I'll never forget what my good friend Dhaya said to me when I first met her:

"Sandy- you have to meet my gays!"

"Your gays?" I asked, taken a back.

"Yeah- my gay guy friends. They would love you!" She said.

I didn't know what to feel. All I remember was looking at her and thinking "Jesus- she's smart, funny, talented, pretty- and she has gays?"

Yeah- I'll admit: I was jealous. I've wanted a gay friend for years. I realized after dating the 5th or 6th  metro sexual in a row that it wasn't a "boyfriend" I was looking for…it was a gay friend. I want a gay best friend.

I want someone I can talk on the phone with. Someone I can have fancy drinks with and go dancing with. I want someone who isn't afraid to tell me the graphic details of their sex life, since I, apparently, don't have one. Someone who will invite me to eclectic, off-the-wall events with gregarious people and an open bar. At least someone I can go to the Scissor Sisters concert with!

Do you know happy and proud I am when I see two guys walking down the street holding hands? Do you know how difficult it is for me to not walk up to each and every individual couple and tell them, "I am so happy for you and inspired by you! You have overcome so much, and seeing you happy and free makes my heart beam with pride!"

DO YOU? DO YOU????????????????????????????

A month ago I had a show at this hole-in-the-wall bar in Redwood City. One of the patrons/audience members asked if I could drive him downtown after the show. Normally, I would have said "absolutely not." But after identifying a prominent lisp after a couple drinks, I felt safe. He instructed me to take him to a hip hop club on Main Street.

"A hip hop club." I thought, smiling. Here was a white male going to a hip hop club on a Wednesday night. Even more reason to love him. Our 10 minute drive was full of laughs, graphic descriptions of the male anatomy, and instant-bonding. I thought to myself, "This could be the one…."

He gave me his cell phone number. At first I was hesitant to contact him, but then I thought to myself, "Sandy- you have nothing to lose." So the next night, I texted him: "How was hip-hop? Did you get your crunk on?"

I never heard back from him. I still haven't deleted his number.

"What about the gay guys on the comedy scene?" another friend asked.

Yeah, there's a few. And technically, I'm their "friend." But I'm not their BFF…and that's the kind of relationship I'm looking for. Plus, if it was supposed to happen, it already would have. I'm not going to force something that should come naturally.

That's right, boyz. You heard correctly. I'm not going to be your hag for the sake of being a hag. I want a relationship with substance. Rum, preferably. (I hope you like mojitos)

I'm also not going to be the type of hag you can talk designer labels with. I'm sorry- I shop at Target. If it's a good day, Macy's or Anthropologie. I wish I could afford Diane Von Furstenburg or Nanette Lepore, but I work in radio. I'm lucky if I get free cd's. (t-shirts went out the window a long time ago.) Either way, being your BFF, I would be happy to listen and take in every last detail of why Prada is the best thing since Ezekial sliced bread.

I should also let you know that if you're hot, I'll probably want to make out with you. I'll never say that to your face, and I'd never "make the first move." (even if you were drunk.) But deep down I'm always going to hope there's a night where the lighting is right, the inhibitions are down, and for some God-forsaken reason, you feel like making out with me.

This blog is wrong on so many levles. But I  just can't take it anymore. I'm a single, smart, sarcastic, somewhat hip woman, who's open-minded and just as compassionate as she is perverted. There is no reason I should be without a gay best friend at this time in my life.

.......Is it because I don't like cosmos?

It's official: Spencer Pratt has NO nutsack.

What kind of  man allows his woman to not only dress him, but plan so meticulously that their outfits coordinate on a daily basis?

A man who has no scrotum- that's who.

Behold Heidi  Montag and Spencer Pratt- a "real couple" from a "real show"  called The Hills.

Don't worry- I don't watch it either. I might tune in next season, though. I heard "The Hollywood Whore and P-Whipped Douchebag" is a GREAT spin-off.

Turning and coughing,

Sandy

This morning, I woke up with a feeling of such incredible ease that I wondered how my life ever existed before without it.

It was as if everything in the world finally made sense. I didn't have to ask any more questions, or rush on a daily basis to my career finish line. I didn't have to fret about what I looked like, how much weight I needed to lose, or the knowledge I lacked that would expose my imperfections to the world. It all didn't matter. With him by side, in my arms, I didn't need to know anything else.

It quite possibly was the most beautiful and calming experience I have ever had. And it was something, from now until eternity, I am sure I will never experience again.

Trust me- this isn't cynicism. I'm being realistic. I know this man doesn't exist.

No, really. He doesn't. I dreamt about him last night. Somewhere between rapid eye movement and 7:30am this morning, I found a sense of belonging that I haven't even experienced in real life. What's worse is that it wasn't even with someone I know, someone I've seen, or someone "Hollywood." This man was created 100% by my unconscious desires. What does that mean?

I fell in love with a figment of my imagination.

Does that make me a narcissist?

I wish I could just chalk it up to a "nice dream." But I'm STILL thinking about him, wondering how he's doing. Wondering if he's thinking about me. Wondering how I got so lucky to connect with such a pure soul.

I know this dream could mean many things....but I'm going to take it as a hint to NEVER have Rocky Road ice cream before I go to bed. Ever.

Recently, I endured what was possibly the most painful, soul-shattering experience of my entire life: I took a "laughing yoga" class.

I knew this would be the bane of me before I even walked through the door. From the second I saw the smiley-face graphics on the website, I knew I was a goner. The overuse of giant fonts and "Tee-Hee!" had Ritalin written all over it. And I’ve always been this way. I’ve always hated anything "happy." Not normal happy things, like a tax refund or Cake Batter ice cream from Cold Stone. I’m talking about annoying happy things. Hyperactive, immature, in-your-face things. Sappy-sweet and uber "chick" things. Corporate America, in-denial things.  Think "Steve O" meets "Oxygen network" meets "Team building" exercises in the large conference room. God- I’m annoyed already.

Even when I was 4 years old, and my parents took me to Disneyland’s "Country Bear Jamboree," I made it known I wanted nothing to do with it. As recently retold to me by my mother, the bears apparently encouraged everyone in the room to "Sing along!" and "Clap your hands!" So, everyone did. Including my parents. And I was mortified. So mortified, in fact, that I slapped their hands and shushed them until they stopped.

See? Even as I child I was an a-hole.

Last week was no exception. To say I was struggling would be putting it lightly. To say I was IN HELL would be more accurate. It started as soon as I walked in, and the teacher asked me to introduce myself to the class. As we gathered in a circle, I awkwardly tried to make "small talk" with the 15 senior citizens  forced to listen:

"Hello! My name is Sandy- I’m on the radio. I’m a dj for Mix 106.5 in San Jose…."

(crickets)

"I’m also a stand-up comedian and have a late-night show I’m filming on Comcast…"

(more crickets)

"Uh….And I’m here today to film this class because I think people watching would really get a kick out of it."

(silence)

"And oh- I’m also a VERY angry person and pretty bitter in general."

I thought that would "break the room." It didn’t. And that pissed me off even more. At least when I’m getting heckled, I’m getting a reaction. How could a class about laughter let me bomb like that? Hypocritical bastards.

Our teacher, the joyous pro she is, skated right over my humorous attempt and explained the "rules" of the class.

" Our number one rule is to have fun!" She said, beaming with pride. "When we’re here, we leave our worries at the door!"

Uh-Oh. Strike One. I like to talk my shit out.

"But before we start laughing, we need to know where our laughter comes from. So everyone put your hand over your belly button. Now, after me, say HA-HA-HA!"

As a group, everyone smiled and said, "Ha Ha Ha!" I was already looking at my watch.

"Now, put your hands just above your belly button and laugh again. This should be a higher pitched sound like, this: Hee- Hee- Hee!" she mimicked.

A high-pitched "Hee Hee Hee!!!" collectively filled the air. People were really getting into it. I wanted to die.

"Now that you know where your laughter comes from, I want you practice with someone else. Try pointing your finger at them as if you’re playfully scolding them. Don’t forget to make eye contact!"

You want us to point and be laughed at? This is worse than childhood.  I felt like I was in a room full of special-ed kids after too many Mountain Dews.

And then, an ultimate low.

"Now, take one of your arms and scratch the top of your heads. With your other hand, scratch your under-arms as if you’re a chimpanzee. Don’t forget to make eye-contact when you laugh!!!"

Are you fucking KIDDING me? You want us to pretend we’re CHIMPS????

This was an absolute nightmare. People were in hysterics, scratching their underarms with their hands and jumping up and down in the air. I looked at the camera as if it were the only person in the room who could understand me.

"PLEASE HELP ME" I said while staring at the lens. I felt like Tom Hanks in Castaway the moment his manic and hysterical state forced him to befriend a volleyball. Where was my Wilson?

After we were done pretending we were chimps, and chickens, and mosquitoes, we got to be SPRINKLERS. Yes, human sprinklers who’s laugher served as nourishment to the ground below.

"Uh-Oh!" our teacher exclaimed. "Looks like a bunch of flowers have bloomed!! Go ahead- pick one!"

You want us to pick a fake fucking flower????

I couldn’t believe this. Here I was, an "adult", standing in a room full of people who were smelling imaginary flowers that their "human sprinkler" cultivated. All this….and no Pink Floyd.

I would go on…..but I can’t. It’s just too painful to relive. I will only mention there were fuzzy hats, bubbles, squeaky toys, and a Laughing Elmo. And tons of shame. On my behalf, mostly.

Towards the end of the class, we all sat in a circle as each one of us reflected on our experience that night.

" I just feel so good and so energized!" One woman said.

" I can’t stop laughing!" another woman said.

" I feel like I’m a kid again," the man next to me said.

Now it was my turn. I paused, and gave the most dignified answer I could.

"I feel like I’m in a psych-ward." I said.

Everybody laughed. I wasn’t kidding.

In case you are unaware, for 6 years of my life; I was a lesbian.

Translation: I was in a bowling league.

I don't know what, at age 13, inspired me to walk into Mission Lanes in Milpitas and take part in what many would call the most unfeminine, uncool sport in the history of mankind. A few months prior I was on a softball team, and I sucked. I knew I sucked, and so did everyone else. That's why I was in left field. The only reason my teammates liked me was because my mom brought awesome snacks. Once the season was over, I never heard from any of the girls again. (whores) So, in an utter despair and search for solitude, I joined a bowling league.

Yes- you read correctly. I went from softball, to bowling. It gets worse.

I don't even remember high school. I remember bowling alleys. I remember practicing 5 days a week and bowling tournaments on weekends. I remember lugging all my equipment to and from the van, and heading off to lunch in between "sets." (Tournaments were usually 6-12 games) I remember Reno, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Sacramento, Daly City, Pacifica, Fremont, Campbell, Palo Alto, and anywhere else on the West Coast that had a bowling alley. We even flew to Lake Havasu for a tournament. Yes- a city that is known for excessive drinking and partying- and there I was, jealous that the left-handers were able to take more advantage of the oiling patterns than the right handers.

I will never get laid again after this blog.

At one time, I had 14 bowling balls. My dad had to build a rack in the garage just to keep track of all them. I would even ask for bowling balls for birthdays or Christmas. Yes- that's how into it I was. At one time, I knew the difference between plastic, urethane, and resin. I knew what "go high" "solid 9" and "Brooklyn" meant. I understood weight blocks and oiling patterns. I had a wrist guard, new skin, knee brace, and polo shirts with my italicized name on the back. I thought the bowling Stadium in Reno was the Taj Mahal.

And I will tell you what's worse than a soccer mom: a bowling mom.

My mom, though 100% supportive and enthusiastic in my sport of choice, stressed me out to the point where it just wasn't fun anymore. She never said or did anything mean, but seeing that depressed look in her eyes after I'd miss a spare was enough for me to want to call it quits.

I swear this blog isn't a parody.

Parts of me miss it. What I miss mostly is the socialization. The pool parties we'd have at my house after tournaments in Sacramento. The flight 20 of us took to Vegas, and the fact that whole plane was filled with my friends. The hiking in Pacifica after "Pac Coast" where I later got poison ivy all over my legs, and couldn't bowl in skirts for a month. Tournaments we'd drive to just to meet professionals, "Midnight Madness" at Albany Lanes, and all the delicious food from the Cloverleaf café. It's no coincidence I picked the only sport with a snack bar.

A few Sundays ago I was watching bowling on ESPN, and I realized how much it's changed. Granted, there is still some authenticity on the professional circuit ( I can't believe I just said that) but locally, it's selling out.

What once was Oakridge Lanes is now "300." It doesn't even look like a bowling alley anymore. It looks more like an upscale furniture store with a lounge. Plush red leather and purple seats, gigantic IKEA-themed lights, flat screen TV's playing music videos, a full dinner menu and upscale cocktail service…

I just can't take it. Martinis should never, EVER be allowed in a bowling alley.

Gone are the days of wooden lanes, dart-boards in the back room, REAL bar food like nachos and wings (not crab cakes), bowling balls with some strangers' initials on it, leagues without strobe lights, and the crazy porter who had a criminal record, but  oiled the lanes just the way you liked them.

And so, it makes me sad. Sad because there are so many distractions that nobody actually cares about the actual  game anymore. In essense, bowling has gotten "too cool for school."

And that is something that I just can't relate to.

You'd better be glad I'm not a fan of souvenirs.

-Sandy

26 years later....I finally feel my parents "get me."

Merry Christmas, indeed.

-Sandy

Okay- I can't really promise that...but this is pretty damn cool.

If you'd like to read the article more in depth, click here. Many thanks to Fred Crow for a fantastic interview!

Sandy :o)

I've noticed, the last few times I've been to the mall, I've been accosted by a swarm of Euro Fags.

They'll leap out at you while you're trying to get to your favorite store.

"Escuze eh mee, Mees? Can I eh show you sonnting?"

They'll come at you with a spray bottle, some "miracle" moisturizer from the Alps, flying indoor planes, or some other un-heard of piece of crap that's a waste of space and time. You think you can sneak by them...but before you know it, an olive-skinned Gallagher is dry humping your leg in hopes of an upsell.

What bothers me isn't them trying to sell me on their temp-job expertise.

It's the grease.

Their greasy, curly, Euro-fag locks that are often pinned up in a ponytail or scrunchy atop their finely unwashed hair.

Yes- I said scrunchy.

Look- I don't care what part of Croatia you're from. A scrunchy on a dude is fucking gay. The only person who could kind of get away with it is David Beckham. And I said kind of. I've seen plenty of pictures of him with a miniature scrunchy in his frosted locks, and I had two initial thoughts:

1) " Wow- that's kinda gay."

And

2) " I bet he's got a great dick."

No such luck at the local mall, though. My initial thoughts there were:

1) "GO AWAY."

And

2) "Are you fucking KIDDING me?" 

Where do they find them? Are they all related? Did they come through Ellis Island with hopes of selling cheap perfume and hair extensions?

Now I sound like an asshole. And this certainly isn't about judging a person based on their race, roots, gender, or any of that stuff.

It's about judging them because they think 'tall, dark, and handsome' equates to an elf-like unibrow and 6 ounces of Joop. It wouldn't be as annoying if they weren't breathing down your neck constantly. Even Fabio wasn't that bad. Then again, Fabio wasn't selling Prada knock-offs next to Sunglass Hut. (Really, though; how long can faux-butter residuals last?)

What can I say? Hair mayonnaise and an accent just doesn't get me like it used to.

Now, throw in a free sample.....and we can talk. :o)

Big Pimpin'.....Costco Style,

Sandy

Last week, I comfortably tried on and purchased a brand new pair of pants. They were a size 10.

At first, I was excited. It's been a long time since I've seen a "10" anywhere near my ass. But then I remembered: It was an Old Navy size 10. Which means it was really a size 24. Let me explain.

Old Navy is successful for two reasons: good prices, and denial. Most women, myself included, feel skinny at Old Navy. Because deep down, we know what size we really are. We know our range, we know what styles cater to our body type, and when something is too snug.

Yet, at Old Navy, everything fits. Not only does it fit- but it's too big. Suddenly, those size 14 pants become a slimming size 10....that cute blouse fits perfectly in a small....and you're practically "swimming" in that sized medium hoodie. As you look at yourself in the fitting room mirror, you realize you're not the woman you once were.

You're Samantha Jones.

You check out your behind in the mirror's reflection, and laugh. What can you say? You've got a great ass. You just never noticed it before.

And you're hair- it looks amazing! Why didn't you ever pay attention to how it perfectly compliments your skin tone, and frames your beautiful face?

Man, is there anything in this store that doesn't look great on you? Trouser pants, sexy striped work blouses, skin-tight turtlenecks, button-down cardigans, boot-cut jeans, A-line skirts and knee-high boots....girl, you're gonna have the men lining up! You'd better have some Saturday nights free, because you're gonna need them. Hell, you'll have to start booking a year in advance! Not that these guys will mind, though. You're well worth the wait- and they know it! Finally, you can cross off all the lame, immature, lack-of -ambition A-holes from your list, and date REAL MEN instead!

And then it hits you: why does this only happen when I'm at Old Navy?

I'm not talking about my self-esteem break through either. I'm talking about the fact that Old Navy makes all their clothes from one football field-sized piece of fabric. Don't believe me? Where else can get matching fleece pants, shirts, socks, purses, robes, car-seat covers and pillow-shams?

I still shop there, though. And truthfully, I don't want to pin myself down to a certain size. One- I refuse to let my self-worth and image be based on a number. And two- weight fluctates. Women know this. There are certain things you can eat that will balloon you out to a monstrous Old Navy size small the next day, like soy sauce or a sheet cake.

I  wonder what Marilyn Monroe would have thought about this. She was a size 14 in her day. Nowadays, she'd have been an Old Navy size -6.