Lazy Strippers

I’ve always been such a big fan of the mix tape, but they’re really a lot of work what with making the cool cover, writing out the track listing blah blah blah.
Those.
Days.
Are.
OVER.
Check out this genius-ness.
[AND SCENE]
http://www.muxtape.com

And not to toot my own horn, but I think my creation is pretty exquisite. And by exquisite, I mean mellow. Seriously. Please don’t have any sharp objects laying about…
http://lazystripper.muxtape.com

Too lazy to tell everyone about your recent break-up, divorce or partner gone gay or astray?

I don’t blame you!
It’s exhausting.
And you already have enough on your plate what with the “who gets the house, the Huey Lewis record collection and the season tickets for the Ice Capades.”

Well, I’m here to help…

I’ll customize a press release specifically for your current (or not so current) situation. That way, in just one fell swoop, you can let everyone in your life know that for whatever reason [you couldn’t keep it in your pants, you let that phone sex addiction spiral out of control or you put on an unattractive amount of weight] you failed miserably at yet another attempt at love.

[Please see example below]

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Tuesday, November 20th–After nearly two years of being together, Leslie Lezstein and Jane Janeberg have called it quits. No specific reason was given, but a spoke person for the couple said, “Remember–they are lesbians, so of course they’ll remain great friends. There’s even talk of them spending Thanksgiving together!”

Audrey [the cat] will remain with Leslie (her mother) although Jane will have weekly (unsupervised) visitation rights and they’ll alternate every other “Secretary’s Day.” (Audrey’s favorite holiday).

As of 9am (PST) this morning, their respective Myspace pages still displayed “relationship” status. Rumors as to when the change to “single” (or “swinger”) will take place are circulating. Our experts say, “they’ll likely ease into the break-up by selecting “swinger”–especially since the break-up was amicable. It’s just Myspace politics.”
#####

Did you see this crap on Larry King last night?
It was so painful, I played a little game while watching…
Every time the lazy-eyed Spice Girl mentioned her hot-throb hubby,
“David Beckham” I took a drink. Needless to say, I was wasted when the interview (finally) ended.
[’Tis the season to be jolly Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!]

My cat Audrey, has been watching Arrested Development re-runs while I’m at work. Apparently, she’s become real enamored with Lucille Bluth as she’s been crank calling Liza Minelli, binge-drinking and repeatedly winking. (Terrific. My cat’s a lesbian. [I wonder if there’s a parade we can march in?])

The other morning I was sitting in my bathrobe watching Season 3
of ‘90210’ (”Suspend Donna, suspend us all…”) when I heard a knock at
my door. This was strange because I have a strict “no-popping-by” policy.
(I even had my doorbell disconnected.)

I shut my bathrobe, managed to rip myself away from my box of Bugles
and went to see if it was that fox, Ty, from Extreme Home Makeover
there to tear my house down.

Instead, there were three Jehovah’s Witnesses standing before me
(but I only had two photos in my hand. [America’s Top Jehovah.])
They were an ambitious bunch (it was 9:12am), although they did look
a little worse for wear—as if they had just walked all the way from Rancho Cucamonga.

Naturally, I invited them in because I’m a sucker for free literature.

It was over our second Mike’s Hard Lemonades that things got a little strange… I was like “Jesus? Jesus? Where are you boy?” when all three of the JWits became semi-excitable. (I think they thought I had seen the proverbial light, until my Cocker Spaniel appeared. [Um…AWKWARD])

I found myself fumbling and making excuses…
“Err… it’s not you– it’s me!
Walking just isn’t my thing!
Jesus even has a dog walker!
I thought about converting–but I don’t like to get my hair wet!”

And then I felt a little pang of Jewish guilt so I brought out some leftover
birthday cake and suggested we roleplay. I put some candle stumps into
the cake-carcass and instructed the JWits to sing “Happy Birthday” to me.

As I blew out the stumps, I wished for a car for my new friends.
(That way, I wouldn’t have to use an entire GLADE Plug-In the next time
they came over for a visit… [Seriously.])

AND THEN IT HIT ME LIKE I HAD JUST BEEN SAVED.

Sandwich.
Boards.

I’m going to put sandwich boards on these people and send them off on their merry ways…

People will pay to advertise on the JWits!
(And clearly, I would take “street marketing” to a whole new level.)

Pizza delivery on one side; vaginal rejuvenation on the other…
The possibilities are endless!

I mean, they’re already going door-to-door– may as well kill two birds with one witness.

I sat them down and tried to tell them about my exciting new business, but they were chanting: “DONNA MARTIN GRADUATES!” at the top of their lungs.

Knowing they were a fan of games and a competitive people by
nature (apparently, they have a long-running feud with the
Christian Scientists [true story]), I declared: “QUIET CONTEST” at the top
of my lungs and proceeded, “Listen… You guys are a hard-working bunch.
Of course, the Mexicans have you beat. But with your English skills
and availability to work on holidays, you can really take the lead here.

More to the point, none of you are driving. It’s obvious you’re desperate for an automobile. There’s what–like eight of you in this entire city? What if I told you we’d be able to raise enough cash to get you guys into a mini-van by Christmas? Um… how do you feel about advertising?”

Last night I watched a hurricane special on the Weather Channel
and it got me thinking…
“Hurricane Humberto?” “Tropical Storm Steve?”
Um… who names these things?

Like who’s the glorified meteorologist that decides it’s time
to put the “P” back into “hurricane-naming” rotation and that
the next one will be called, “Pam?”
Pam. Like who in the hell is going to be threatened by a storm
called “Hurricane Pam?” There’s no urgency to Pam.
No panic. Hurricane Pam sounds more like a
neighbor who binge eats.

And then of course, there’s all these ‘new’ hipster names
like “Apple,” “Jermajesty” and “Radio Transmitter.” When do we
get to weave these tiny treasures into the mix with
the “Allison’s” and “Larry’s?”

Honestly, I think it would be a lot more effective if we could
do for the hurricanes what the world wide web did for the
stars some years back. Not to brag, but I currently hold the
world record for the “most stars purchased” through
the Adopt-A-Star.com website. I own half the galaxy!
Well, own-ish. (There still may be a few lingering debt
collectors because of this [spring of 2001] addiction, but I digress…)

I can see the infomercial now–

BUY SOMEONE YOU LOVE A HURRICANE!

“For only 3 easy installments of $19.95, you, too, can show someone you
care by naming a natural disaster after them!”

CUT TO:
Re-enactment of an emotional woman opening her front door only to find
a remorseful, man standing with a large bouquet of carnations.
[She slams the door.]
We see her immediately answer the door again and he’s now holding a box of chocolates.
[The door slams again.]
Finally, on the third try our humbled man is standing with an enormous
certificate that reads, “Blah Blah Blah… this certificate certifies that the
next hurricane (or Tropical storm) will hereby be
declared, “Hurricane Sally.”
[The couple embrace passionately.]

This could be a world-wide phenomenon, people!
I MEAN WHO WOULDN’T LOVE THIS?
Lie to me.
Cheat on me.
It seriously doesn’t matter ANYMORE.
Just buy me a hurricane afterwards and I’ll totally forget you slept
with that twenty-year old Filipino bank teller from Washington Mutual.

Is it me or does my cat, Audrey look freakishly similar to Kirstie Alley? Obviously, it would be easier to spot, say, if Audrey were also sprawled out on a life-size lavender scale, but the resemblance is still uncanny.

It kind of looks like Jodie Foster’s girlfriend just broke up with her, doesn’t it? I mean, she looks pret-ty damn devastated in this photo. And seriously? Who is she trying to kid with that fancy necklace and fashion belt? “Hey Jodie, I’m not sure who told you accessorizing would counterbalance the whole black leather bomber jacket and wife beater thing, but um… they were wrong.”

In some countries, “Young Dong” literally translates to “Young Cock”— This is one of those countries.

OK… well, now you’re just bragging.

Yesterday was momentous for several reasons.
…I know… you’re probably thinking it has something to do
with my winning Carol-Anne’s “Annual” Easter egg hunt.
(And one would think I’d be a shoe-in for such a win what
with my super sleuthing skills and Matlock fan club membership.)
Although in order to win, you have to be invited and because
of last year’s fiasco, let’s just say I was both intentionally and
erroneously left off the guest list.
(I SWEAR– I had NOTHING to do with the disappearance of little Twinkles!)

What kind of Jew celebrates Easter anyway?
(Certainly NOT this one.)

But speaking of Easter and all of its acroutroments…
Imagine my shock when I learned that “hot cross buns”
actually exist! (For years, I’ve been under the impression that
it was just a song to play on my recorder.)

The photo above is a REAL LIVE picture of hot cross bun.
A hot cross bun in the flesh, if you will…
(Given to me by an honest to goodness [British] Christian.)

And sweet Jesus… Do they know how to party or what?
(And how to trump our bagel! Not that it’s a contest.
Although, I will point out that we get EIGHT [count them 8]
days of Hannukah to their one lone Christmas day.)

In any case, the bun in question has been sitting on my
counter in a Ziplock bag for nearly 24 hours.

I’m just a little confused by the whole sticky bun meets the holy
trinity thing. Isn’t it a little strange to be eating a piece of bread
with a cross on it? One would think that consuming a Saltine
regularly at church would be enough, but no.

I’m not sure why no one else has stepped forward, but I’m not
afraid to say it: The Christians Are Obsessed With Carbs!

I mean, come on people—Triscuits in church, cross-covered rolls for Easter! It’s pandemonium out there!

But, really… what can we deduce from all of this Christianity stuff?
Well, for one, Christians can’t be vegetarians.
(EATING the body of Christ?)

And second, Christ looks quite delicious in his various forms.
(Look at that roll… [Almost as good as Cinnabon.])

Although, why limit it to just crackers and bread?
Personally, I think they should branch out…
It could be more lucrative for them.
(Think South Beach, but with more religious undertones.)
What about a bacon, egg and Christ for breakfast?
A Christ-za for lunch? Or Kung Pao Christ for dinner?
Speaking of Kung Pao, Twinkles just loves her some
Chinese take-out. Although, it doesn’t agree with her.
(Too spicy. [Not that I would know. I don’t even like cats.])

What’s up with this new generation of strippers?
(Have you noticed this?)

Seriously? They don’t even strip anymore… It’s like ‘now’ it’s a choice or something–”Maybe, just maybe I’ll take my top off. Maybe.”
I mean if I wanted to see some girl walk around with no shirt on, I’d just assume stay at home. (There’s no cover charge, no drink minimum and I know the girl’s going to be clean.)

The whole point of going to a strip club is to see them hang upside down (naked) from that center stage pole by their stiletto heels. It’s like, “Come on, work for it, honey…”
And if you’re fortunate enough to witness pole tricks, god bless you because for the most part, the pole seems to go untouched these days. I mean, sure–they’ll grab the pole with their arms and push off of it to get some sort movement (or a little spin) going, but that’s hardly impressive. It’s just lazy. It’s like using the railing to pull yourself up the stairs when you’re too tired (or drunk) to make it on your own. I mean, if I had a dime for every time I’ve yelled out, “The pole, Cinnamon! The pole!” I’d be a rich woman.

Strippers and apathy do not a healthy combination make. (Am I right?) I think we should organize. You know, get a movement going. Lazy strippers no mas. Not on my watch.

Every time I sneeze, I pee a little.
Seriously.
And I’m not even old enough to get the early-bird senior
special at the Silver Spoon! (Those age-ists!)

Someone has been suffering through a cold all week
(and subsequently, lots of little pants) as they’ve been
coughing and sneezing every sixty seconds.
Obviously, said cold has gone to my brain as I’m
talking about myself in the third person.
And to think… I wouldn’t speak to
anyone who did such a thing! Hell, I can’t even stand it
when people use the “z” arbitrarily. (See [non] words
such as: cuZ, becauZe and pleaZe.
[Ew. I HATE these people.])
So, yeah… I’m pretty difficult to be in any type of
relationship with… I mean what with the constant
pant-wetting and my high expectations for spelling,
grammar and all things having to do with the English
language.

Between sleeping and contemplating various strategies
for unassumingly procuring ‘Depends’ from the local
Rite-Aid, I’ve had some time to catch up on my Tivo.
I say “Tivo” like I can actually afford the real thing…
(Settled for “DVR” through the cable company.)
This is a drag because I love the “boop bip” sound
of the Tivo remote. It’s the best sound ever.
In fact, I love it so much that I recorded my favorite
sound [boop bip] on a hand held voice recorder.
(And I trigger it every time I use my [boring] cable remote.)

All of this Tivo-ing has led me to two realizations.
First, I have terrific hand-eye coordination.
Second, if I had my way, I’d be big and black.
Not like bouncer big or Biggie (Smalls) big, but like
big enough (and woman enough) to sing.
I mean, why is it that all (bigger) black women can sing?
Remember Nell Carter?
(I immediately get a visual of her vacuuming a
fish tank upon the mere mention of her name.)
[Cue Song] “…Gimme a break…Gimme a break…”

And let’s not overlook the obvious, people.
American Idol this season?
Exactly.
Yeah, sure… there’s a chance that the Indian kid with the
moustache could go all the way (um…and something tells
me it might just be his first time), but the only two
people who can actually sing are the two black women—
both of whom could stand a little stomach virus if you
know what I mean.

Initially, I loved Melinda’s innocence (even though she
doesn’t have a neck). She reminded me of a young
(angelic) me. But Lakisha’s, “I’m a single mom” routine
started to win me over… So, now I’m torn (and while I still
have faith, I am on my bathroom floor).

Melinda or Lakisha?
(Tom-ay-to or Tom-aaah-to?)
I’d say let’s take a poll, but I guess that’s happening already.

I definitely have commitment issues…
I can’t even decide if I prefer spelling gre/ay with an “e” or an “a!”
GrEy or GrAy?
And all of this vowel-choosing is such a time waster and exhausting.
(I could be watching TV instead.)

TV Sucks.
At this point, I’d rather be stripping than watching.
(No seriously– I’d rather be stripping.)

I mean… 24 just might be the worst show on television.
(And believe you me— next to “Doogie Howser, MD has
just been canceled” that is truly one of the most painful sentences
I have ever written.)

I’ve been a faithful Jack Bauer enthusiast for nearly five seasons
now (which in 24 jargon= 5 days), but just can’t seem to wrap my
stiletto around the latest one.

It just makes no sense and takes the term “jumping the shark” to a
whole new plateau.
Hhhmm… “*Plateau.” Not to pop my own corn, but how smart do I sound?
(*Source=Pat Sajak [and the Wheel of Fortune staff])

In any case, I’m just not buying what they are selling.
(They= Fox.)
Like for example, those Crest Whitening Strips which they advertise
during every commercial break… I’m telling you– they don’t work.
(Although between all of the coffee drinking and cigarette smoking,
who really has the time to wear them?)

Back to Jack.

Grey “Graham” Bauer (that monster!) is REALLY Jack’s brother?
Horseshit.
That’s what I call “grasping at straws,” people.
And who decided to cast the creepy old guy from Six Feet Under
as his father?
(Answer: A retarded casting agent.)

Even Chloe sucks this season. She’s not funny and I could care less
about her, Morris and Borris.
Oh, how I miss Edgar and his lisp.
And David Palmer.
(David who [in between All-State commercials] is probably rolling
over in his grave because his brother Wayne is the most uncompelling,
ball-less President in [24-season] history.)

And color me bad[d], but I miss Jack’s murse. (Murse=man bag.)
I know he just got off the boat from China and all, but you think
CTU would give him some supplies AND A FUCKING STEAK DINNER!
Selfish bastards.
Martha Logan for President.
(That’s all I’m saying.)

And what’s up with the L Word?
(And why do I CONTINUE TO TUNE IN?)
I mean… really with the deaf girl?
Not to sound racist or whatever, but people, please…
Bette would NEVER (ever) date that woman.
(Ever.)
Plus, I’m supposed to believe that after studying a website
for like 25 minutes that she’s suddenly fluent in sign language?
Um… OK. Sure.

Not too mention, for a show focused so much on sex,
it does beg the following question:
Who would want to fuck a girl who when she attempted
to talk dirty to you (not to be confused with “ridin’ dirty”)
ends up sounding like Blair’s cousin, Jerry?

And who was the genius who came up with the not-so-festive story
line for Alice?
(Seriously. Who was it? Because I’d like to punch them in the face.)
AN ARMY GIRLFRIEND?
Come on!
I do so beg your pardon!
Alice Pieszecki would NEVER date someone in the army.
The mere idea is simply preposterous.
And soldiergirl has the personality of a wet rag.
THE WAR FLASHBACKS?
Ugh.
The fucking horror of it all.

And then we have Veronica Mars.
A long time ago, we used to be friends…
(A long time ago as in last season.)

I’m not even sure what to say about this one
(it’s just so damn heartbreaking), so maybe the
following analogies best sum it up:

Remember when Laverne & Shirley moved from Milwaukee to
Los Angeles? Or when the Facts of Life girls opened up that shop
with Mrs. Garrett?
Well, this is sort of like that.
The show just isn’t the same anymore.
(And Hearst College is only 5 minutes away from dear old dad! Yikes!)

I watched the first few episodes and then decided it best that I give
up my little detective for lent.

Now, I’m left with The Hills.
Not that I’m complaining.
Although, that Heidi could really use a good talking to.
WHAT IS SHE DOING WITH THAT SPENCER CHARACTER?
WHAT A DOUCHE!

That’s it.
I’m heading over Club Area to find her.
(She needs me.)

I’ve had an epiphany.
I think.
(Well, I’m pretty sure.)

Right on the heels of our President’s speech last week,
the words, “I’m going to Iraq” came out of my mouth.
I declared them.
It was a declaration.

And six Starbursts and a pair of prescription eyeglasses
later (about an hour), I still thought this was a smart
idea for several reasons.

First, I can cancel my gym membership (and that
consultation with Dr. 90210). Nothin’ like a little boot
camp to whip the body in shape.
(We’ve all seen G.I. Jane.)

Second, I’m not sure how I’ll look with a buzz cut
(probably like G.I. Jane’s stepsister [once removed]),
but just think of all the money I’ll save not having to purchase
V05 hot oil treatments, root colorer, banana clips, scrunchies
(and other hair accoutrements).
Not too mention, I can finally let go of all the inner turmoil I’ve
been struggling with over that potential [Ogilvie] home perm.
Even the Magic 8 Ball couldn’t make a decision! When I consulted
about my possible new ‘do,’ the response was “Better not tell you now.”
Um. Really? (How torturous.)

Third, not to butter my own muffin, but I look amazing in camouflage.
No seriously, I do! Whenever I wear it (which isn’t all too often),
people stop and say, “You look amazing in those camouflage
shorts [or that camouflage onesie].” Again, this isn’t recurring as
I like to ration my camo-wearing. It’s obviously just too distracting
for all the passers-by and I’m a stickler for the “Golden Rule…”
You know, doing others or whatever.

Fourth, think of all the weight I’ll lose! I’m not sure what they
serve in Iraq, but I would bet my bottom dollar that they don’t have
a Baja Fresh or Hebrew National hot dogs.
(Lambs in a blanket? Oh, the horror.)

Fifth, maybe I can sublet my apartment.
Maybe there’s some sort of Iraqi exchange program??
We can totally swap places!
The army doesn’t expect me to sleep in a tent, do they?
I’m more of a cave girl. Plus, the caves have cable from what I hear.
WAIT.
You think they have nail salons in Iraq?
(Maybe the Magic 8 Ball knows.)
Stand by.
[I’m asking.]
ANSWER: CANNOT PREDICT NOW.
Note to self: Pack several packages of Lee Press-On Nails.

Well… look what the cat dragged in.
And when I say cat, I mean the UPS man.
(Just LOOK AT MY JELL-O RING! [It’s exquisite, isn’t it?])
Apparently my letter to the Tupperware people “took.”
That being said, if anyone has an issue that needs sorting,
LOOK NO FURTHER PEOPLE.–I’m your stripper.
It’s (clearly) safe to say I’m pret-ty damn powerful.
Need to send a letter to that bastard landlord?
Did your local dry cleaner lose your favorite Juicy sweatsuit?
Being stalked by an ex?
LOOK NO FURTHER PEOPLE.
(Don’t make me say it again.)
I can deliver results.
Which is better than say… delivering pizza. (For obvious reasons.)

Dear Tupperware people,
My sister, Misty Mustbey, placed an order with you on Saturday,
November 18th and was kind enough to have said order shipped
directly to me, because it was a gift. Will you look me up in your sytem?
My name is Treena. I have no last name. I’m kind of like Madonna,
but without all of the children’s books. (You should see me Vogue!!!!)

In any case, I was expecting the “Jell-o Ring” to arrive before
Thanksgiving (which much to my dismay, it obviously didn’t) and
now I’m worried that I won’t be receiving it before Christmas either!
Ho ho ho? Um… no. That’s right, [Tupperware] people… I still HAVEN’T
received the “Jell-o Ring” and have contacted your company via phone
several times. Well, once. But in my defense, I’ve emailed a bunch
and it’s like you’re just ignoring me.

To be frank, I have never witnessed such horrible customer service!
Well, except for that time the Denny’s in Glouster ran out of bacon.
Damn sausage pushers.

I’d like to move on from this entire debacle. This missing “Jell-o Ring” is
destroying my life; it’s interrupting my sleep
(read: causing nightmares), my work (my boss, Gill Rosby,
keeps doing Bill Cosby “Jell-o PUDDING” impersonations [Jackass])
and my television watching (I can’t concentrate and even cute
little Tootie and her roller skates can seem to get me out
of this Jell-o-less funk).

Quite simply, I CANNOT FUNCTION.

Please send me tracking details for the package.
Maybe I can speak with your postperson directly?
Or better yet, just refund my sister’s credit card
for the full amount plus a little something extra
for all of my pain and suffering. I believe Dr. Seaver
referred to it as “duress” on an episode of Growing Pains.

Thanks a lot.
And please get back to me.
(You can’t ignore me forever!)

Jell-o no mas,
Treena

I woke up this morning and went to The Cock.
Wow.
That sounds downright scandalous. Or offensive.
I guess it just really depends on which circle’s you run in.

In any case, Jesus Cock is a spinning instructor at Crunch.
Crunch. Which boasts the mantra, “No Judgements.”
Fortunately, I didn’t sign any sort of paperwork or contract that
would pigeonhole me into this way of thinking.

Right.
Riding on…

Mr. Spinner’s given name isn’t “The Cock” or “Jesus Cock.”
I mean, can you imagine that birth certificate?
Oh, the horror! Or not.
Again– all contingent on your crowd, because in the porn star clique,
Jesus Cock would be a very fetching name.

And fetching it is.
The instructor was christened with said nickname for several
reasons: 1.) He’s very spiritual and motivating and for the most part,
reminiscent of Jesus. Not that I know Jesus.
Or knew Jesus. But if Jesus were alive today, something tells
me that he and The Cock would be besties. I just know it…

Although, lately The Cock’s taken to playing Whitney Houston
in class. And I’m not so sure Jesus would condone such behavior–
Even after all of the praise, dedications, declarations and
pleas of desperation. More specifically, Whit’s rendition
of the song “Jesus Loves Me” [as heard in the hit film,
The Bodyguard]. That Jesus is no dummy.
I think. (Remember, I don’t know him).
But I would bet my lifesavers he sees the
proverbial forest through the trees and is
smart enough to realize he ain’t her greatest love of all…
There just isn’t enough room what with Bobby and all of that crack.

Right… But you’re still wondering, “What does Jesus have to do with
The Cock? And what happened to reason number 2?”

Right… I just realized I neglected number 2.
And am totally abusing the word “right.”
Right.
Did I mention I woke up early and went spinning?
Rome wasn’t built in a day people.
Give me a little breathing space… some room to maneuver.
What a fun word maneuver. Equally as fun to say as it is to type.
Although, it kind of sounds like manure, but not really.

Meanwhile, back on The Cock….

In class, we’re instructed to ride standing up (”out of the saddle”) or
ride sitting down (”in the saddle”). Often times, instead of speaking
with the microphone provided, The Cock will use his hands
(very dramatically, I may add) in an up and down motion,
thus signaling the entire group to either rise or be seated.
Again, reminiscent of something Jesus might do.
Although when push comes to shove, I can’t say I know too much
about the man aside from the fact that he was in desperate need of
a haircut. So when people ask, “What would Jesus do?”
Now you know the answer– quite simply? Get a haircut.

The Cock is a fan of short gym shorts. Not those tight cycling
shorts which if you ask me, are the Speedo’s of the bike riding
community, but the looser fitting (really short) shorts.
Who wears short shorts? The Cock does. (Not Nair.)
And it is with the above sentenceS that I declare this portion
of the game over. C’mon people. Use your imagination.
Do the math.
Spiritual “Mother Earth” mantras + short shorts= Jesus Cock.

If anyone is thinking about what to get me for the holiday, stop wracking
your brain. Instead, see below as I have taken the liberty of putting
together a list of suggestions (which vary in price to accommodate
everyone’s budget) for the 12 days of Treena.
1.) A lazy-Susan Scrabble set. I’ve recently taken to the game, but it’s real
burdensome having to manually turn the damn board every
time I want to take a turn.

2.) Puma hi-tops. I know. You’re probably as shocked as I am.
And my listing these little gems beg the following questions:
A.) Where did this idea come from? (I swear– I never saw Denise Richards
wearing them at the Whole Food on Fairfax. [Cross my heart])
2.) What year is it?
C.) Puma? Really?
[I’d like a pair in white on white.]
3.) A homemade scarf. As in, it might just be the best thing EVER
if someone would PERSONALLY knit me one.
Preferably in black cashmere, although strippers can’t be choosers.
4.) Employment. Yeah, I know this should be first on my list, but
how amazing is the swivel Scrabble?
5.) The vinyl to MP3 converter which I’ve conveniently pictured below.
(It’s your lucky day!) You can get it at Hammacher Schlemmer
(hhmmm…think I could use either of these words in Scrabble?) and it’s
a steal at only $169.95. Oh and said gift should include a [real] live
person who will come over and physically import all of my vinyl into my
semi-archaic laptop (because it sounds like a lot of work).

6.) Brand new Mac laptop. (See #5)
7.) One L.A.M.B. ‘Broken Phone’ hoodie. Her new record may
suck what with the excessive yodeling and all, but apparently the woman
can draw. Or sketch. Or whatever it is that ‘designers’ do. I mean,
she’s no Nelly… Have you seen his Apple Bottom line??!!! Word.
8.) An autographed copy of David Hasselhoff’s biography,
“Making Waves.” [Self-explanatory]
9.) A licensed manicure-er / pedicure-er who will come to my
apartment every week for one year and sing “Born In the USA”
while painting my nails.

10.) One of those meat injector thingies from Williams Sonoma.
I thought about goin’ to med school for like 3 seconds once, but
figured there’d be just SO much reading and no Cliffs Notes.
This way, everybody wins. I get to inject raw chickens or turkeys or
whatever with garlic or thousand island dressing and nobody dies.
It’ll be like a homemade version of Operation. Operation for the new
millennium. “Inject the chicken for $200!”