B.Y.O. Lorne Greene By now, you no doubt have heard of my funny and charming bud Adam Heath Avitable.
He recently sent me some very interesting interview questions. My responses can be found right now on his blog where they are waiting to be read.
By you. [Ahem] While you're there, make sure to check out Adam's standup clips and books, including his "50 Shades" parody, "28 Shades of Chartreuse." Heh. Thank you for the fabulous interview, Adam!
I just read that the explosive sales of the steamy 50 SHADES OF GREY have lead to an estimated 300% increase in the sales of sex toys, including the infamous Ben Wa balls of page 362.
As a public service, I shall now read from the book of CHICKtionary, so that all may go forth in erotic edification and participate with confidence in the girl-talk at your PTA meetings, church bake sales and country club locker rooms.
[Hint: Try saying something like, "Oh, you're still putting them there? *eye roll* That's so 1992."]
Ben Wa Balls,noun
In use among a variety of
cultures for centuries, Ben Wa balls and the like are instruments of female
sexual arousal as well as tools used to help increase the strength of the
vaginal muscles.The balls can be made
of a variety of materials and hollow models can contain smaller spheres or even
chimes.(Was that the doorbell?)The balls are inserted into the vagina, where they remain until
removed using an optional retrieval cord or are coughed or sneezed out.For erotic stimulation, a gentle rocking
motion is recommended, although Mr.
Wa has reportedly received
complaints that the balls’ effect is too subtle to be felt.For conditioning of the vaginal muscles, the
balls are held inside the vagina with a clenching motion, taking the definition
of “private training” to its extreme.
So, anyway...[ahem]...have a stimulating weekend and ROCK ON.
Thank you for your recent communication of 4/23/12 (forwarded to me by your corporate legal department and hereinafter known as "the steaming pantload") regarding my recent stay at your hotel while attending the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop.
I would like to take this opportunity to respond to the various allegations therein, allmost some of which are completely without merit and may adversely affect your hotel's score on the guest survey card which I have yet to complete and mail in.
First, it is outrageous and preposterous to assume that my suitcase was responsible for the malfunction and ultimate failure of elevator #3. I believe the security tapes will show that the fault lies not with my sleek, utilitarian baggage but with the housekeeping staff member riding in the elevator with me and struggling under the weight of 3-4 thick, fluffy and obviously highly absorbent bath towels made from an exotic strain of imported cotton known to be both unstable and, well, really heavy.
Second, it saddens me to know that the microwave cozy I crocheted for (keynote speaker and comedy legend) Alan Zweibel and stapled to his hotel room door left him feeling (as your so-called report puts it) "disturbed and anxious" rather than relaxed and heartwarmed as I intended. As for my decision to staple it to his door at 3:14 am, I believe the logic behind that strategy is self-evident. That being said, I really don't see how this matter is any of your bossy hotel security team's business, as Mr. Zweibel has thoughtfully begun a separate correspondence with me regarding this matter. And when I see him in at our appointed court date, I will finally have the opportunity to tell him in person how much I admire his work.
With respect to the cake, I would like to remind you that I am an attendee/presenter in good standing at the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop with all rights and privileges thereof, including - but not limited to - assorted desserts, baked goods and non-dairy creamer. I have reviewed my official workshop documents and have found no language that asserts a fixed limit on the number of desserts an individual attendee may commandeer, assuming those desserts have not yet been laid claim to by another attendee. As those slices of carrot cake were unclaimed at the time I consumed them (fact: not a single person had even entered the ballroom yet when I stumbled across the pieces of cake at tables 14-17), I herewith reject your catering bill of $276.55 and demand that you reverse the charge in the aforementioned amount that you ran on my Mastercard.
Lastly, in the matter of the white school bus, it was my understanding that the bus was no longer in service as a shuttle for workshop attendees at the time I drove that out-of-state drum and bugle corps to Arby's for a late afternoon snack. (Those kids must really have been practicing hard, because I have never seen young people with munchies like this in my life.) I believe a review of the facts will clarify that it was completely beyond my control that the bus ran out of fuel on the way back to the hotel and had to be abandoned on the shoulder of the I-75. And also, if you don't want anyone borrowing your vehicles, you probably shouldn't leave the keys in the lockbox under the registration desk where people can easily find them.
In summation, I have no doubt that we will be able to reach an equitable settlement in the matters above, especially in light of the fact that I have now returned the 769 facial soaps, 412 miniature bottles of body lotion, harvest gold woven blanket and pneumatic desk chair that I mistakenly interpreted to be gratis souvenirs of my stay at your hotel.
Note: please address all future correspondence directly to me, as I have terminated my dealings with my previous counsel (who, it turns out, characterizes an evening of foofy-drink-fueled line dancing followed by a late-night half-stack at the Waffle House out by the airport as a "bizarro, one-off odyssey" rather than the sublime prelude to long-term romance we both knew damn well it was up until that unfortunate incident Saturday morning).
Thank you and good luck,
Anna Lefler
WOW.
So here's the thing: the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop was amazing. (I hesitate to apply this word because it is so overused these days, but this instance calls for it.) Other words come to mind, such as inspirational, humbling, hilarious, educational, magical and poignant. I could go on and on, but I will simply say that, for me, unforgettable is the word that best captures every aspect of my four days and three icing-flecked nights among my fellow humorists and heroes in Dayton.
To the organizers of the workshop who paid me the tremendous honor of inviting me to teach two of the sessions, to the folks who spent their time listening in the audience, to the people who went out of their way to ask questions, share experiences and pay compliments, to the warm and gracious Bombeck family who welcomed me into their company at dinner, and to every attendee and speaker, I would like to say THANK YOU. From my heart.
You can find out more about the workshop at their website. And you can see lots of photos from the weekend on the EBWW Facebook page.
The next workshop will be held in 2014.
See you there.
Dinner with Erma's husband Bill and daughter Betsy.
The scene: An elegant Italian ristorante on the good stretch of Ventura Boulevard. (Let's call it Il Primundo Novo al Allegro Grappa.) A rare date-night opportunity while Morticia and Gomez are at the middle school dance for three glorious, drama-laden hours. Candlelight. Genuine faux-Italian background music and a platoon of grinning waiters displaying theme-appropriate levels of swarthiness.
Jon Bon Jovi (not my husband's real name) and I are shown to a table for two in the front window and we begin to settle in. I slip off my coat and reach around to hang it on the back of my chair...reaching...reaching...a little further...and...
My chest seizes up.
Not in a "next comes the pain down my left arm/cardiac event" kind of way. And not in a "zing! went the strings of my heart/Judy Garland" kind of way.
No, more of a "I just broke my boob" kind of way.
"Hmprhzork," I say, and spin back to a frontal position with both arms across my chest as if 1) I were pledging eternal allegiance to Emperor Vorgon of the Quang Galaxy, or 2) I have just dropped my nunchuks.
"What's the matter with you?" Jon Bon Jovi says, flipping open the menu.
"I...I just blew out a boob," I wheeze.
He slaps the menu down and leans across the table before realizing he has stuck his chin in the genuine Italian candle. He huffs and moves the candle, then leans in again. "How did that happen? I mean," his eyes dart left to right and he lowers his voice, "is that even possible?"
"I don't know! I didn't invent the dang things, I'm just an owner-operator!"
Wincing, I hunch my shoulders forward and rub my chest with my forearms, tongue lolling in the corner of my mouth.
"Stop that!" he says, opening his menu again and trying to cover me with it. "Do you want people to think you're a Kardashian or something?"
"But it hurts!" I attempt to sit up straight. "And it's my dominant boob!"
Jon Bon Jovi freezes. "I'm sorry, your what?"
"You know, my dominant one. The leading lady. The first string. The prima ballerina. The big dog. The--"
"OhmyGodstop," he says, falling back into his chair. "You don't really have a, um, dominant one...do you?" He looks at me like he's wondering whether I'm the kind of person who has a favorite kidney. (Which would be weird. Right?)
"Well, of course I do."
Jon Bon Jovi takes a deep, cleansing breath - the kind he takes when the children and I pause the TV to explain "America's Next Top Model" to him.
"Okay, then. So let me ask you this: what do you call the other, ah, non-dominant one?"
"Hello?!?" I roll my eyes. "It's called the back-up boob? Was I your first girlfriend or something?"
He shakes his head and tosses his napkin in his lap. "Next you'll be telling me they have names."
"Don't be ridiculous," I say with a snort. "They're nicknames."
As you know, I come from a long line of stupidass, and so it was especially fitting that I spent last week fielding questions over at StupidAssQuestions.com.
Here are my thoughtful, penetrating responses to a week's worth of some, um...interesting inquiries.
What can I say? It's just my small way of giving back...
Anna Lefler is an award-winning writer and humorist and the author of THE CHICKTIONARY: FROM A-LINE TO Z-SNAP, THE WORDS EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW (Adams Media, November 2011). Her work has appeared online at Salon.com, McSweeney's, TheBigJewel, MyPheme, FunnyNotSlutty and HumorPress. Anna's essays on modern motherhood have been nationally syndicated and her fiction has been presented onstage by WordTheatre Los Angeles. She has performed standup comedy in Los Angeles clubs including the Hollywood Improv, the Comedy Store, Room 5 Lounge and M Bar. Anna can also be found at www.annalefler.com, where she is trying to stop referring to herself in third person.
