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FUNNY WOMEN #78: Ambivalent Affirmations

Janine Brito — Tue, 22 May 2012 19:43:52 +0000

Hey ladyfriend, are you going through a breakup? Is your job really hard right now? Is your life nothing more than all-consuming darkness and regret? Then check out these handcrafted household inspirations for the cynical woman in need of a pick-me-up:

“Life is darkest before the dawn or whatever,” etched on a fancy mirror to mount on the ceiling above your bed.
“Life is a gift. Sometimes a shitty one but a gift nonetheless” lavender-scented bathroom candles.
“There are footprints in the sand, maybe it’s a spiritual force but also you have feet, so you could be alone” lilac bath mat.
“I will choose my destiny but given that I don’t have control over a lot of stuff in the world, this may or may not work out and I guess I’m okay with that” butterfly mug.
“This is not the end of your happiness” plug-in fresh scent room deodorizer.
“Fuck it! But in a positive, letting-go way and not in a sad way. Right?” canvas shopping bag.
“We’re still here and somewhat functioning human beings, so I guess we can take solace in that” personalized stationery.
“I become better each day in every way. Unless there’s a Golden Girls marathon on, then I’m probably not leaving the house. But I’m a grown-ass woman who’s allowed to make that call” oversized pajama shirt. On the back is an image of a squished cat, like you sat on it, but don’t worry, it’s on there ironically, and not as a comment on your size. In fact, it’s to show you’re comfortable enough in your own skin to rock that kitsch.
“It gets batter! (as in, I feel like eating cookie dough today)” cookie dough.
“I am beautiful. ‘Cause, seriously, there are millions of people in the world, and surely I’m more attractive than a lot of them. I’m not saying that to put other people down. I’m just being realistic” wicker footstool.

Items will be sold on Etsy because that’s where things made by a lesbian are legally required to go.

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FUNNY WOMEN #77: Penal Codes

Janine Brito, Elissa Bassist, and Jewelie — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 19:14:56 +0000

Following the trend of female lawmakers submitting bills to regulate men’s health, we decided to do the same. We are three straight, gay, single, married, white, Cuban, non-practicing Jewish women, which we think pretty much qualifies us to legislate what all men do with their bodies.

Bill #K679432: The Semen Personhood Act. All ejaculated semen must be frozen and given the fullest opportunity to fertilize an egg counterpart. Government funds shall not to go toward the purchase of tube socks, ShamWows, hotel towels, or other semen-impeding objects.

Bill #H269693: The Penis Probe Act. This act will require men who consider wearing a condom to have an internal ultrasound to inspect viable swimming sperm. Procedure shall be performed via endoscopic camera up the pee-pee hole.

Bill #d0ntbeanassh0le: The It Takes Two So You’d Better Help Me with These Goddamn Kids Acts. Biological fathers shall be required to pay child support. Should the father forgo child-involvement, he shall also be required to give the mother payment equivalent for childcare, lost time for herself, and the extra duties she must perform as a single mother. Failure to pay and/or take responsibility for offspring shall result in penalty of death and/or Teen Mom marathons a lá that creepy scene in A Clockwork Orange.

Bill #H639747: The Pregnancy Chivalry Act. To preserve fetal fitness, men or domestic partners of any gender will be legally responsible for assuming all duties that may impact the optimal mental or physical health of the expectant mother, including but not limited to: housecleaning, grocery shopping, carpooling, laundry, kitty litter changing, parenting of older siblings, managing in-laws, The View watching, PTA duties, heavy lifting, car washing, kvetching, cooking, menstruating, domestic accounting and bill paying, house renovations, holiday card making and sending, and socializing with those goddamn asshole neighbors.

Bill #H7390928779834: The Pregnancy by Proxy Bill. The DNA father of the baby shall be required to abstain from alcohol, drugs, tomfoolery, shenanigans, ballyhoo, and spicy foods, including but not limited to: pickles, lettuce, milk, ground meat, mayonnaise, eggs, tofu, chicken, juice, beans, bread, legumes, vegetables, ice cream, etc.

Bill #H290348203909340973409: The Baby Daddy Bill. Simultaneous to an expectant mother’s positive pregnancy test result, a DNA test will be administered to determine paternity. Once paternity is determined, the father will be legally required to perform according to the Pregnancy Chivalry Act (above), or provide financial equivalent to cover the mental and physical needs of the mother in his absence should she determine that the father, due to his being an asshole, is a factor in her mental or physical unrest during pregnancy.

Bill #P5678: Family Values Rhyme Act. Milk, milk, lemonade. Around the corner fudge is made. Don’t put stuff in that hole, that act will not lead to procreation.

Bill #438w6748: The Sex Worker Act. Anytime a man has sex, he will be required to fill out a W-2 as he is now a prostitute.

Bill #1234: Stud Farm Act. Males of reproductive age will be divided into pedigrees and bred (loaned, rented or sold) according to their assets. Stud farms will be overseen by Janet Reno.

Bill #77: The Pay Gap Act. Effective immediately: all men begin earning seventy-seven cents to the woman’s dollar. Also mandated: a new reverse engineered glass ceiling for men.

Bill #48E967JJ3: The Glossy Men’s Magazine Act. All magazines must have at least one article per issue telling men what to do with their ball hair, leg hair, underarm hair, facial hair (focus on eyebrows, upper lip, and chin), stomach hair, feet hair, and poo-poo hole hair. Effective immediately: crocs, shiny jackets, chin-strap beards, and any such items that render a male completely undesirable shall be outlawed.

Bill #1: The Obvious Act. Men are no longer allowed to tell women what to do.

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FUNNY WOMEN #76: A Person with Severe Social Anxiety Imagines What Will Happen If Seen Tripping on a Sidewalk

Rebecca ONeal — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 19:00:17 +0000

You! Rebecca Victoria O’Neal! I’ve just seen you trip on the sidewalk, confirming a long-held suspicion that you are a Bad Person with Whom I’d Never Hang Out.

You don’t know me, but 100% of our friends are mutual. In confidence, when people who meet rigorous criteria to which you will never be privy are present, it is often said how abnormal you are and that my life is greatly improved for never having had the misfortune of talking to you. I’ve extrapolated from your Facebook pictures, the viewing of which is considered a daring parlor game in fancy company, that you’d be uncoordinated and boring, but I’d not imagined just how upsetting I’d find your clumsiness. All my preconceived prejudices of you have been confirmed today.

I managed to suppress the bile rising in my throat – my reaction to you tripping on the sidewalk – just long enough to Tweet a pithy take-down of your hair, clothes, and station in life. It was immediately Retweeted by your favorite celebrity and unrequited grade school crush (whom we all know are now dating each other). I now have 5,000 new followers, and I will use many of their responses to my Tweet as praise on the jacket of my next novel. I write novels. I hear you’d like to do that, which I find both adorable and very sad.

Your presence and literal misstep here – on this sidewalk – are matters of grave seriousness and have lowered local property values. In our current economic climate, that makes you UnAmerican. I – and the United States Government – will treat this as an act of domestic terrorism. This will come as no surprise to the members of your graduating class who voted you Most Likely to Be a Terrorist & Trip on Sidewalks & Ruin Everything but Also Who Are We Even Talking About Because This Person Was So Insignificant As to Leave No Impression on My Memory and I Will Forget She Ever Existed After This Ballot Is Cast. Forgotten!

Science says that babies are innate judges of worth and character. Accounts of infants weeping at the mention of you tripping on sidewalks have reached potential employers who at first had thought your résumé a prank, but now know it to be a jinx. Each of the companies to which you had the audacity to apply are now either bankrupt or burned to the ground, their proprietors arrested for association with a known terrorist.

It is rare that PETA, the ASPCA, and puppy mills unify on any point, but in a joint press release, the organizations have agreed that you – a person who has just tripped on a public sidewalk – are not a friend to animals.

News of this latest bungle – you tripping in public on the sidewalk – has prompted a former lover to come out and relay displeasure at his own bad judgement and the ungainliness of your body, the dimensions of which have been described to a police sketch artist in hopes that the resulting image can be used in a PSA to warn of the dangers of a sedentary lifestyle.

All of your poor choices up to this point – especially the fact that I’ve just witnessed you tripping on the sidewalk in plain sight – have earned you the shame you now feel. Any rebellion against these feelings would result in further soiling of your already ruined reputation. Please resign your attempts to salvage this day as you have humiliated yourself, your family, your former employers and lovers, and have extended a cloud of suspicion over even friends of friends. An infectious sense of melancholy hangs from you like a foul odor on a black night.

What a coincidence for me, the coolest person you’ll never really know, to have witnessed what you must suspect is your lowest moment – you tripping on this sidewalk. But you will soon view this as a mild embarrassment compared to what are inevitably your many, more monumental failures to come.

As soon as you’re out of earshot – and perhaps a few moments before – everyone you’ve ever met will converge on this point – where you tripped on the sidewalk – to discuss at length what a mark against them it is to have heard of you. Good luck getting a boyfriend now.

Your foolishness – the foolishness that lead you to trip, on the sidewalk no less – is mythical. In the future, unexaggerated tales of your blunders will be thought the fabrications of a long forgotten and superstitious age.

If I had the time, I would outline for you all the ways in which you are uncouth (chief among them being the way you just tripped on the sidewalk). Still, this brief meeting – here on the sidewalk where I saw you trip – has confirmed each charge of ugliness, buffoonery, and untrustworthiness I’ve ever heard laid against you (and the reports have been numerous, the particulars of which I’d dared not give credence until this moment). You will remain in the very peripheries of my life, never to penetrate the coterie of artists, models, genuises, award-winners, and job-havers I call my friends, and I will hold this encounter as the standard by which I select my enemies. For that, and nothing else ever, I thank you for tripping on the sidewalk.

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Welcome to the Girls’ Club

Elissa Bassist — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 22:28:33 +0000

“We’re secretaries fully versed in Derrida, receptionists who have read Proust in French. This is a land of girls. There are always at least ten of ‘us’ for every one of ‘him.’” –Meghan Daum, “Publishing and Other Near-Death Experiences”

Fuck yeah, Meghan Daum.

I learned about the old boys’ club when I took women’s studies classes in college. These were the places to which men would gravitate, clandestinely (to me, from me), to be men, to do men-like things, such as smoke cigars, play on the back nine, continue the gender polarity, etc.

Then I worked in publishing and saw the boys’ club up close and was so indignant about what I called “The Circle Jerk” and was so hurt to be excluded from it…and all that indignation and hurt got me about as far as nowhere.

Oh, and of course I crapped on the women in my field. Like when Lil’ Kim referred to Nicki Minaj as a stupid ho. Jezebel writer Dodai Stewart commented: “There are so few women in hip-hop. Maybe it’s foolish or naively idealistic, but if these ladies would quit being threatened by each other and develop a sense of sisterhood, it might turn into something amazing.” Fuck yeah, Dodai Stewart. The way women feel about other women is how I assume the 1% feel about the 99%: let the weak fight among themselves.

VIDA’s count–which looks at prominent magazines and identifies the gender breakdown of writers, reviewers, and books reviewed–provides evidence of the problem we’re up against. And we’ll get just about as far as nowhere if we don’t woman-up and help each other.

Last week I received an email from Feministing contributor Maya Dusenbery with a link to GOOD magazine’s article Promote Women: Use Your Network to Solve the Gender Gap. Maya wrote, “I’m sure you’ve seen this idea from the great Ann Friedman and Rachel Sklar and Amanda Hess. I am trying to do it.”

The idea: “Stop lamenting and start doing.”

The steps:

1) Think of three women in your industry who are underpaid, underemployed, or under-noticed.
2) Think of three powerful people (of any gender) in your industry who you know personally and who are in a position to hire or assign to women.
3) Compose an email to each of those powerful people individually and recommend a specific woman they should meet, hire, or otherwise work with.
4) Email those women and tell them you’ve recommended them.

The takeaway: “Use your network. Endorse women today.” No vagina left behind!

The followup: “Submit your stories to GOOD’s Tumblr, on Twitter with the #promotewomen hashtag . . . We’ll compile your stories and publish them as inspiration. We have the power to end the gender gap. Take five minutes and send three emails to do something about it.”

Fuck yeah, Ann Friedman and Rachel Sklar! You two should pitch a TV show called Networking Women, with the catch-phrase “Let’s build this network!”

I found another “girls’ club” type article through VIDA’s Facebook page: Institutional sexism of books world needs new girls’ network by Jennifer Weiner.

She says:

“Instead of hoping that someday the boys’ club will open its doors and let us up into the treehouse, we can form our own clubs, define ‘worthy’ our own way, and celebrate the books and voices that we decide deserve celebration.” Fuck YEAH, Jennifer Weiner!

It’s as if Weiner is speaking directly to GOOD’s project when she calls out that ”important publications have male editors. They fill vacancies by word of mouth instead of advertising openings, and hire people they know. Nothing’s going to change until we change the ratio of the people on top, and the people who know people who can open doors.”

Weiner points to writer Anne Trubek who “made an incredibly generous offer, saying, essentially, here’s where I’ve been published. If you are a woman writer who wants to be published in one of these places, email me, and I’ll tell you whom I pitched and how I did it. And other writers have offered their own lists on Twitter. Blogger Alyssa Rosenberg posted a list of 10 women writers who’d be great fits for some of the VIDA publications.”

(I’m sure this is getting old, but I’m still into it…) FUCK YEAH, ANNE TRUBEK!

If you are a woman writer who wants to be published in the Funny Women column, email me at funnywomen at therumpus dot net.

A few more choice quotations from Weiner:

1) “We are going to have to speak up for ourselves, and help each other, if those abysmal ratios are ever going to change.”
2) “In the end, it’s going to take a New Girls’ (and Boys’) Network to counter the Old Boys Network. Men and women committed to change are going to have to step up and speak out.”
3) “Popular women writers might not get the reviews, or the respect – but we do have the readers. These readers are eager to find the next great essay, or novel, or magazine piece, and they trust us to help them find it. I’m committed to using my voice and talking about women writers who aren’t getting the quality or quantity of attention that their male peers receive. In the past few years, I’ve done blogposts, Q&As and I’ve had a lot of success with giveaways, where I ask readers to purchase a book by a female author . . . and then send them one of my books for free.”

Readers: if you purchase a book by a female author, I will send you an air high-five for free.

1) Get your female friends together “at least once a month for an all-out, anything-goes session of nonjudgmental reassurances . . . with friends sharing excessive amounts of admiration, empathy, and encouragement for one another.”
2) Just go “balls out with the confidence-boosting,” partaking “in seven or eight mutual expressions of positive regard.” Bolster “the shit out of [your friend's] self-esteem.”
3) Keep “telling her how fucking talented and beautiful she [is].”

Fuck yeah!

FUNNY WOMEN #75: Behind Every Great Man

Kathleen Harris — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 20:00:36 +0000

To the left is a copy of Benjamin Franklin’s daily schedule, as found in a book. Below is what I imagine Mrs. Franklin’s daily schedule looked like.

5:00 – 7:00 a.m.: Rise, wash Ben’s clothing, feet, and ass; powder Ben’s wig; chop wood for cooking breakfast; feed and clothe Ben’s illegitimate son from one of his many affairs; milk cows; feed chickens and collect eggs; tend to garden; wash linens; repair feather bed; darn socks.

8:00 – 11:00 a.m.: Open Ben’s dry goods store and handle all manner of accounting, sales, and transactions while he sits on the ass I washed earlier; listen to Ben and his crazy ideas “blah blah blah”; chop wood for cooking midday meal.

12:00 – 1:00 p.m.: Prepare midday meal for Ben; stop Stamp Act rioters from burning down our house; apologize to Ben for not listening to his new lending library idea while fending off Stamp Act rioters; listen to Ben prattle on about how much more obedient and affectionate common-law wives are in London.

Benjamin Franklin's Daily Schedule

2:00 – 5:00 p.m.: Clean kitchen and return unused rations to larder; return all correspondence to Ben’s political allies and rivals; birth baby; oversee construction of larger house to accommodate Ben’s library; plan Ben’s upcoming trip overseas for “the big printing press expo.”

6:00 – 9:00 p.m.: Chop wood for supper; prepare supper for Ben and illegitimate stepson; teach illegitimate stepson how to read and write.

10:00 pm – 12:00 a.m.: Put illegitimate stepson to bed; say nothing when that lush Thomas Jefferson shows up unannounced and takes Ben out gallivanting; work on stitching for embroidery sampler while waiting up for Ben; chop wood to prepare snack for Ben and Tommy J., who’ll come back to our place and start talking about “getting the band back together” and jammin’ too loud on the violin and glass armonica outside.

12:00 – 1:00 a.m.: Prepare bed in barn for Tommy J. and endure speech about how many chicks he’d bagged just by saying he was “THAT Declaration of Independence guy”; go into house, wash and dress for bed, and listen to Ben drunkenly ask if I want to see his “lightning rod.”

1:00 – 2:00 a.m.: Climb ladder and check on kite during thunderstorm; write down “Ben’s observations.”

2:00 – 3:00 a.m.: Try to rest.

3:00 – 4:00 a.m.: Kill large spider in barn so Tommy J. stops shrieking; coax his still-drunk ass out of the rafters.

4:00 – 4:45 a.m.: Sleep fitfully.

5:00 – 7:00 a.m.: Rise, wash Ben’s clothing, feet, and ass; powder Ben’s wig; chop wood for cooking breakfast…

Please submit your own funny writing to funnywomen AT therumpus dot net. See first: Funny Women Submission Guidelines.

To read other Funny Women pieces and interviews, see the archives.

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FUNNY WOMEN #74: My Debilitating Anxiety Decodes My Unread Work Emails

Jessica Keefe — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 20:02:28 +0000

When you send me an email, don’t think I don’t know what you’re really saying.

“Hi.”
This sounds friendly at first, sure. But the curt punctuation confirms that the sender is actually pretty pissed off about GOD KNOWS WHAT. I devote the next three hours speculating, pouring over everything I’ve said and done near and around this person in the past six months.

“Great. Thank you!”
This person doesn’t care about me enough to elaborate upon her general feelings of non-hostility towards me. Bitch.

“Thanks.”
This person–probably from HR–smirks with disdain as he writes this email, like my Granny does when she tells me that the fish tacos I convinced her to order at On The Border are “very… different.” Why do I have this effect on people???

“Thanks in advance.”
Why exactly am I such a piece of shit? I wonder if it has something to do with my obsessive personality. Whatever the reason, this person–probably someone recently promoted and proud of it–is sure sick of it. I spend the rest of the day not working, obsessing over this instead.

“Did you put that file on the server?”
This person obviously finds me, you know, just generally boring and awful.

“Could you re-send?”
Do you ever think maybe YOU are the boring and awful one?!

“Hello again…”
Oh, dear god. I am starting to grate on this person. I am the worst, ever. I am inept, careless, clueless. I am caught in a loop of my own elaborately constructed failure.

“Please liaise with the appropriate department.”
This person wishes I’d shove it, immediately.

“Please advise.”
I am disgusting.

“Let me know.”
Everyone knows I forgot to shower this morning. The baby powder that I’m using to conceal my greasy roots smells like a Koala Bear Kare Baby Changing Station in a Wendy’s bathroom.

“See you later.”
Oh, so I should just fuck right off, should I?

“Best,”
No one can’t not wish someone the “best” in an email, so I can’t really assume this means anything positive.

“See below.”
Fine. I’ll just drop dead already.

“Love you.”
Just because one measly person loves me doesn’t mean everyone else in my office/apartment/parents’ house/old college dorm/that Wendy’s bathroom isn’t sitting around talking about what a jackass I am. I need to grow up and get real.

“Cheers.”
Who’s the dick now?

Please submit your own funny writing to funnywomen AT therumpus dot net. See first: Funny Women Submission Guidelines.

To read other Funny Women pieces and interviews, see the archives.

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FUNNY WOMEN #73: How to Write Like a Funny Woman

Elissa Bassist — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 20:42:59 +0000

Recently, I started taking improv classes at Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in New York (founded by the high priestess of funny, Amy Poehler). During each class exercise, I’d think, “This would help my writing.” I compiled a list of writing lessons I learned from Improv 101:

1. Be in a scene (a place, a time, an action). I used to start scenes with a joke and go from there; one day my teacher, the venerable Chelsea Clarke, stopped me and said, “Be rowing a boat.” I began rowing a fake boat, and suddenly, I was a character in a boat; the audience knew where I was and what I was doing.

It’s similarly knee-jerk to start a chapter discussing the metaphysics of unrequited love or whatever, but that’s disorientating to your reader because it’s like soliloquizing in space. Put your reader in a scene. Make one character be unrequitedly in love with another character rowing her boat.

1a. Relatedly, I wrote a chapter that is 80% me talking about my emotions and blowjobs. After an hour-long conversation with an editor about how to organize/overhaul this chapter, she finally said, “Elissa! Get out of the talky headspace, and present [verb] moments, rather than talk on and on about them. Basically, I need to see the blowjob. Take me into the blowjob room.” Take your readers into the blowjob room.

2. Play to the top of your intelligence. I wish I could explain this one better, but I think I just like the phrase, “Play to the top of your intelligence.” (Here is what Google says: ”If your character is stupid, be smart about how you’re stupid,” which I take to mean, be stupid in a specific way).

2a. I am trying to write a book. The book begins with me as a college student, a nineteen-year-old girl. I did a lot of dumb shit at that age. As the writer/present-day narrator (no longer a college student, no longer a teenager), I have to be smart about showing that young girl doing dumb shit.

3. “Yes, and.” Tina Fey’s Bossypants gets this right: “The Rule of Agreement reminds you to ‘respect what your partner has created’ and to at least start from an open-minded place. Start with a YES and see where it takes you. As an improvisor, I always find it jarring when I meet someone in real life whose first answer is no . . . ‘No, I will not hold your hand for a dollar.’ What kind of way is that to live? . . . You are supposed to agree and then add something of your own . . . To me, YES, AND means don’t be afraid to contribute. It’s your responsibility to contribute. Always make sure you’re adding something to the discussion. Your initiations are worthwhile.” Do I agree with Tina Fey? YES, AND I want to be her sister.

3a. Once applied to writing, you’ll be saying to yourself, “Yes, I want to write this emotionally traumatic scene, and I want to write the healing scene that comes a few years later.” “Yes, I want to hear your constructive criticism, and I’m going to make this chapter stronger because of it.” “Yes, this character goes down on that character, and then they switch it up.” “Yes, this horrible thing happened to me, and I’m going to write about it and turn it into the most beautiful piece of literature.” “Yes, I’m going to write a book, and I’m going to write another.”

4. Support your scene partners’ success. This is all about not being a jerk. Applaud your team every single time they/he/she get(s) the courage to do something creative/crazy in front of you and your judging eyes.

4a. Here is a rant:

I used to believe that if someone else is really funny, then I’m obviously less funny. If someone else is the best in the scene, then I’m—if not the worst—not the best, because the best is taken. If another woman in the class is getting better, then I’m getting worse. If she’s succeeding, I’m not. Not true in improv (and life)! A few things to consider: A) The better your scene partner is, the better you are, because you’re trapped on a sinking and/or floating ship together. B) If your ship is sinking, it’s fine because you are not alone. C) Sometimes, to make the scene work, it’s in your benefit to be “the straight man” (this isn’t a homophobic term; it means: the one who isn’t the funny scene-stealing star. “Straight men” are important because they make the scene work, and therefore make the show good; it’s not about them—it’s about their team. “Straight men” are also important for sex.)

4b. How this pertains to writing: it may very well be true that another person is succeeding and you are not experiencing success, but one has nothing to do with the other. There’s not a limited amount of success going around. In what world does it make sense that if I am funny, you are not funny? NO WORLD. We need to believe in, encourage, support, and massage each other’s egos. I believe in you. I believe in what you’re doing. Please keep doing it, and maybe do a little of it near me.
(Sidebar rant to The Rant: There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and I think it’s harder for women than for men, because in men, arrogance is sexy. In women, it’s bitchy. I’m making generalizations based on my own generalizations and those of my friends—this may be hard to accept or you want to argue or say I’m not being objective or I’m being reverse sexist. This female community doesn’t exclude men; what I’m emphasizing is that we need to fortify the female community. There is work to be done. How do I know this? Because I know there’s work to be done inside me. [Insert dirty joke here.])

5. Make strong choices. The more specific you are (“I’m in a graveyard, and I’m a vampire slayer who is also a vampire [real scene that happened to me]“), the stronger you are communicating. If you’re a vampire, try biting your scene partner right away (the strong and obvious choice), instead of what I did, which was to stand still and say, “Hey, I’m a vampire slayer who is also a vampire, so I guess I’m suicidal.” And then I staked myself and died. The scene was over before it began.

5a. I can visualize a strong female lead who likes grilled cheese with American cheese and white bread; I do not have a clear picture of a character who eats food.

6. Don’t be precious. This is another way of saying, “kill your darlings.” Move on. Let go of your expectations. Let’s say you’re planning a great joke, but the scene changes/takes a different direction and the joke no longer works—let it go. Be comfortable letting it be gone forever. Know you’re in the next scene with a new joke, a new opportunity. As Darwin said, “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.” I also like what Will Eno wrote: “Let’s not be precious. The history of plays and the history of the world is a set of the same conversations being had by different people. We’ve all been through them. ‘You are the only one, forever,’ we swear, having sworn it before.” You are the only one, forever, fantastic first sentence; goodbye.

6a. If you can’t kill your darlings, anesthetize/copy & paste them in a separate Word document.

7. Be present. Yoga also says this. If yoga and improv say this, it must be the truest of truths. Not being present in a scene is the real-life nightmare of showing up to a test for which you haven’t studied (and you are naked and your crush is noticing you for the first time and there is shrinkage). Not being present in a yoga pose means you have probably fallen on your sacrum or your shockra or your perineum.

7a. Writing takeaway: When talking about Elizabeth Bishop one day, my poetry teacher, Jennifer Michael Hecht, said she believed only in work created with a high level of concentration. Install the hilariously-named Freedom program that turns off the Internet; place your phone in a drawer; put up a sign that says Mining Coal; do whatever you have to do to be present with your writing. Go into the blowjob room if you have to.

There are a lot of other rules, and I’ll update this as I learn them. Namaste, Funny Women (and that includes men and everyone else).

Please submit your own funny writing to funnywomen AT therumpus dot net. See first: Funny Women Submission Guidelines.

To read other Funny Women pieces and interviews, see the archives.

Follow the column on Twitter: @funny_women

FUNNY WOMEN #72: People We Want to Be and the People We Are

Amy Butcher — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 20:16:37 +0000

When I tend to think about myself, I tend to think that I am okay. My hair is fairly soft, and I have very tiny hands. I don’t necessarily imagine men fantasize about me, but maybe they fantasize about me in certain situations. I can make a good, hearty chili, for example, and my oven-baked layered nachos have been called “better than those at Applebee’s.” Sometimes on Sundays I watch football, and while I don’t fart, I can handle a man who does. I once spent six hours in a car beside a man who did, off and on the entire way, and I made it out of there pretty okay.

This is all to say: I think I am a pretty good catch. If you were to put me in a line with ten other women, I like to think I would be among the top five. If you let the judges smell me, I would make the top three. I have been told, on several occasions, that my scent can be “suffocating” in a way that is good. I know because I asked, because that adjective can go both ways.

So when I went to the party the other night, I imagined I would have a good time. Maybe I would do some flirting, and I most certainly would do some dancing. I didn’t know how to flirt, but I knew it involved laughing at things that were said and leaning in close, pretending I hadn’t heard a man who spoke perfectly clearly. I knew it was important to talk quietly, too, so he couldn’t really hear me, and then he would have to lean in, and that’s when he would smell my fancy papaya-mango soap.

I had been single at that point for some time then for no good reason, as far as I could tell, and what with summer quickly approaching, I was in need of a good spider-killer. The bugs crawl under the crack beneath my door and sometimes I find them in my kitchen in the morning, quarter-sized and dark. They move fast, these spiders, and there’s only so many I can put in my vacuum before it’s full and I’m too scared to unload it. I have Googled, on several occasions, Can spiders survive a vacuum’s suction and Can spiders survive coated in dust and I can’t tell you what it said, because of the photos that got loaded, but it didn’t look too good for me.

My friend who threw the party had a house on the corner of town. She strung a line of neon Christmas lights and hung a disco ball, and the idea was that we were all to get very drunk and then begin to dance. I didn’t like dancing, but knew I could lure a man in much easier by gyrating my hips than with conversation on a couch. I was all about efficiency.

The basement had a make-out room, too—a division furnished with a shower curtain hung along a rod along a doorframe. There were red Christmas lights inside and when my friend first pulled back the curtain, she said she doubted anyone would use the room, but if they wanted to, there it was.

“Because it’s the worst when they do it on the dance floor,” she said, and it seemed a logical argument.

I brought two bottles of wine with me to this party, one for me and one for the sort of man who looked unafraid of bugs, and it was as much a test as anything else because if he partook in the wine then it meant maybe he offered other talents, as well. For example: I always thought it would be handy to have someone around who knew how to make a quality red sauce. I like spaghetti quite a bit, especially when paired with wine, and in the simplest terms it seems a safe bet that a man who drinks wine is a good, good man.

But the problem with the party presented itself immediately: it was full with people I already knew. I hadn’t slept with these people for a handful of good reasons, or I had slept with them and I didn’t wish to sleep with them again. There were two who I had slept with and who had slept with me and who did not wish to sleep with me again, for reasons I find unfathomable, but they would be taken care of when they saw me go into the make-out room with a man with very strong forearms.

The friend who owned the house did have a friend, however, one I didn’t know, and she told me in the kitchen that he built houses for a living.

“A construction worker?” I asked, because that seemed not only promising but sexy.

“Habitat for Humanity,” she said, and that was all she needed to say. A man who builds homes for people who do not have them was as good as gold, and plus I bet he’d feel heavy and strong as he pressed against me, smelling my suffocation.

It was all very promising.

So I went up to the man and said hello. Then I disappeared into the bathroom like planned so my friend could tell him I found him attractive.

When I came back, he was smirking at me, so we finished our drinks and went to the basement. No one else was drunk yet, so we danced alone for a good long while. There was one other person down there—a girl who looked lost—but she went upstairs after a while and it was just the two of us.

“This is the make-out room,” I said, pulling the curtain back as if it was something of my construction.“This is where the people go to make-out.”

He smiled at me, and when it felt good and weird, I pulled the curtain closed again and we resumed dancing. Michael Jackson came on and then Tina Turner, and when R. Kelly’s “Ignition” began to play, I resigned myself to the fact that he would not be coming home with me at all but instead I would have to buy a new vacuum.

Instead, the man put his hands on my hips sort of weirdly, and I pressed my body into his in a way I would later describe to friends as “ballsy.” I pushed him against the wall and put my own hands along his torso, and he was a good kisser, this one. The grip was good—the lip grip—and it seemed likely he could do many things, not the least of which was help a nice girl out with some stinking bugs.

“In here?” he asked, and I let him lead me into the make-out room as if it had been his idea all along. We kissed and kissed and it was beginning to feel good—not scary anymore or helpful but really just pretty darn good. The curtain was open and the only thing I wanted was for someone to come down to see us, maybe one of those guys for whom my affection was not returned, but either way I was pretty happy and either way I was being a really big fucking badass.

I felt his hands go lower and lower so I said, “Should we go?” and he said, “No.” I wasn’t certain I was the type of person to hook up in someone’s basement, even though I always wanted to be that type of person, but his hands kept going lower and I decided it couldn’t hurt to try. He lifted my dress and put his lips against me, and then I felt not awesome but kind of creepy, kind of like a little too easy.

The thing about all of this, I should say, is that generally I’m really into it. Really. Like I said, I am a woman of the twenty-first century, and among the many things I do, I take pleasure in taking pleasure. But this was all wrong, all of it, because this man did not know my name and I did not know his name and if he was to stand in my kitchen and make me red sauce, how in the world would we communicate? Or that’s not what it was about at all—not really, anyway—and instead what it was about was that this man did not know me and he was going down on me anyway, regardless, with a fair amount of fervor. His eagerness and relaxed demeanor suggested this was something he did often, like how a person can untangle a necklace while watching television.

“Um?” I said, because to be in that situation is to not know what to say. “Um,” I said, and then again, “Um?”

“I just want to do this,” he said, and then for no good reason that I can see, I pushed him away and pulled down my dress. I said something coy and smiled real big, then went upstairs and when he joined me on the couch I looked over again and smiled. I gave him this impression like we would resume everything later, and I tried to will myself to do it, thinking, Spiders and strong men and houses, but that still didn’t stop me when twenty minutes later I got up for a drink and never came back. I walked myself home and whacked a spider with a Wiffle ball bat.

I felt guilty and mean, and when I retell the story to friends, I feel guiltier and meaner with each new telling. They laugh and call me a badass, say, “That’s a really badass story,” but really it just feels cruel. And worse yet, the guilt is not the good kind, because what kind of liberated women turns down anonymous oral sex? What kind of reasonably-average women leaves a cute, strong man waiting? He builds houses, for fuck’s sake.

But there are people we want to be and the people we are. And when I next saw my friend, she said the man was hurt, and that he’d really liked me, and that he told her that the next morning over breakfast, which he made.

“Omelets,” she said, “with gruyere and sautéed mushrooms.”

Summer did come, and the spiders came, too, each one bigger and faster than the last. But I am a girl of the twenty-first century, and now I own a Hoover, and last month that guy went down on me, and what the fuck ever, I seriously don’t know.

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FUNNY WOMEN #71: My Attempts at Sexting

Jilly Gagnon — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 11:32:22 +0000

My boyfriend recently informed me that I might be approaching this “sexting” trend wrong. I’m not sure if I agree. See what you think:

SMS Message sent 5:18 PM
Just wanted to remind you that we have penciled in “maybe some sex” for later tonight. Get excited.

SMS Message sent 5:30 PM
Thought a sexy picture might get you in the mood.

SMS Message sent 5:32 PM
Sorry, that was actually a funny license plate I saw earlier. But did you see? It said “ROCK ON,” but on a crap Honda. I’ll try again.

SMS Message sent 5:37 PM
No, that was a picture of the back of my knee. Don’t you see my foot down in the corner?

SMS Message sent 5:38 PM
Well, I think the back of my knee is VERY sexy, and I don’t think the dimpled parts look “nipply.”

SMS Message sent 5:52 PM
Just got home, and there is a seriously funky smell going on.

SMS Message sent 5:55 PM
Ew. No. Not funky “in a sexy way,” funky in a “gagged a little” way.

SMS Message sent 6:02 PM
Gagged again.

SMS Message sent 6:10 PM
I guess I see where you got “nipple” from in that picture, now. But I still think it’s pretty obviously a coyly revealed knee-back.

SMS Message sent 6:44 PM
Just started thinking about cheese trays. Does that turn you on? It seemed like it might turn you on.

SMS Message sent 7:42 PM
Finally figured out what the smell is – burning candles to get rid of it, and to set the MOOD, if you know what I’m saying.

SMS Message sent 7:43 PM
In case you were wondering, it WAS a piece of poop stuck on the cat’s butt-hairs. I owe you five bucks.

SMS Message sent 8:01 PM:
Getting settled on the couch with Tivoed episodes of Barefoot Contessa.

SMS Message sent 8:04 PM:
They just showed a cheese tray on the garden party episode…so if you hurry, maybe I can rouse myself. Sexually.

SMS Message sent 8:07 PM:
Now it’s fish tacos. Too late. If you’re still at work, why not pull up your calendar so we can pencil in something else. How do you feel about next Tuesday?

SMS Message sent 8:10 PM:
Week from Thursday it is.

SMS Message sent 8:11 PM:
If you want to rev yourself up between now and then, why not read over these messages? Rrraaoooww.

SMS Message sent: 8:12 PM:
Sorry if that last one reminds you of the cat poop. It reminded me of the cat poop right after I sent it.

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FUNNY WOMEN #70: Top Vaginal Scents for the Holiday Season

Patricia Mitchell — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 20:12:40 +0000

Okay, ladies, you’ve read our tips on pleasing your man in the bedroom, but over the years many of our faithful readers have written in with the same concern: “I like it when my boyfriend goes down on me, but he doesn’t like how I smell down there. What can I do?” If you’ve asked yourself this question, congratulations: the first step is admitting that your vagina is the problem. Read on for advice on the top vaginal scents –the gift that keeps on giving–and what you can do to emit them.

Roses

The floral symbol of love. For centuries men have been giving women bouquets of this fragrant and erotic flower, and it’s about time we return the favor in our own unique feminine way. Whether by the dozen or a single perfect rose, your man is secretly saying, “I want your vagina to smell like this.” Fortunately there is a myriad of products out there designed to give you that rosy aroma.

Editor’s Pick: Aunt Jessie’s Panty Potpourri ($8)

The Ocean

There’s a fine line between the ocean where your boyfriend whiled away his childhood summers–feeling the first pangs of pubescent love for a bosomy lifeguard–and the ocean where fish poop. If you can strike that happy pH balance, he’s sure to fall in love.

Editor’s Pick: Love Is in the Air Ocean Spray ($10; 2 for $18)

Innocence

This one is pretty self-explanatory. Your man wants your vagina to smell as though it’s never known the outside world, and can you really blame him? Ladies, am I right?! Who among us hasn’t held a sweet sleeping infant in her arms and thought, “If only I had an infant-scented douche!” Well, thanks to the folks over at Parsons-Schmitt, Inc., now you can! The product was made possible when biochemists at MIT isolated and extracted the scent from the stem cells of aborted embryos. Thanks, science!

Editor’s Pick: Baby Your Labia Feminine Cleanse ($45)

New Car

Out of 100 men polled, 17% want your vagina to smell like a new or new-ish car. The great thing about this scent is that it is comes in a convenient 16oz spray can and is available at your local Wal-Mart or auto parts store.

Editor’s Pick: Auto Moods Air Freshener ($3.99-$5.99). Please note: does not protect against STDs or any other kind of infection.

**
Whatever scent you choose, one thing’s for sure: it’s extremely important your vagina does not look, feel, taste, or smell anything like a vagina. In the coming issues we’ll be offering more advice on how to make your cooter tolerable to the opposite sex. Until then, happy douching!
***

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