(Insert Loud Fart Noise Here)

 On my bus ride home from work last week, a guy sitting next to me was talking VERY LOUDLY for over 20 minutes about all kinds of personal bullshit. I got to hear about how expensive his Uber rides were becoming lately, so he was resorting to public transportation. He went on to delve into details about his 401K and blab about his finances. He mentioned how if things didn't get better he might be moving back to Minnesota. I started recording him with my phone. He had earbuds in and was staring straight ahead, bellowing on and on. It was just... tacky. Here is a just a sliver:

I posted on facebook about it, and a friend replied: "I know it's crass, but in moments such as the one above, I really wish I could fart at will." GREAT suggestion! What this situation needed was a big, juicy, obnoxious FART! I found an app that will do this for me so next time I will be armed and ready.

Later on that day I saw this on facebook. How poignant.

Kudos to whatever guerilla artist is plastering these on poles. Keep up the good work.

And to that guy on the bus and others like him, (insert loud fart noise here). FUYA!

--Beth

Bite Me Under the Mistletoe

It was a week before Christmas, 2013.

I was outside a fancy restaurant, staring in, watching a couple eat dinner. Breathing on the glass, I pulled a few of my bloodied fingers through the moist steam I'd made on the window. Then I turned away and staggered down the street towards the next dive bar on the itinerary.

Damn this was fun!

An hour earlier I'd been hanging out by the big Christmas tree at Union Square when a police officer came over and told me I'd have to leave. A few people were complaining, and I'd made a child cry.

Sounds bad, however, there were also kids around who I'd made laugh. Even took photos with a couple of the pee wees and their parents. And I wasn't trying to be totally obnoxious. Just waiting for some fellow zombies to show up so we could all hit some bars.

It was my first "Zombie Pub Crawl," and lurching around that night, moaning and groaning down the dark streets of San Francisco from watering hole to watering hole, something inside me exploded with freedom.

I have never cared for "dressing up," I dread thinking about what I'll wear when invited to cocktail parties or weddings. You will never see me in lipstick or sporting heels. I've always been a tomboy and prefer t-shirts and jeans. Being in zombie makeup just felt... natural.

That night all I could think of was... I can't wait to do this AGAIN.

FUYA!!!
 

Faking It

Let's start by me saying that I have absolutely the smallest breasts of any woman I know. I don't own a bra, I can run naked with no discomfort, and men only look me in the eye when we meet. But I would never, ever, EVER consider getting my breasts enlarged.

Imagine I didn't have a hand. You didn't see me for a couple of weeks and when you did, I HAD a hand. Maybe I was wearing extra long sleeves to downplay my new hand but... there it was. I had created a body part where none had previously existed and I wanted you to embrace my faux hand as if it was natural.  I cannot fathom how someone can insert a man made substance under her skin, permanently alter her appearance over the course of an hour, and act like this is perfectly normal. Indeed, most often pretending like it didn't happen at all. 

And when Gisele, the highest paid super model in the world, a woman who has made literally millions of dollars on the physical beauty of her face and body, gets her boobs enlarged, there is something very wrong with this picture. In Brazil they don't call it an enhancement, they call this surgery a "correction".

If your breasts are so large that they cause you pain and discomfort then reducing them via plastic surgery seems a valuable option. But small breasts are not a hare lip that needs to be "corrected." They are not wrong – they just ARE.

--Heather

If You Can't Run In 'Em, Don't Wear 'Em!

Are You Women INSANE??

For this year's Halloween festivities at work, I dressed up as 47 year old Sandy from Grease -- hot pants, red stilettos, and wrinkles.

First of all, I killed it. 

Secondly, any woman that wears high heel shoes on a regular basis is BAT SHIT CRAZY.

Did these shoes make my legs look longer? You betcha. Was it slightly powerful to stand eye to eye with my boss while talking? Sure. And was the trade off of pinched toes, aching arches, and walking in teeny tiny baby steps at a fraction of my normal gait worth it? Hell NO!

For all the gals who say they are more comfortable in these torture devices, I say they have confused the ego boost of male attention with the importance of actually BEING ABLE TO WALK. Just because you have turned your shackles into Jimmy Choo's, it doesn't make you any less of a prisoner.

So yes, I dressed up and was amused for a day. But it isn't funny when huge segments of one gender cripple themselves by choice.

And don't even get me started on the handicapping effects of those long ass painted nails!

 

 

--Heather

OiNK OiNK!

Yeah that's RIGHT. So fucking what?

--Beth

My So NOT Facebook Life

Dear Facebook community, you are pissing me off.

Staying in touch with my friends and family is setting a pretty high bar for the life worth living. And compared to y'all, mine isn’t worth much.

On FB, lives seem to routinely consist of homemade sushi platters, sunny vacations in the Bahamas, and crossing a marathon finish line. Meahwhile, here I am binging on Doritos, driving 8 hours up the drought stricken I5, and slogging through my 5 mile runs.

In the FB world, new moms never wipe up shit during sleep deprived meltdowns; they have blissful babies pictured giggling in contentment with the family dog.

Bickering couples don't exist in this world of anniversary dates with "soul mates" and breakups are as easy and clean as changing the relationship status on your profile page.

Boring Saturday nights spent home alone have transformed into magical "me time" with plenty of crafty projects and DIY home improvements on showcase. My last home home improvement project involved a toilet plunger and a can of Lysol.

Recently, I started volunteering at the local Foodbank. I'm happy to spend some time supporting a great community program but let's get real, the work itself is mundane, boring, and as you know if you've ever spent two hours bent over a bin sorting rotting pears for eventual pig slop, somewhat painful. But my FB post? It will read as follows...

Yay! AWESOME morning spent with my new friends at the foodbank! What a spiritual lift to get in there and get my hands dirty while helping to clean out hunger from my community!! Thank you Foodbank of SB for feeding my soul!!!

If you read between the lines, it just says FuYA.


--Heather

The Revolution Will NOT Be Televised

Years ago I was laying on the couch and got sucked into one of those cable TV show marathons. I sat through like six episodes of MTV's The Real World New Orleans in a ROW. Bleary eyed I suddenly realized I was just watching people LIVING. I couldn't think of anything more pathetic.

Everytime I think I have seen it all and can't be shocked anymore, something stupid like this pops up.

Fucking. Shoot. Me. Now.
--Beth