dropping the canned mackerels or the obsessive/neurotic train of thought that inspires you to virtually check out and subsequently measure yourself and your sense of worth against the people in the past of the people in your past, and you say to yourself WTF? And you actually say, "W.T.F.," not "What the fuck?" which shames the former English Literature major in you and makes you question whether or not you're still living your real life or some abbreviated and flattened version of your life to be later uploaded on Facebook or condensed into a three-line text message and you at least take consolation in the fact that Facebook hasn't yet come up with an eating-stuff-in-cans-over-the-sink application or a who's-googling-people-it's-actually-kind-of-creepy-they're-even-thinking-about application because if it does, you'll be all over that shit like a six-month growth of barnacles on the SS Timewaster? You know that feeling? Who's with me?

I had that feeling recently when I saw Navirobo, a robot teddy bear designed to function as a navigation device. This plush, button-eyed manifestation of WTF is, let me say it again, a robot teddy bear, that from it's place on your dashboard, uses its jointed arms and neck to gesture while providing spoken directions. It can point you toward your destination or point out a turn you just missed. Let us skip over, for the moment, how dangerously distracting it is to have a talking robot teddy bear flailing around on your dashboard, screeching commands and/or mockery at you ("You missed that left! Tee hee!") while you're trying to control a two-ton, moving hunk of machinery.

There's more. Robo-teddy is equipped with sensors that detect reckless driving. If the driver suddenly slams on the brakes, Robo-teddy exclaims, "Watch out!" He also houses an alcohol detection sensor in his neck. If Robo-teddy gets a whiff of the ol' funny juice, he passive-aggressively inquires, "You haven't been drinking, have you?"

Who could possibly want this in their lives? I'm not a particularly hot-headed driver (calling people "sewage-filled, slimy-holed slotwads" when they fail to indicate a left turn in a timely manner is totally normal, right?) but I can easily imagine myself punching Robo-teddy square in his self-satisfied, made-in-China muzzle. Check it out, Ted. If I've slammed on the brakes of my automobile, I've successfully assessed and responded to a potential hazard. Case closed. I may even be a bit shaken up about it, depending on what near-disaster prompted me to slam on those brakes in the first place. (Did a toddler dash in front of the car? Did a tree branch snap off into the road? Was I over enthusiastically lip-synching and making up seated dance moves to "Bleeding Love?") I certainly don't need Can't-Even-Reach-the-Pedals Ted over here to pipe up with a pious "Watch out!" You're not helping, you're just commentating, you no-license-having, fuzz-faced sack of smugness.

Let's say it's a serious situation. A robot teddy bear yelling "Watch out!" at me is not the last thing I need to hear before I enter a vegetative state. The last thing I need to hear before I enter a vegetative state is probably something along the lines of, "Don't worry, you'll still get simple joy from sunshine and ice cream." Why don't the geniuses behind Robo-teddy do something useful and embed that recording, preferably voiced by Morgan Freeman, in every airbag?

And how helpful is the alcohol detection? (Not to mention the fact that you have to pretty much make out with its neck in order for it to detect anything. Check out the video: http://www.engadget.com/2008/06/05/video-fujitsus-navirobot-smells-beer-tells-you-where-to-find/.) Call me a crazy, canned-mackerel-eating neurotic, but I doubt people who are prone to boozing and cruising are the same breed of folks who are going to install a teddy in their car. Perhaps I'm underestimating the purchasing power of the redneck, law-breaking teddy bear lover market.

"You haven't been drinking, have you?" Assuming you're not too drunk to follow that twistedly indirect question ("No, Robo-teddy, I haven't not been not drinking at all!"), if you're still planning on driving home, you're suddenly put in the very surreal position of having to LIE TO A TEDDY BEAR. That's the true indication of your alcohol problem right there. (Checklist: Do you drink more than four nights a week? Do you drink to "get ready" for social occasions? Has your drinking ever caused you to lie to a teddy bear?) And what's Robo-teddy really going to do if you crank up the engine and start weaving your way home, giggle and try to sell you fabric softener?

I can't tell you how disturbing I find the fact that this thing exists. All this time, I thought teddy bears were designed to provide quiet comfort to children as they bounced their way back and forth between Mommy's house and Daddy's under-furnished apartment that always smells like burnt hog dogs. I thought teddy bears were made to serve as collector's items for sexless, middle-aged women from the American Mid-west who use "rouge" and are the sole reason manufacturers of pink sweatshirts with pictures of kittens on them are still in business. I had no idea teddy bears have been waiting to become robotized and slowly take control of our lives, one vehicle at a time.

Clare & Brenda

Hi guys. When I promised to update this blog regularly, I lied. Let's get that out of the way first. So, yes. I am a liar. My pants are on fire. I have already hung them on the telephone wire, in violation of multiple city ordinances. Okay? Can we just move on?

Good. Because the thing that snapped me out of my writing hibernation, in addition to the prospect of mixed metaphors, was this little gem I found written on the back of a postcard, tucked into a book in a used bookstore in Melbourne:

Dear Clare,

Thank you very much for the chance to read this. It's quite inclusive, but the overall effect is of wonderful complexity, rather than indiscriminateness. Amy Witting is especially interesting and of course I love Gillian's style. The Ken Inglis piece is helpful, as I expected. He's so knowledgeable-- I've seen him add so much to seminars.

I loved the Penguin Summer Stories. Thank you. And I hear that A Century of Story has the most remarkable design. I'm looking forward to it.

Love,
Brenda.

"Who cares about someone else's forgotten postcard?" I can hear you grumbling. (That is, if I flatter myself to believe that 1.) someone's reading this, 2.) someone cares enough to have feelings about it, and 3.) someone would then vocalize those feelings in the form of a grumbly inquiry.) But don't you hear it, too? No, not the sound of your own grumbling (it's lovely that you care), but the subtext screaming beneath those well-chosen words! Screaming, I tell you! There's layer 1, of course, but I find layer 2 even more interesting. Here it is, as I understand it:

Dear Clare,
1. Dear Clare
2. My darling Clare, sun and moon to me,

Thank you very much for the chance to read this.
1. Thank you for giving me the excuse to write you.
2. I love you.

It's quite inclusive, but the overall effect is of wonderful complexity, rather than indiscriminateness.
1. I know and make use of many big words, some that contain both suffixes and prefixes. Are you impressed?
2. I ache to show you my wonderful complexity.

Amy Witting is especially interesting and of course I love Gillian's style.
1. I've read very carefully. Or, at least, I give praise to suggest that I have. Impressed?
2. I've always been a woman-loving woman.

The Ken Inglis piece is helpful, as I expected.
1. I'm very familiar with the work of Inglis. Seriously, how impressed are you?
2. I'm not, however, averse to men; I'm not a stereotype, Clare.

He's so knowledgeable-- I've seen him add so much to seminars.
1. Like I said, me and Ingly go way back. Impressive, is it not?
2. I do, however, attend seminars. Some stereotypes are true, Clare.

I loved the Penguin Summer Stories.
1. I even know who published this. Impressed much?
2. Please let me touch you.

Thank you.
1. I am delighted to have had this opportunity to impress you.
2. My fingertips quiver with anticipation at the mere suggestion of your smooth, buttery skin.

And I hear that A Century of Story has the most remarkable design.
1. I'm in the know about other books as well. Welcome to Impressiveville! Population: You!
2. My vagina is opening like a slow-motion rose blossom.

I'm looking forward to it.
1. I'm going to tell you about that book as well. Get ready to be impressed, my little friend.
2. You are my sacred, only, truest true love.

Love,
Brenda.
1. Love, Brenda.
2. I must anchor my name with punctuation mark, my darling, because I am adrift in the sweet, salty, tumultuous sea of Clare.

Lest you guys think I'm being imaginative and fanciful (Oh, how I would love for someone to accuse me of being fanciful! And then slap me lightly on the cheek with a hand-stitched, goat leather glove!), all of this was written in rich black ink on a black-and-white postcard featuring, what? Well-dressed old ladies riding camels. Don't make me spell out the subtext on that, you perverts.

Personal Highlights of 2007

Okay, there's really only one. Sure, I got into Just for Laughs this year, making it possible for my parents to see me perform at an internationally acclaimed comedy festival (Who's an "accident" now, suckers?). Sure, I found true love. (At least I think it's true love; she has the password to my gmail account.) Yes, I debuted on television, garnering fans from as far afield as England and Ottawa. Yes, I made some great friends, with whom I shared holidays and fun nights and poutine-induced indigestion. Indeed, I traveled the southern U.S. of A. with the Dykes of Hazard Comedy Tour, learning way more than I wanted to know about Louisiana. (In the state of Louisiana, same-sex marriages are banned but marriages between cousins are a-okay!) Yes, I grasped the tiny fingers of more than a few tykes, helping them discover both the joy of upright mobility and the tragedy of taking a coffee table to the face. Any of these moments could have been the highlight of 2007, but one moment stands out for me in particular, one very private and personal moment: the day Jodie Foster came out of the closet.

On December 12, 2007, after fiercely guarding her private life for a decade and a half, Jodie Foster finally admitted what we've all known for a long time: she hasn't been in a really kick-ass movie since Silence of the Lambs. I mean, Contact, Panic Room and Flightplan were decent, but Maverick? Really? Anytime Mel Gibson is cast as a "wisecracking gambler," it's going to go from smug to worse. Jodie, Jodie, Jodie. You should have known better. In December, while receiving an award at the Women in Entertainment Power 100 breakfast in L.A., Jodie thanked "my beautiful Cydney" in her acceptance speech.

Jodie didn't actually come right out and say she was gay, but inferences can be made. With a name like "Cydney," the beautiful girl in question is one of three things:

1. A sexy cyborg built by a skinny, Pakistani geek at M.I.T.
2. A spoiled, Upper East Side 2-year-old on her way to a mommy-and-me hot yoga class.
3. A lesbian life partner.

I wager the latter, mostly because I can't see how a spoiled, Upper East Side 2-year-old or a cyborg could have helped Jodie Foster make it onto the Entertainment Power 100 list. That's the kind of milestone one needs some serious homo lovin' to achieve. Or at least some serious life-partnering. While Jodie was busy making movies, someone had to order the imported, Swedish, moose-milk cheese. Someone had to make sure the $750,000 Human Rights Campaign donation cleared. Someone had to schedule the Dead Sea mineral salt scrub spa treatment appointments and send Anne Sweeney a silk-wrapped, diamond-encrusted, organic mango basket. Someone had to polish the 14th century platinum gravy ladle.

Fine. Obviously, I have no idea what Jodie and Cydney's personal life looks like. I'm basing it on lives I've seen, but with more dolla dolla bills thrown into the mix. I also have no idea what dolla dolla bills look like, but I'm basing them on things I've seen thrown at boobs in rap videos.

So, how did lesbians react to the news? Some wept. Some celebrated. Some were like, "Whatevs. When's L-Word season 5 starting? That trans one is hot." I squealed with glee and then felt retroactively vindicated for 17% of my masturbatory fantasies since 1990.

Like many a budding lesbo, I knew Foster was gay before I knew I was gay. Heck, I knew Foster was gay before I even knew what gay WAS. How else can one explain the fact that I spent the whole summer I was 15-turning-16 renting every Jodie Foster movie ever made? I just knew. I knew. There was something kindred in the twinkle in her eye, the way she moved her mouth, the fact that she always looked uncomfortable in a period-piece dress. (Let this be my second and final reference to the film Maverick.) I even saw Bugsy Malone, an all-child gangster musical, in which Jodie plays Tallulah, the creepily flirtatious lead singer of Fat Sam's speakeasy. Lest you skip over the details of that previous sentence, which I will admit is jam-packed with information, let me recap. All-Child. Gangster. Musical. Those are three concepts you don't want to see mixed up in a movie any more than you'd want to see a movie sold as, say, an All-female Plumber Drama. Actually, wait a sec. I would see that. Jodie Foster, Judi Dench, and that trans one from the L-Word starring in an All-female Plumber Drama. Welcome to the other 83% of my masturbatory fantasies from now on.

Many people are criticizing Jodie for waiting so long to come out, but I'm not among them. Because of my careful viewing, I know that she actually came out during the filming of Nell. The thing is, everyone on the set assumed she was practicing the nonsense known as "Nellspeak." Watch for it. Every time Nell looks like an angel with spatial reasoning issues and a low I.Q., cooing "chick-a-bay" over and over, that's actually Foster trying desperately to communicate, "I am gay!" Chick-a-bay: I am gay. Chick-a-wee: I love pussy; I seriously do. No, seriously, I really, really do. I honestly and seriously really do. I love pussy. Seriously.

Apparently Foster met her partner on the set of Sommersby, which didn't surprise me at all. I knew it! I could sense their lesbian love blossoming; that's why I watched that movie eleven times. Or, wait. No. I watched that movie eleven times because Jodie wore her hair in long braids. It's all coming back to me now. Hell yeah, those braids. I challenge you to find any other hairstyle that's as cozy and down home and yet, at the same time, so sexily indicative of finger dexterity. You can't! Unless you count when people shave complex zigzags into the sides of their heads, but I, for one, am not generally attracted to 15-and-a-half-year-old boys. Unless I've mistaken them for lesbians. (Note to lesbians and teenage boys: stop wearing wife-beaters and Converse! You're confusing me.)

Jodie finally admitting that she's batting for Team Chick-a-wee was the absolute highlight of 2007 for me. Suspecting she was and yet unable to confirm it, I haven't been able to relax and enjoy any of her movies, at least in the way they were intended to be enjoyed. While Jodie's on screen, I can't help but whisper lewd comments like, "You trying to make contact? I'll show you where you can make contact. In my pants." Or: "You designed the flight plan? Well, I've got a plan for you to look into. In my pants." The Brave One was difficult to get through in this fashion, though. Expressions like, "You wanna see bloodshed? I've got some bloodshed. In my pants," and "Hey, I'll show you a murderous vigilante. In my pants," don't have as sexy a ring to them.

2007 will always be, for me, the year in which I achieved all of my life-until-now's major goals. I passionately pursued my life's calling, I expanded my capacity to love and be loved, and I found out, for sure, that Jodie Foster is a total, raging dyke. In fact, 2007 was so wonderful that it's given me high hopes for 2008. May this be the year in which I make a living doing one-woman shows, I continue to cultivate romantic and platonic love on a deep and intimate level, and Lisa Simpson grows up, turns real, comes out and marries me. Here's to 2008!

Sweet Japanese Girl

Despite having been steeped in mildly to moderate misogynistic comedy club culture for the past three years, a shred of my former feminist self remains. I was worried there for a minute, when I found myself completely relating to the headliner I worked with last weekend. When, three years ago, I would have found his observations predictable and even sad, a cause for him to reflect upon his relationship to women and perhaps even his relationship to his own sense of sexual shame, last weekend I was listening in the back like, "Yeah, I do know what you mean! Vaginas do look funny! Sometimes they do smell kinda bad! Heh heh heh. Clams! BUCKET of clams! Ha!"

I was worried. I was ashamed. Especially after I high-fived myself.

Apparently, though, there's still an offended feminist within me, awakened by this little gem from the cosmetics company Lush. It's the Sweet Japanese Girl cleanser. (Which my kick-ass friend, Josie Caro, alerted me to.)

It's hard to even know where to begin. Sweet? Japanese? Girl? How sexist! How racist! How insensitive! Sure, some ignorant and disgusting people might like to rub their dirty bodies with a crude representation of a sweet Japanese girl, but what of those of us who are beyond that, who have actually thought about concepts like sexism and racism, who might like their soap to come in the shape of, say, a "Bewildered Indian" or an "Angry Polynesian" girl? I'd like to rub my body with an Angry Polynesian. Hell yeah. Where, I ask, is the soap for people like us?

Shit! Sorry! Damn it! I'm missing my own point, aren't I? See, sometimes the lesbian part of me gets the better of the feminist part of me. It happens. These two women that reside within me—figuratively, of course—conflict, often over American Apparel ads. The feminist part of me will be shocked and outraged that any company would try to peddle its overpriced, shoddy cotton wear by slapping it haphazardly over the exposed crotch areas of droopy-lidded anemic teenagers, while the lesbian part of me thinks, well, it's kinda hot. Then these two women that reside within me—figuratively, of course—confront each other with their points of view. They have to fight it out—figuratively, of course—while I then have to masturbate— figurative...actually, no. Quite literally. Whatever. Don't judge me.

In any case, if you're as offended as I am by Lush's product, let them know! I've collected contact emails from their website for your convenience. Feel free to write your own letter or to copy and paste one of my sample letters.

The first email address, feedback@lush.com, is for "constructive feedback and suggestions." They're probably expecting stuff like, "Wow, ever since I started using Mask of Magnaminty, my pores are unnoticeable! In fact, my pores are so unnoticeable, the actual skin on my face has disappeared! Thanks, Lush, for solving the problem of me having skin and that skin having pores and those pores functioning! P.S. I'm down to a size 0, too, so it's perfect!! I'm not sure I even exist." Here's the letter I'm sending to feedback:

Hi Lush!!

I recently bought your Sweet Japanese Girl facial cleanser. I absolutely loved how the almonds exfoliated my face. I've used plain, roasted almonds as a skin cleanser in the past, but you guys were really smart to put them in a soap, it's way easier!! Also I love how the tea tree oil detoxifies my face, just like your website says! Before that my face was totally toxic and I'd always get that dumb Britney Spears song stuck in my head and she's so gross now ewww. Anyways, I have a small suggestion, tho. Maybe with the Sweet Japanese Girl Soap, in addition to putting in more almonds, which are totally awesome, you could also, like, be a socially conscious company and stop perpetuating racial stereotypes about Japanese girls being sweet! Just a thought! Thanks, Lush!!

The next email address is for "specific complaints or compliments," meaning they won't read it at all, which is obvious by the way they've named the account: rants@lush.com. Here goes:

Hey guys,

I just bought your Sweet Japanese Girl soap and I love it but I did have a problem. I mean, I did it how you guys said, by warming the bar in my hands and rubbing it on my entire face. I removed it with warm water and I followed up with the Tea Tree water facial toner and everything. But I felt like, after using this soap, my skin, especially in the T-zone, was a bit greasier and more sexist and racist than it's ever felt before. I used to use Fresh Farmacy and I didn't have that problem. I mean, a soap shaped like a square probably works one way and one shaped like an exaggeratedly flat, chubby-cheeked, slanty-eyed, no-nosed ethnic "face" probably works a whole other way. Do you think it could be the shape of the soap that makes my skin feel filmy and prejudiced? Let me know! Thanks!

The next address, products@lush.com, is for product-specific questions. They say we should allow up to 72 hours for their reply and they thank us in advance for our patience. Translation: "Corrine, our e-mail intern, gets to this between fetching us Double Tall Soy Lattes and reading depilatory tips in the latest Cosmo. You'll hear back from us when we feel like it." This one was, by far, the most fun to write:

Hey Lush, I have a few questions about Sweet Japanese Girl (SJG). Were you guys being intentionally racist, misogynistic and sexist when you introduced SJG or was that just a coincidence? When between Baby Face and Angels on Bare Skin did you decide it was acceptable to make a grotesquely exaggerated portrayal of a Japanese face? Why does the face look as if it's been bashed in with a frying pan? Or is it supposed to look as if it's been bashed in with a wok? Why doesn't SJG have a nose? Who writes the obviously fake customer reviews on your website? How can you pride yourself on being a "fun & funky" store (no doubt funkier by the use of an ampersand!) when you carry a product that so clearly offends Asians & pretty much any thinking human being? Is thinly vieled racism supposed to be "fun & funky ?" How did SJG pass not just one person, but a supposed TEAM of people, from design to packaging to marketing? Are you interested in having customers? Do you realize that there are over 128 million Japanese people in the world? What the fuck is wrong with you? And why didn't you at least make SJG smell like Soba noodles? Thank you in advance to your answers to any or all of my questions.

Okay, guys, the last email address, support@lush.com, is a contact if you have "a technical issue with the web-site or forum." They say they'll "endeavor to get back to you within 24 hours to either provide a solution or indicate that we are working on this for you." Here's my letter:

Hi Lush,

I'm having a problem with your website. On the page http://usa.lush.com/cgi-bin/lushdb/234?expand=Skincare there's a product called Sweet Japanese Girl. I'm wondering if this is a glitch, maybe something to do with Y2K? I'm from 2008, not 1908, and where I'm from, Japanese people aren't exotic and sweet and cute and but rather just regular people. I'm wondering why this shows up on the website when there are no other comparable offensively stereotypical products, nothing like Hot-Tempered Mexican Girl or Oppressed Arab Girl or Ignorant American Girl. Is it possible that your server's down? Whatever it is, I'd appreciate you working on it. Please get back to me to let me know what solution you can provide. Thanks!

So, guys, those are the letters I've sent. I'll let you know if I hear anything back. If you decide to write to Lush or want to spout off, drop me a comment!

Seasonal Affective Disorder Quiz

Thanks to Daylight Savings Time, we've recently "gained" an hour, and I'm starting to feel the ol' seasonal affective disorder kick in. I mean, did most of you spend the "extra hour" sitting cross-legged in the dark, contemplating all the bad choices you've made in your life so far, feeling vitamin A drain out of your body in inverse proportion to the growing sense that you'll never truly love or be loved? Well, if you think you may have SAD (Aww, isn't that an adorable acronym?), here's a handy quiz you can take to find out for sure!

1. When the sun sets, I am usually:

a.) Whistling as I work. I love work! And whistling! Tweedle tweedle!

b.) Watching Oprah give away 600 thread count, organic, cotton sheet sets to South African orphans.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position.


2. In Winter, I especially like to:

a.) Ski! Give me a brisk day and a snowy mountain and I'm in heaven! Tweedly tweedle!

b.) Watch hockey, snowboarding, and Party of Five reruns.

c.) Cry, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven't left all day.


3. Most of my friends would say I am:

a.) Super fun and a super duper nice person! Tweedle tweedle twee twee!

b.) In control. Robin, Dr. Phil's wife, says I can make deliberate choices that lead to a richer, happier, and more meaningful life.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven't left all day, which is filled with used tissues.


4. One thing that really gets on my nerves is:

a.) Mean people. Boo on meanies! Tweedle weedle wee wee wee!

b.) Commercials.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven't left all day, which is filled with used tissues and an ever increasing amount of Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs.


5. Waking up in the morning, I think:

a.) Wow, Jesus sure did make another blue-ribbon winner of a hum-dingingly glorious day! Tweedle deedle doo!

b.) Did I already miss The View?

c.) Oh, I'm still crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven't left in five days, which is filled with used tissues, an ever increasing amount of Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs, and an unshakable sense that I'm an ultimately useless collection of molecules destined to live out a meaningless existence only to find myself at the end of it--having never even had so much as one decent hair cut-- unloved, unaccomplished and deeply and utterly alone.

Time for scoring!
Mostly (a)s: You can fuck yourself.
Mostly (b)s: Congrats. You're slugging through.
Mostly (c)s: Hey, do you get that cold, empty feeling in your chest? Like no amount of Cool Ranch Doritos or praise or human touch will ever be enough? Well, only about five more months to go.

Hope that was helpful, guys! Happy Daylight Savings Time!

Nanny Square: The Final Chapter

Guys, it's with a heavy heart that I report that this will be the final edition of the Nanny Square saga. It's with an even heavier heart that I report that I (and my wise-assery) have been defeated, fair and nanny square, by Ben Cury.

Here's what I got, a day after sending my last email:

It ok .. the number you send to me is incorrect could you pls confrim the phone number and resend it to me so i can give you call asap .

Rather than rambling on about how much "confrim" is my new favorite word, I'll just show you my reply:

PLS CALL 514.67.3298 URGENT TO DISCUSS NANNY DETAILS.

ALSO, WHAT COLOR IS YOUR BABY? RIGHT NOW CAN ONLY ACCEPT WHITE OR VERY LIGHT BROWN BABIES (ONLY GREEN.HASEL EYES).

THANKS YOU!

I thought-- mistakenly, foolishly-- that pushing the correspondence into creepy, vaguely racist territory would be hilarious. I kind of thought ol' Ben Cury would write back with a "Ha ha ha! You got me!" Well, knowing Ben, it would be more like, "HahaHAHAH. U gets me!!" Instead, less than an hour later, I got this:

White and hasel Eyes , sorry for not getting quickly i promise i will call you today .. also the number you send to me is incomplete check the phone number and email me back

thanks you

Dude just won't quit. And as much as I'd like to give him my phone number and see what he's all about in person, I don't think it would be prudent(1). So, reluctantly, I bid farewell to phrases like "i will likes this to be conclude" and "thanks you" and "bcos." You win this round, Ben Cury. But let me say just one more thing:

I WILL LIKES THIS TO BE CONCLUDE BCOS U ARE TO START BE SCARES ME A LITTLE!! MUST GO NOW URGENT. THANKS YOU.

(1)Actually, that's not quite true. I would do it, but my girlfriend advised against it. I trust her judgment more than I trust mine(2).

(2)Just about this. It's not like I'm co-dependent or anything. I do have a mind of my own (3).

(3)Whether or not I actually have underwear or socks of my own(4).

(4)Or pajama pants or opinions about what I should wear(5).

(5)Which would definitely not include scarves made of feathers wool. Apparently, it "ages" me(6).

(6)As does my CD collection. Can I help it if 1998 was a kick-ass year for music? Erykah Badu, Shawn Colvin, Fiona Apple. A golden year, I tell you, the kind of gold that's spun from unshaven arm pits and reusable, organic cotton menstrual pads(7).

(7)Bonus points to readers who realized as soon as I mentioned my girlfriend that this entry would end with the words "menstrual pads."