Jane Blog

August 31, 2004

Yeah, I’m in the Hospital General De Rio. But the worst part about this whole thing isn’t the rabies, it’s that in my drunken post-bite whirlwind I left my laptop on the beach. So while some idiot with a metal detector (or just eyes that work) is going through all my personal shit on my ibook, I’m on a computer at the nurse’s station and may have just deleted a file of patients and their medications. Oops.

But lemme tell ya, there’s nothing like a li’l rabies scare to speed up a relationship. Actually, they don’t even think it’s rabies, but just in case they shot me up with antibiotics and kept me here to see if I’d start frothing at the mouth. I haven’t yet but I did borrow some shaving cream from an orderly and put it on the corners of my lips and pretended I was frothing for Richard. I thought it was hysterical and was giggling throughout but he got REALLY mad – I’m talkin bulging pulsing thumping forehead vein mad. Richard said that I shouldn’t be joking around like that because I’m in the hospital and then I replied that this is exactly where joking around is needed! Did he not see Patch Adams? (neither did I and I’m sure it blew, but you get the point.) Anyway, I told him that I couldn’t be with someone who yelled at me for making a joke, to which he replied: “It’s only because I care about you and love you.” Yep, he said the “L” word, and he wasn’t talkin about the Showtime series with the cute dykey-dykes. But I was totally stumped and had NO idea how to respond -- say it back? Froth at the mouth s’more? Press the nurse’s call button and ask her? I ended up doing something I’ve never done in my entire life: I shut up. And it worked! (no wonder marlee matlin is married) Richard walked over, apologized and hugged the shit out of me.

Although I’m not sure if I love Richard back yet (guess I’m not as easy that way as I am in the having sex very very soon way), I have a good feeling about things. He’s cute and rich and we’ve had simultaneous orgasms (mine was louder).

So I’m sitting here in my tight blue denim sundress waiting for my official release, which Richard and the doctor are working out right now in the hallway -- but actually, since I don’t speak Portuguese, am not really sure. Oh geez, I hope he’s not a lying sack of shit who’s making a deal to sell my kidneys and other body parts! Maybe he’s not even a banker and he got rich from stealing spleens! I better pick up one of those rings that ejects pepper-spray just in case…. but in the meantime, we're heading off to the Amazon to see rainforest-y crap. (no offense, Sting!) So I'll keep borrowing computers whenever I can to keep you guys posted on how Richard and I are doing... and if I still have all my organs.

By the way, people keep asking me if the fact that I’m in Rio means that “Good Girls Don’t” isn’t coming back. I have no clue, pals. But if you DO want to see more of “Good Girls Don’t”, please write to [email protected]

Meanwhile, I’ll be here and Oxygen has my number in Brazil. So until then… Ciao, fuckers!

August 30, 2004

Well, it turns out I don’t need to know Portuguese because nobody understands a word I’m saying yet I’m having the time of my life. Between smartypants Richard speaking five different languages and my expertise in charades when he’s not around, I’m getting by just fine. Talking is overrated, anyway. And I can always blog to you guys in English to get things off my topless chest. (yes, I’m topless right now on the Copa blogging and drinking beer.... or is it sangria? i'm not sure, am really fucking drunk.)

So it turns out I’m one of the few blonds in Rio so I’m getting plenty of male attention. Very different from L.A. where everybody, including black people and Koreans are blond. Another thing that’s different is that here everyone walks around wearing hardly anything and they’re FAT! I’m serious! Fat women, fat men, fat children… all prancing about in thongs and speedos! So THIS is where my tribe’s been hiding. (Although I’m not as fat as most of them.)

Okay, onto the important stuff: Richard. I might just be in love with him. I’ve never said it, never wrote it, never even thought it -- except once when I saw this cute little pug puppy at the Beverly Center. But that's a different kind of love, I think. Will keep you posted, but so far, so good. We spent the entire weekend sightseeing –- took a chair lift to see a giant Jesus on a big hill (would love to sneak over at 3AM and pierce one of his bigass granite nipples), took a bus to see a favella (village) of people who are very poor yet very happy, not unlike JJ Walker on “Good Times.” And we got our picture taken on a plate in front of the old section of town. So if I ever get really pissed at Richard, I can cover his face with ketchup and pretend his head’s bleeding… or just smash him into pieces against the wall.

Oh, shit! A stray dog just bit me! Richard says I have to stop blogging and go to the hospital cause I might have rabies. Yikes! Bye.

August 27, 2004

Guess where I am now? At the AIRPORT! Late last night Richard called from Brasilia, Brazil (which is not only fun to say but looks cool typed out) to tell me that he had to leave early to set up his bank and that if I fly out tonight he’ll meet me in Rio in the morning for hot love on the Copa… Copacabana… the hottest spot north of Havana. (He actually started singing that which grossed me out a little, but he’s so sweet I’m gonna let it slide. Plus, he really likes me and not just cause I’m easy and small down there.)

So I’m at the airport. I told Marjorie, who freaked and cried and ate the remainder of Frank Jr’s pie (minus the whipped cream, damn her self control!) Then B, D & L came over and they all assured me that I’d be home in no time. Why can’t anyone see me in a happy long lasting relationship? Why can’t I see myself in a happy long lasting relationship? Is it because I’m moody and will fuck anything in sight? Anyhow, everyone drank to me and then kissed me goodbye, and I slipped ‘em all the tongue, including Marjorie. Lizzie wanted more, but I put my foot down. What I don’t need right now is a lezzy encounter with someone with a better body than me. And for the record, if I ever do switch teams, I want a Birkenstock wearin’ electrolysis-hatin’ strong calved lady so I can be the hottie who turns heads!

What I really wish is that Richard was here right now so we could board that plane and join the mile high club. I’ve never done that and always wanted to and it seems like it’ll be really tough now with all the security and stuff… unless it’s with an air marshall, but aren’t they always in disguise? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with cheating on Richard before I even get to Rio, is there? I've only known him for one night and then a weekend. And who knows, he could be 69'ing a bank teller as I sit here diligently blogging. Besides, they say what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. What about what happens in a metal tube in the clouds staying in a metal tube in the clouds? Yeah, I’m a slut. But a slut who’s on the road to being faithful to one guy. Who happens to own a fucking bank. Coincidence? I’m not even sure at this point.

August 26, 2004

Long story short, guess who’s asleep in my bed right now as I blog? Frank Junior. He was actually the LAST guy I thought I’d hear from considering the fact that I fucked his father. But that doesn’t seem to bother him. He said he’s been thinking about me a lot and wants to get together. (And I gotta work fast if I’m supposed to be in Rio in a month.)

Anyway, remember how Frank Sr was a lot of fun and kept me laughing? Well, this just in: Junior’s a sourpuss and I can’t wait till he gets the fuck out of my house (although it’s an apartment but house has more oomph). It started at dinner when he bragged about how he saves money on shampoo by taking friends’ shampoo bottles when they get sick of them. THIS is a selling point?! And then when he got dessert (peach/rhubarb pie extra whipped cream) he couldn’t finish it. What man takes home pie in a doggie bag?! Old ladies do, sometimes kids, occasionally people with stomach problems, but not a grown man! FINISH YOUR FUCKING PIE, BITCH! I know, you’re all probably wondering why he’s in my bed if I have such disdain. Well, after he walked me back here he politely asked to come in for a "glass of water". (Note to virgins: askin for a glass of water means they wanna F you; it’s just pre-foreplay and more romantic than asking to pee.)

So I gave him water and then he showed that he’d inherited Senior’s kissing skills, so, well… he’s in my bed. But right after sex, I mean :03 seconds after, he asked to take a shower. I thought, oh, a clean freak, I’ve had plenty of them, but it gets worse. Junior asked for a fresh washcloth. Do people really use washcloths after seventh grade? I mean, besides children and old ladies and quite possibly midgets – although to them it would seem like a towel… Anyway, I dug one up and he was happier to see that washcloth than he was when he came.

Some other things that got on my nerves: he had socks with martini glasses on them that he was a little TOO proud of and he cleared his throat every nine seconds. Go easy on the dairy products, Mr. Coughee! Oh, and another thing that bugged me? Frank Junior doesn’t know how to use his upper body strength during sex so I felt totally crushed. I feel like telling his father on him.

Richard and Brazil are looking very good right now.

August 25, 2004

So the possibility of my leaving town for a while has hit Marjorie big time. She claims she’s upset because she’ll need to cover both our rents, but I know the truth: She’s bumming that I might’ve found a guy before her. I told her to relax, I’m sure even if I DO go meet Richard we won’t settle down and get married and have a bevy (or collection, you guys pick the plural noun) of miscarriages and whatnot, but she’s convinced that because I SAY it’s not going to happen it will. I’m convinced that cause she said THAT now it won’t.

But I’m not leaving so soon because I’ve gotta build up a big FU for my boss. She’s been paying me shit and having bitchy mood swings and making me sweep dead hair for 2 years, so she’s earned it. And you wonder why you’re single, bitchado!

Also, I have some loose “guy” ends to tie up. I mean, I want to milk this and make a big announcement that I’m going away and then whoever wants to date/sleep/anally violate me (but in a legal, non-Kobe manner) before I leave can. So I called up or emailed or sent a mental message out to deaf Charlie, black Pep Boys boy, guitar teacher guy, mactor (mailman/actor), Frank Sr,, Frank Jr. (remember, I dated both?) split tongue guy and the guy who woke up in my bed that was either a bartender or on grounded for life… and guess who called back? NOBODY! I checked my answering machine from work and Bella’s like eighteen times to make sure the power didn’t go off for a minute and see if I needed to rush home to reset it, but it DIDN’T! Damn! At least if I lived through that hurricane in Florida, I’d have an excuse for the phone not ringing. And hurricanes could be fun and a great opportunity for sex; I mean, what else is there to do during/after a hurricane? I guess you could try getting the tree out of your living room, but you could still do that before and after sex. And if you’re a guy you could pretend that the tree is your cock and capable of crashing through shingles.

Anyhow, I don’t care if I have to blow a cabbie, but I’m having some fun before I hit Rio and sound like a retarded Portuguese-speaking woman.

August 24, 2004

So last night in the middle of a joint and peppermint bubble bath, guess who called? Richard, aka Captain Shitty Kisser, who I intentionally haven’t blogged about because I refuse to get all knotted up and pretzel-y over a guy who hasn’t called. I hate all that “why hasn’t he called when he said he would am I a loser or is he a liar or are we both losers and/or liars damnit I should just go fuck someone else right now” crap. I mean, why go drama queen over a guy who didn’t even know how to kiss before he met me? I’m better off having a drink with the deli guy from Gelson’s who keeps slipping me his number. At least I’d have cold cuts in my fridge. And any guy who cuts tongue must know how to use it.

HOWEVER, not only did Richard call, but apparently he’s opening a bank in Brazil and will be there for six months. And guess who he wants by his side in a thong?! Well, probably Julia Roberts but she’s pregnant, so… ME! Yay, I’m finally living Lizzie’s life! Richard said we’ll be in Rio on weekdays but on weekends we’ll fly to the Amazon to a lodge that’s built on treetops with a great restaurant. I can’t believe I finally get to have sex in a jungle in front of wild animals! Maybe i can learn something from a mandrill! Anyway, I said yes at first, but then I got scared and told Richard that I needed a little time to think. I mean, this means quitting work and relying on a MAN –- what if I get sick of him? And what if I see a cute native and want to have sex with him or her? Then I’m just a big fat brazilian whore! However, after discussing the sitch with M, we decided that I could always support myself by cutting hair in Rio. Or by waxing or threading. A city of dark hairy people in G-strings = plenty o’ hair removal business. So I called back Richard and told him I’ll be there. And he sounded as happy as a man is allowed to sound when he’s in the middle of a board meeting.

Anyway, this hoopla won’t happen for a month or two, so I have some time to pack and steal beauty products from work. Meanwhile, I’d like to give a shout out to a v. cool gal named Kay who hooked me up with this website. Enjoy, girlies and gay men:
www.hotolympians.com

August 23, 2004

Yay, it’s answer Friday but on Monday not friday. Lots of problems this time of year. Maybe it’s because the moon is in its lunar phase of mercury while waxing and waning at parallel lines… yeah, I’m making shit up. But here’s my advice anyway:

Dear Jane,
My boyfriend told me he’s gonna break up with me if I keep asking him if he loves me. He says I need too much reassurance. Do I? What do you think? Am I too insecure? HELP!
Patti
Provo, Utah

Dear Patti,
You’re a mess. Stop it stop it stop it. Would you like it if a guy kept bugging you about how you felt about him? (Come to think of it, I would). But YOU have to stop. He wouldn’t be with you if he didn’t like you! Unless you’re really rich or he’s very gay. Btw, we’re all insecure underneath if it makes you feel better, ya big loser. Kidding, but seriously, stop asking him. And you sound very Jewish, what are you doing in Provo?
xo,
Jane

Dear Jane,
We used to have parties and drink every time someone got laid on GGD! When will it be on again?!!
Trevor
Vineland, New Jersey

Sweet Trevor,
I have no clue. But you could ask Oxygen by writing an email to: [email protected]. And tell ‘em you think I should have sex with George Clooney. Or Justin Timberlake. Or just some really hot guy that can bench-press a lot at Gold’s Gym.
xo,
Jane

Dear Jane,
My sister and I like the same guy. To avoid a family fight, we were thinking of having a 3-way with him. Would that be incest?
Emily
Big Sur, California

Emily,
Yes, sweetie, it’s incest. But the good news… if you two are hot, or better yet, hot twins, tape it and sell it online for $49.99 (a random number, but it seems right, right?) And if you know how to enunciate (must know what that means, too) then call up Howard Stern and get your sisterly butts down there and start a website. Good luck (but only if you’re hot, if not, just have sex and keep it to yourself).
xo,
j

Thassit! Have a super Monday. Go do a summersault in the grass and eat too much. Summer’s almost over so no more bathing suits!! YIPPEE!

August 20, 2004

Yay, it’s Answer Friday. But actually, I’ve decided to do Answer Monday instead because I have a little story to tell about a smog inspection and a Russian boy. For you non-California type people, out here we have smog inspections every year to assure that our vehicles won’t spurt out dirt which makes smog. (And yet, every night at dusk there’s a yellow-brown haze on the horizon, which makes me think I better enjoy life while I can cause I’m doomed in this hip yet polluted state.) Anyway, yesterday me and my entry level car went to a garage next to a carwash for our inspection. And a 30ish burly bearded guy named Vlad strutted out and bragged that he owned the place and then got right to work. I sat down on the only ripped up vinyl chair there and pretended to be into “Car and Driver” magazine (July 2002 issue, I’m a good actress.) Anyway, he kept talking to me, but between his thick accent and the loud as fuck fan sounds, I couldn’t understand a word he said. So I kept asking him to repeat himself, and i STILL couldn’t understand a word he said… so I just smiled and nodded. After he finished revving my car up and grinning a lot, he turned off the fan, handed me a receipt and…

Russian: “What time I pick you up?”
Me: “What?”
Russian: “What time for dinner?”
Me: “Dinner?”
Russian: “You nodded ‘da’ that you like Tunisian food! I know owner, he give us free appetizer!”

Apparently, my nodding and smiling was me agreeing to go out that night with Vlad for dinner. Now a NORMAL person would’ve explained the situation and gotten out of it. But guess what? It’s 2:30 in the morning and I just got home from pigging out on spicy hot lamb and vodka. And I danced on a table, but a candle burnt my skirt so Vlad took me to a boutique next door that was still open and bought me another one for only $5. At the end of the night he put me in a cab (with money, a very 80’s move) and kissed me.

Los Angeles may have its smog, but where else can you meet a Vlad and go shopping at 2AM? Okay, besides New York… and Moscow… and probably Paris… but still, it’s kinda unusual out here on the west coast.

August 19, 2004

Last night after work my boss invited me out for drinks, which totally surprised me because she’s a cold cheap woman. At first I thought she was gonna fire me and wanted to be in a public place where I wouldn’t stab her in the neck with tweezers, but as we drove to the bar I started thinking that maybe she’s gonna tell me that someone’s suing me for sexual harassment – I was a little touchy and such while cutting a cute young blond stand-in’s hair the other day. (He stands-in the for OC chino guy, so can ya blame me?) But it turns out she just wanted to talk cause she’s got a lot going on and is kinda mean so she has no friends.

Her deal is that she’s 38 and is having a crisis over whether or not to have a baby alone. She was living with a guy for years but then he passed away. (this is sad, isn’t it?) Anyway, before he died she got some of his sperm and froze it and recently she went to a fertility clinic and underwent treatment (major shots that she did in her own gut and ass -- I’m impressed!) Then last week she had her eggs retrieved and they fertilized it with his thawed-out sperm. The good news about all of this? The sperm fertilized one egg successfully, so now she and her dead guy have a frozen embryo stored somewhere in Encino. Only now she doesn’t know whether to be implanted with her frozen baby or to wait until she meets someone to impregnate her who’s alive. I offered to have the baby for her (with a hefty price tag attached, plus time and a half when I work on Saturdays, I’m no fool), but she said that wasn’t the issue. She’s just worried about whether or not she can handle being a single mother. I told her that she’d make a great mom no matter what –- so not the truth but she was buying $12 per glass wine and I was buzzed.

But truth be told, I do have more empathy for her now. I don’t know what I’d do if that was me with a frozen baby in Encino and no guy to help with diapers or mixing my martini after pumping boobmilk. Plus, I think she’s lying about her age and is actually 44 and not 38. When I came home and told Marjorie the story, she flipped out in fear that this’ll all happen to her. So I had to calm her down with my last Xanax… which was a VERY unselfish gesture that made me realize that I will make a great mother! Must stop getting abortions. Oh, calm down, I’m kidding… about it being plural.

August 18, 2004

I’d hate to be Michael Phelps right now. Sure, he already has three golds and two bronze, but he’ll STILL be considered a loser when he comes home. I guess that’s what happens when you (or your posse or your mom, or the guy who sold you your goggles) brag that you’re gonna get EIGHT golds and that you’re a fish who’s uncomfortable out of the water. I wonder if Mark Spitz is secretly saying ‘na na na na na’… or some other mocking song that swimmers have developed. And Mark Spitz, not to worry, you’re cuter than Phelps even now, and you’re old. Plus you had to swim with a handicap – that giant mustache which weighed the same as Olga Korbut. And nobody’s looked that good in a Speedo since.

Meanwhile, in my next life when I enter the Olympics it’ll be for gymnastics, because inside, I’m a Tinkerbell, too. And if I were born in Romania I would’ve started training in diapers, and then as soon as I hit ten, I’d be prancing around nervously with a too-tight ponytail and glitter mascara and very broad shoulders for my height. And when I wasn’t performing triple flips and no handed backbends I’d be on the lookout for hot NBA players to party with. Did anyone else see Allen Iverson in the opening parade? He is so sexy! I love a cute thug. BTW: not a big basketball fan, but did he just get a bunch of tattoos?

But back to gymnastics and glitter mascara. I knew since day one that those Romanian pixies would beat team USA. Just look at them, they’re the cutest little bendy ballerinas I’ve ever seen – I’d like to buy a few to put on the top of a cake and make ‘em dance. (That makes no sense, does it? But then again neither does starving yourself so your boobs get stuck inside your ribcage.)

Hey, big congratulations to blogerette Andrea Harner on her engagement. Nice ring, Jonah!