The Devil's Playground

I just had a very interesting conversation with my mother regarding religion. Specifically why she decided to join the Mormon Church. I have always wondered what made my mother (who was raised Catholic) decide to get involved with the least traditional of Christian sects. The conversation went something like this:

Me: So why did you decide to become Mormon?

Mom: Well, I always felt like I needed to give you kids a good religious foundation. So you could learn about God and Jesus.

Me: OK.

Mom: Oh, and when I first met the missionaries there was a lot of devil worshipping going on in the area.

-Side Note- Growing up we lived in a city called Scotia in upstate New York. As you drove into Scotia you passed a sign that reads, “Scotia, A Village of Fine Homes.” Scotia was not a place you would ever EVER associate with children sacrificing cats and such in the basement. How my mother had her finger on the pulse of the devil worshipping community in any event is beyond me…

Me: Come again?

Mom: Yeah, there was lots of devil worshipping, and I just wanted you kids to know that there were other options.

Me: Other options than devil worshipping?

Mom: Uh huh. I just thought you needed to know that you didn’t have to worship the devil. There were other good choices for religion out there.

Me: So you joined the Mormon Church because you were afraid Kerry (my sister) and I would become devil worshippers.

Mom: I just wanted you to know that you had other options.

Me: Other than devil worship you mean. Were you really worried we were going to become Satanists?

Mom: Well I just think it’s important to know there are other options.

Me: Laughing hysterically.

I thought her reasoning was equal parts crazy, hilarious, and touching. While neither of us are currently involved in any church, some good must have come from my time as a Mormon. Namely I never became a devil worshipper. I suppose as a parent you have lots of things to worry about. I just had no idea that your children becoming devil worshipers was one of them.

Cliffs Notes for the Weekend, Part Deux.

1. I learned how to modern dance. All you have to do is run around barefoot in tight clothing and find your most dull, boring friend (Astonishingly Dim Paige perhaps…) and get her to read from the phone book, as you run around aimlessly, flailing your arms. Or you can run around aimlessly while holding a sheet in the air between both hands. Or you can run around aimlessly with a group of your friends. Moral of the story: Modern dance blows.

2. Champagne, pumpkin pie and yoga are not friends. In fact, they are bitter enemies. Likewise for turkey, champagne and treadmills.

3. Never, ever invite two lesbian ex-lovers to Thanksgiving. Only invite the cool one. Enough said.

4. Taking photos in a snowstorm = no fun for anybody.

5. Ruth can put on a Thanksgiving Dinner like no other. There were two turkeys, and a ham for eight of us. That’s my kind of Thankgiving!

6. RENT, the movie, really did feel like it lasted 525,600 minutes.

7. I still hate musicals.

8. Made for T.V. adaptations of great books should also be left at Blockbuster. They can keep LL Cool J company.

9. Even though your camera phone may have a little mirror on it for self-portraits, never ever take advantage of this feature. It will only hurt your self-esteem.

10. Spencer and company are possibly the most hilarious people west of the Mississippi.

11. Angela is fab!

12. Big jerks in red jackets, with hair plugs and ugly, big haired, buck toothed girlfriends, will literally knock you out of the way to get a diet coke at the movie theater.

13. I think the dead mouse’s family is staking my house out for revenge.

Gobble Gobble

On this day of giving thanks, I have decided on the one thing I am MOST thankful for. Drumroll please….I am most thankful to be living on a my own, no roommates, no dirty dishes left in the sink. No movie nights that start at 2am. Living alone is pure bliss. Looking back on life since I moved out of my mothers house, I have had my fair share of really crappy roommates.

Runner up for worst roommate is psycho Adam. Adam was Hispanic, closeted and in love with one of my other roommates. He would wait on him hand and foot. Get up early in the morning, sneak into his bedroom and sleep on the floor until he woke up so he could make him breakfast in bed. Bought him all of his groceries. Threatened to commit suicide once a week and kept an honest to goodness hatchet under his bed. I kid you not my friends. While living with him, I feared for my life.

I’ve also had drug dealer roommates, roommates who would only scream to each other from their bedrooms as a means of communication. Talking was not allowed. I’ve had roommates who had sex with people from the internet. Frequently. Roommates with giant chalkboards on their wall on which they would scribble random thoughts. Thoughts like, “It’s not my fault.” “Don’t blame your father.” One time he even wrote his girlfriends name on the chalkboard over 200 times. Like I said, I’ve had my fair share of bad roommates.

By far the worst roommate EVER was my roommate A.R.T. His name wasn’t actually A.R.T. but as he was Chinese, and spoke no English that was what I decided to call him. A.R.T. stands for Asian RoommaTe. I will be the first to admit I was not thrilled about having a Chinese roommate. I have always had a bit of a sore spot in my heart for Chinese people. My prejudice started when I was about 12 and visiting the happiest place on earth. Disney World. We rode the rides, ate the food, saw the shows. It was heaven. Until Splash Mountain. At the end of the ride, your log shaped car travels under a bridge. On the bridge are squirt guns that very closely resemble fire hoses. Fire hoses that pump out roughly a half million gallons of ice cold water. These cannons are strategically placed for the humiliation of those dumb enough to go on this ride. For two quarters you can cause a small child extreme and lingering trauma, a distaste for all amusement park water rides, and possible drowning. As we drew closer to the bridge I could see the Asian tourists and think, “Shit.” Next thing I know I am being hosed down by said tourists as they shout, “Get the fat one! Spray fat one!” Two things happened that day. 1. I forever swore off all water rides. 2. I gained a loathing for Asians. But just the ones straight from Asia.

So in moves A.R.T. Keep in mind, nobody told us about A.R.T. in advance. Our landlord just decided to move him in. Ps. The landlord at the time was a Japanese woman named…wait for it, wait for it…Fung Yu. No lie. Her name was Fung Yu. Anyhow, I come home from work and it’s Panda Express in my kitchen. The smell was indescribable. It was like someone had taken a rotting fish, smeared dog poo all over it, set it in the sun for a couple of months, then pan fried it. I nearly passed out. After opening every window in the apartment, I confronted the cause of the odor. Within a few seconds I realize he speaks no English at all. At this point I come to one of two conclusions. Either one of my roommates is playing a really cruel practical joke on me, or this is a new roommate. I was hoping for someone to jump out from behind the couch screaming, “You got PUNKED!” It didn’t happen.

My biggest issue with A.R.T. was the smell of his cooking. I would walk in the house every day to a different odor. Some would make me want to vomit. Some days I walked into the apartment and swore someone had just thrown a brick straight at my head. Others would make it impossible to breathe, and some would merely make your eyes water. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to smell like this. I’d be known at work at “That stinky guy.” Nobody wants to be “That stinky guy.”

I eventually became a crazy person, and disabled our stove. Permanently. A boys gotta do, what a boys gotta do. Not two days later the smell was back. I didn’t understand. My confusion was overwhelmed by a sudden blinding rage. Where was it coming from? I became a man possessed. The stove was still disabled. The burners were cold. Was this smell karmic? Did the universe hate me so much that it would curse my apartment with phantom smells of kim chee? I sniffed and sniffed and followed my nose to A.R.T’s bedroom door. The smell was coming from his bedroom! What? How? What? Pounding on his door elicited an immediate response. Opening the door wearing nothing but white hanes briefs, yellowed from lack of washing, stood A.R.T. with an electric hot plate in his hand. I gave him the patented Chris Lavoie death glare. “You have two choices,” I said. “Either stop cooking in this house or I’ll beat you to death with that hot plate!.” I turned and walked away. Some sentiments cross the language barrier very easily.

A.R.T. was eventually evicted for not paying his rent. I would like to think I had something to do with it, but sadly I don’t think I did. Looking back at my time with A.R.T. I learned that sometimes the world plays mean jokes on you. Sometimes the world flips you an apartment sized middle finger, and says "Fung YU."

It is EXTREMELY URGENT that you read this post.

It’s Saturday. I get a voice mail. It’s from my bank. Specifically a woman named Bethany. Bethany says, “Mr. Lavoie, it is EXTREMELY URGENT that you call me back today. Thank you.” She leaves her number and hangs up. I don’t get this message until 4pm on Saturday and my bank is closed for the weekend. What could Bethany be calling about? Has someone stolen my credit card number? I have been doing a lot of internet shopping lately. In the back on my mind I have wondered, “How secure is internet shopping, really?” Are they calling because I’ve missed a payment, bounced a check? Did they object to the wasabi colored faux fur throw I had purchased?

Did a burglar show up demanding only the money from my account? “I’m sorry Mr. Lavoie but he specifically said he only wanted your money.” I can hear the shrug of the shoulders over the phone. “There’s nothing we can do. So sorry you’re poor now. Ok then. Buh-bye”

What could they want?? My Saturday, my day of lattes, shopping, manicures and relaxation has been ruined.

First thing Monday morning I call the bank, expecting the worst. The phone call goes like this:

Me: Um, hi. My name is Chris Lavoie. Bethany left me a message.

Receptionist: Ohhhh. Yes. One moment.

In My Head: Oh no! Even the receptionist seems to know what I’m calling for. This is going to be even worse than I thought.

Bethany: Mr. Lavoie. I’m so glad you called me back.

Me: OK. Is something wrong?

Bethany: Oh, well, um I was calling because I wanted to know if you would be interested in donating money to Helping Soles, a charity for children with no shoes.

Me: Seriously?

Bethany: Uh huh.

Me: No seriously? That is what your message was about? The EXTREMELY URGENT message was about shoes for poor people?

Bethany: Yes.

Me: Hung up phone.

Talk about the girl who cried wolf. People should not be allowed to use the words EXTREMELY URGENT unless the matter truly is extremely urgent. Items that would fall into this category would be: Death in the Family. Threat of Nuclear attack. Outbreak of bird flu. A serial killer has broken out of prison. Shoes for homeless people, while unfortunate, does not fall into the EXTREMELY URGENT column in my book.

Bethany, if you happen to read this, not only did your little message not inspire me to donate money to buy shoes for children, it kind of makes me want to go and steal shoes from children. So, let this be a lesson, Bethany. An EXTREMELY URGENT lesson…

Once you go black...

A couple of weeks ago I woke up and thought, “I want to dye my hair black.” I enlisted the help of Shoshuna, who recommended instead of going black, I go dark brown first. This made sense to me, so we buy the hair dye, and I proceed to dye my hair dark brown. I woke up the next morning and noticed in the bathroom mirror that my hair was back to normal. Thinking the color rubbed off onto my pillowcase I ran back into my bedroom, but the pillowcases were mysteriously dye free. All I can figure is that the dye absorbed into my head, and I now have a dark brown skull, which Vogue says is quite fashionable in Paris this year.

Fast forward one week, and I decide to dye my hair again. Alone. And this time I am going all the way.

The color I choose is called black leather. “Sleek…Bold…Dangerous. Do you dare go this dark?” the package reads.

“Oh yes I do dare,” I think to myself. "Bring it on, L'Oreal!"

I was however slightly concerned about the dye staining my scalp as there is not much hair on top of my head to hide a dyed black scalp. My friend Susan, who also dyes her hair black, offered me some sage advice. Before I share this advice, just let me say that I am normally a very rational person. I think things through. She tells me that Windex will remove the stains. “Windex?” I think. “Yeah. That makes sense to me.” Who knows why I didn’t question this line of thought further. This is not one of my proudest moments. It comes in a close second to the time I was making mashed potatoes with an electric mixer, which I accidentally unplugged from the wall. I walk over to the outlet, and plug the mixer back in without turning the mixers off. I inserted the plugs back into the wall and the mixers whir back to life splattering potatoes all over me, and the entire kitchen. Walls, ceiling, windows, floor, everywhere. All I can say about both situations is this: At the time it made total sense.

Back to the matter at hand. I go into my bathroom, put on an old t-shirt and slather jet black dye all over my head. Looking in the mirror I feel quite pleased with myself. I feel so independent, so free spirited. “Ooohh,” I think to myself, “Look how dark it is already.” I notice a little dye on my ear, wipe if off with a towel and notice a small stain. “Oh well. No worries, I have my Windex.” Squirt, squirt goes the Windex onto a paper towel. Rub, rub goes the paper towel on my ear. Sh*t, sh*t goes my mouth as I see that Windex does absolutely nothing to remove the dye from my ear! I look in horror at a head completely covered in black dye. I sprint to the shower and jump in, clothes and all, and frantically start scrubbing my head. I wash my head with shampoo, face wash, body wash, more shampoo, some soap and more shampoo for good measure. The entire time I’m thinking, “I’m so screwed. I’m going to look like that guy who sold spray-on-hair in the infomercials.”

Luckily, by the next morning the dye stains are much less noticeable. I’m thinking my extra absorbent head has sucked in the black dye, and mixed it with the brown dye. I’m fairly certain I now have a leopard print skull. After 4 more showers, and half a bottle of shampoo I have a normal looking head once again and fantastic black dyed hair.

Poo in the PURSE!

This is a true story related to me by a friend that I thought was so hilarious that it must be added to the blog. STAT!

While at a party with friends, a woman needed to use the restroom. She asked where the bathroom was (down the hall and to the right) and went to use the facilities. She had to go number 2, and when she was all finished realized that the toilet wasn’t working. It just wouldn’t flush.

A few minutes later, the woman comes out of the bathroom and makes a b-line for her boyfriend.

“Poo in the purse.” She whispers. “Poo in the purse.”

“What?” Her boyfriend asks.

“I have Poo in my purse. We have to leave. NOW.”

The couple leaves the party. The boyfriend looking very confused, the girlfriend practically running with her arm straight in front of her holding the purse.

Everyone finds out later that the girl who used the bathroom was too embarrassed to tell the host of the party her toilet was broken, and she’d been forced to leave a little present in the bathroom for her. So, instead she fished her little present out of the toilet with HER HAND, and wrapped it up, mummy like, with toilet paper. After the little bundle of joy was properly wrapped up with an entire roll of toilet paper, she realized she had nowhere to put the poo mummy. Naturally she decided the best course of action was to put it in her purse.

Out of the bathroom she walked with King Poopenkhamen in her bag. Straight to her boyfriend, and then out of the party. To this day she still won’t tell anyone what she did with the poo.

This story demonstrates that no matter how old you are, no matter what your station in life, a good story about poo can always make you laugh!

Cliffs Notes for the Weekend

1. Discovered tealights can double as firebombs. Am sending a box of them to the troops in Iraq on Monday.

2. Exterminated a colony of dust bunnies living under my dining room table. Still not sure where they came from as I vacuum like 3 times a week.

3. Dyed my hair black. Ps. Even if you only have a little bit of hair, it is still possible to dye it.

4. Shopped in Park City. Talked a friend into a buying a fab Coach purse.

5. Got lost trying to find Nordstrom Rack. Prevailed and found it and bought two great pairs of shoes.

6. Garnered good shopping Karma by giving away a great parking space. Because of this kindness found the above mentioned shoes.

7. Rediscovered my love of Bellini’s.

8. Watched my friend Sho ask the same woman two times, in two different places in the store, at two different times for help at Old Navy only to discover that the woman didn’t work there.

9. Found a dead mouse in my driveway. Nearly went into germ induced coma. Can you get bird flu from dead mice??

10. Accidentally drove over dead mouse in my driveway. Oh sh*t.

11. Re-learned that if LL Cool J is starring in a movie, that movie should be left at Blockbuster.

12. Dead mouse disappeared from driveway. I believe another result of good Karma from giving away a parking space. A really really good parking space.

The Vagina Monologues

You know how the Chinese name each year after an animal? Year of the Rooster. Year of the Dragon. Well, for me, last month was Month of the Vagina.

It all started with a co-worker. She came in to work one morning and told me she had to ask me a question. “But you can’t react in any way! You can’t laugh or smile or make jokes or ask me any questions.” Curious as to what the question was, I agreed to the conditions.

Looking over her right, then left shoulder to be sure nobody was within earshot she asked, “What does this word mean?” From her pocket she pulls out a post it, and slides it across my desk face down. I pick up the post it, flip it over and scrawled on the small piece of yellow paper was the word. Before I say what the word was, I first have to say how much I hate this word. The word was poontang. I think I stopped breathing for a second and my head nearly popped from holding in the laughter. I had 3 million clever things to say and I had agreed not to say any of them! This was torture.

I looked up at her and said, “Go back to your desk. We’ll discuss this via e-mail.” I explained to her that it was a very crude word for girl parts. She writes back, “Which girl parts?” I write back, “If your body is a globe, South America.” She writes back, “Oh.” I type, "It's just as dirty as the "C" word." She replies, "What's the "C" word?" Oh hell. Then start the million questions. Why is it called that? Who made that word up? Why is it so dirty? On and on it went until finally I sent her to the authority on all things ghetto. Urbandictionary.com. I read the definitions first to be sure they would answer all of her questions, and with the exception of one entry that talked about losing car keys, they were spot on.

Fast forward to a week later and I’m sitting at a business dinner with a group of meeting planners. We talked about the usual things at dinner. Properties we’d worked at in the past, favorite hotels, least favorite hotels, our families, sex parties…Insert sound of a skipping record. WHAT? Sex parties? They are called different things around the country like “Slumber parties”, “Girls night out parties”, and my personal favorite, “F***erwear parties.” Basically a group of women get together, drink a load of wine, buy sex toys and pee themselves laughing. Sounds fun right? The true fun happens when the same group of women includes a male stranger (aka ME) in this conversation. I learned things about the female anatomy that I never wanted to know, and will never need to know. The worst part of all was learning about “The Man in The Boat.” For those who don’t know what “The Man in The Boat” is, I’m not sure even the urban dictionary will be able to help you.