My family lives on the outskirts of a very small, peculiar little town in northwest Washington State. Lynden, population 9200, was founded by Dutch farmers, and is now inhabited solely by whom I assume to be the descendants of those same Dutch farmers. My parents were aware of the town's wacky nature when they moved to Lynden nine years ago, but after years spent moving around to various military bases around the world, they craved the solitude and the strong roots that the northwest countryside could provide them. Since I had already gone off to college when my parents settled down there, I never got the chance to fully experience what day to day life was like in the sleepy little town of Lynden. My parents are aware of the humor I find in some of the odd characteristics of small town life, and routinely fill me in on some of the funnier anecdotes of life in Lynden. One of the funniest I've seen to date crossed my path this past weekend.
In a town with a non-existant crime rate, no movie theater, and a law that states that you can't consume alcohol and dance in the same establishment, you can imagine that the local newspaper reporters would be a bit starved for any actual news to report. For instance, the police report on any given day will contain accounts of "malicious mischeif heard at 9pm," detailed reports of tractors hitting parked cars, and mysterious accidents involving manure spreading machines. Often times, lengthy interviews with 4H and Future Farmers of America award winners take up a considerable portion of the front page. Due to this lack of anything AT ALL to report, it is not rare for the section entitled the "Farm Report," to completely dwarf the entire Lynden Tribune. It was in this "Farm Report" that my parents found what I consider one of the funniest, and most bizarre pieces of journalism that my eyes have ever seen:
My Father informed me that, while waiting in line at the hardware store, he overheard one of the local dairy farmers telling his buddy that Paradise the Cow lives in a fancy, well-equipped barn all by herself and is coddled and cared for all the day long. When my Dad told me this little fact, I immediately pictured Paradise the Cow lounging around on a plush bed covered in pink satin sheets, her owners feeding her gourmet hay on silver platters. What a charmed life for a cow to lead. If some twist of fate forces me to have to move to Lynden, my only wish is that I might have it as good as Paradise.
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Bitch-Sessions Facelift
By Jen
Thanks to Glenda, our wildly talented web-designer...Bitch-Sessions has a brand-spankin' new look. Check it out, and let us know what you think!
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“It’s MINE. And You’ve Ruined It!”
By GxxP
These are the words that were uttered to me by one god-like model boy at the Gotham Magazine holiday party last night. In accordance with my new rule that I will no longer run away from attractive men and will look them in the eye, speak to them, and (if I’m lucky) touch them, I engaged in a dance with a beautifully-toothed, silky-maned hottie. He, picture-perfect; and I, five drinks into the night, made a curious pair on the dance floor. He was a rather uninspiring dancer, so I spiced things up by running my hands all over his waistline and twisting his white Polo turtleneck sweater into knots. “Interesting choice, your white sweater,” I said to him. No stranger to compliments, he smiled sexily, with perfect white teeth to match his perfect white sweater, and said, “Do you like it?”
Ever the temptress, I replied with, “No. I’m actually surprised no one has spilled anything on it yet.” Speaking from experience, I had earlier spilled a martini down my shirt while attempting a back bend.
Still, my remark did not drive my young Adonis away. I did however see my friend Manny trying to make an escape, so I screamed across the dance floor for him to return. The last words he had spoken to me were, “You’re getting a bit aggressive with that boy. You might want to back off a bit.”
I did not heed Manny’s advice. Instead I plucked the champagne glass out of Adonis’s right hand (his left hand clutched a martini) and drew it to his lips, although not in the manner of one who is looking to seduce, but rather in the manner of one who is putting out a small grease fire. I poured the remaining bubbly down his throat, and was surprised when he scampered off to the nearby bar to replenish it. I thought I was doing him a favor, as he had been double-fisting throughout the duration of our dance and I was hoping to free up a hand, should he choose to reciprocate the manhandling. In response to his abrupt exodus from the dance floor, I followed him to the bar and apologized for the champagne incident, asking if it had belonged to someone else.
With a pouty, petulant, perfect-periodontic face, he whined, “It’s MINE. And you've ruined it!”
There wasn’t much I could do at that point. So I grabbed Manny, who had loyally stayed close by, and we laughed about the incident while we danced for the next couple of songs. Manny was a much more interesting dance partner anyway – on the two occasions that he fell down, he played it off as if it were part of the performance.
For the remainder of the night, whenever there was a lull in conversation I would explode with, “It’s MINE. And you've ruined it!” We didn't see Adonis again, but he nevertheless kept us entertained.
Models can be such babies sometimes. Sheesh.
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We Have Googlability
By GxxP
Months ago, I initiated a little game with Jen, Jerry, and Stevie that we coined the Google Game. It all began with an innocent search for photos of a recent date who had, along with his sister, been a prize-winning figure skater in the 80’s. To my dismay, I did not find any links to his career on the ice, but I did find multiple listings on Google that linked to financial articles he had written for work.
Realizing that was a lot less interesting than photos of my date in tights, I moved on to a search for a recent fling, hoping I would find something fun.
All that yielded was his high school lacrosse record.
Not one to give up easily, I Googled a crush of mine, and discovered that he was in a band I hadn’t known about (complete with ultra sexy photos), was trained as a classical pianist, and had submitted a review of his trip to Thailand on a travel site. Satisfied, I stopped there, but decided to create a new rule for myself.
All of the men I become romantically involved with should be Googlable.
Google has risen from the hodgepodge of search engines as a clear leader. Its simplicity of form and cute little name have made it the go-to place for useful (and useless) facts among techies and laymen alike. If your name shows up on Google, whether for a report you penned for your job or a song your college boyfriend dedicated to you, you have, in some way, made it.
As I played the Google Game that day in May, I voiced a wish to my friends. Not only did I want my men to be Googlable, but I too, wanted to be Googlable someday.
Six months later I am pleased to say that thanks to this site, I have joined the ranks of my lacrosse-playing, rock’n’rolling, financial-report-writing brethren. I. Am. Googlable.
And thanks to an article published yesterday by Reuters journalist Eric Auchard, the trend will likely continue. A special thanks to Eric for giving Bitch-Sessions, and the art of weblogging, some air time.
http://biz.yahoo.com/rc/021113/column_livewire_1.html
Many happy search results.
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Images From Last Night That I Still Cannot Shake From My Head
By GxxP
Last night Jen's friend from high school, who is now a cop in LA, came to visit us in the Big Apple. Somehow what started off as an innocent night of drinking became one of the biggest debacles I’ve witnessed in a while. We were playing pool, singing along to our favorite tunes, and befriending strangers when suddenly our good time came to a screeching halt. I will leave the gory details to Jen, but for now I will share with you the recurring images that have been plaguing me since I stumbled into the office this morning.
- Being informed by a girl at Finally Fred’s while we lounged in the back patio that Cop Dave had fallen, according to witnesses, “like a dropped puppet” to the floor of the bar. Apparently a resuscitation attempt was underway on the very pool table we had been playing on minutes before.
- Being helped by Greg, a kind man with whom we had played pool, who moved Cop Dave to the curb in front of the bar, where droves of people had gathered to watch the spectacle. In an attempt to shock Dave into sobriety, Greg dumped a glass of water on Dave’s head and rubbed it all around. Greg also tried to feed Dave water out of his cupped hands as if he were helping a thirsty puppy.
- Driving to Brooklyn in Greg’s SUV, with Dave in the back seat, strapped in and flopping about like a rag doll. He would occasionally regain consciousness, only to accuse us of dosing him with PCP (this was not true). On the way back to Manhattan, Greg informed me that he had once been blind, and underwent a miraculous procedure that enabled him to regain his site, such that he was now able to drive.
Sweet sweet alcohol, you’ve ravaged us again, and left a hungover, if not befuddled, first-time visitor to our fair city in your wake.
Jen will fill you in on the rest. I’m just here to deliver the teaser. Now I'm off to meet a friend - for an alcohol free evening. I promise.
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AWWWWWWWWWW YEAH!!!
By Glenda
Word! Bitch-Sessions in da hizzy!
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