Funny Human: The Eighties Leighdy

The eighties were a fine decade. I was there. I admit they existed. I had a Caboodle and holey jean shorts. Sadly, I wasn’t old enough to partake in all the free-flowing cocaine and dollar bills I hear mentioned when someone daydreams of the eighties. I also missed out on the music so often played now at frat parties and dive bars. My dad listened to opera. My mom listened to Motown. I didn’t have any older siblings to introduce me to cool stuff like that band with the one-armed drummer. Until college, I really thought there was a very famous deaf leopard at some zoo.

For me, the eighties were a decade of dates at McDonald’s Playland, torturing babysitters and learning why my fingers smelled funny when I stuck them in my butt. When I think of my past, I much prefer to reminisce about the nineties, when I wore padded bras, spent dates at Olive Garden and moved to California.

Some people, however, lived their best years in that colorful decade. They had sex in a bathroom at the Rainbow Room with Ron Jeremy. They bought stock in IBM. They amassed the biggest collection of cassettes and betas on the block. They fucked every White Snake member on a black lacquered table. They partied with Wham at fancy beach parties and tattooed roses on their tits. They wore shoulder pads and sold real estate and then went home to their black and red apartments to drink fancy wine with a side of cocaine.

They lived through that decade. And some refuse to believe it’s over. These eighties dwellers aren’t trendsetters who are ‘getting back to their roots’ by adopting an updated set of leggings from Forever XXI. In the twenty years since that decade, Eighties Leighdies haven’t changed and they don’t want to. Some still have small traces of pink zinc oxide in the creases of their noses. They’re a rapidly endangered species, but they make appearances at Au Bon Pains and Kinkos locations near you. When I see one, I nod my head and smile in understanding. Because I get it. I know they can’t let go of a time so great. I understand why they want to continue to look like an extra in Working Girl. Because Working Girls had it made. They had power in their bangs and knew how to work a shoulder pad.

The next time you see an Eighties Leighdy, whether she’s in a full set of Lee press-ons and a pantsuit that tapers over a pair of Reeboks or sandblasted denim cutoffs, a Duran Duran concert T-shirt, and a pink fannie pack, don’t judge her as living in the past. See her as reveling in the best years of her life.
And maybe, just maybe... throw her up a real nice, powerful, hang ten. Show her you know she’s totally radical.

Note: It was not my intention to draw the Eighties Leighdy to look like Jay Leno.

Love! Love! Love!

Sometimes I'm on the fence about whether real love truly exists.
I mean, it must. That's why there are lots of chocolates and cards sold today.

Because people are in love.

I'm also on the fence about whether or not I've ever felt this love stuff. I mean, when I'm in it, I believe that I'm in it. But when I'm not in it, I don't have a clue if I was really in it. You get me?

Either way, I definitely know that I want it. And in that spirit, The Huffington Post has published the piece I wrote about just that a few months ago right here. It all starts here on this blog that still nobody really reads. Except you. YOU! I love you. You, I am sure I love. You are the one.

Here's a dose of sappy love on your Monday of San Valentin:

You Can't Buy Love at the Drive-Thru

Here is a couple truly in love. It exists! I think.

I'm moving to Malawi!

Maybe.

If you remember my most recent Funny Human, The Crowd Farter, you'll know that I don't enjoy when people bust one loose in the middle of a sweaty bus or elevator or fireworks display. I can't deny that I am guilty, but I don't have to because creepy little Crowd Farters remain anonymous.
Apparently, the higher-ups in Malawi share my sensitive nose's sentiment. They're currently debating a law on banning, as they call it, "breaking wind in public." The best part of the article is its accompanying picture. Looks like a stinky one.



THE JUSTICE MINISTER OF MALAWI said, "Just go to the toilet when you feel like farting."
Thanks, Justice Minister.
I seriously love that this is being debated in a government somewhere. If I would have known this was on the bill, I might have flown in. I'm interested in learning more about the system they'll use to detect the perpetrator.
Read the entire article [HERE}.

I'll take one Magician and Jazz Hand Wrap.

This is the best picture of me from the Taboo Tales show. THE BEST ONE.
I look like I'm trying to show a doctor how it hurts when I squat. With jazz hands.

So many things happened this first week of February that I believe it deserves a wrap-up.
This is my first blog wrap. I've had spinach wraps before though.

1. I’ve been in my apartment a year, which goes completely against my normal lack of commitment. The yearly rental increase slid under my door like an eviction notice. I opened it carefully, fearful. Total spike: $2.92. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it in this economy, but I’ll try.

2. The 45-year-old man in my apartment complex had car troubles. His Mazda Miata convertible died. He bought another Mazda Miata convertible. That is one long, cheap mid-life crisis.

3. My father’s adopted sister (my beautiful Aunt Lisa) found her birth mother after 50-some years. She suddenly has two sisters, and the families reunited this week in Miami. My Uncle T broke the ice by bringing flowers and saying, ‘If you hadn’t done what you did, I wouldn’t have met the love of my life.’ Ummmm.... I’m still crying about it.

4. There are several magicians who want to kill me. I reviewed the Magic Castle HERE, which is worse than drawing Muhammad. Those magicians are sure protective of their prime ribs and bland polenta.

5. I went to a writers’ conference and learned that I’m probably not going to get discovered at a writers’ conference. I tried to do some heavy networking by sitting next to the author of Hot Widow.
AUTHOR: My husband died in 1998.
ME: 1998 was a great year! Oh. Not for you.

6. Taboo Tales Number Two! My partner Corey and I put on the second installment of our storytelling show, Taboo Tales. Again the theater was sold out!!!! The storytellers were brave and insightful and hilarious. I wish everyone could experience what it's like to bleed words onto an fully accepting audience. It’s magical, and I’m so proud of what we’re doing.

7. The idea of the show is to get people talking about their 'unspeakable' truths. If everyone admits to being fucked up, then we all feel normal. I love that message. But what feels even better is that people believe in it and support it. Several members of the audience were people I met through this very blog. I may or may not still be crying about that too.
Taboo bloggers: Rahul, Almie, Hollye, Madge, Linda THANK YOU guys for your laughs and support.

8. Blog Nerd Alert: I’ll soon be switching to Wordpress. So... If you’re reading this in a reader, make sure your feed is set to ‘humansarefunny.com‘ and not the old ‘humansarefunny.blogspot.com.‘ 


9. And... that's a wrap. I've always wanted to say that.

Tit. Talk. Tit. Talk. Tit. Talk.

I’d like to be frank.
Not a man named Frank. Just frank.
Frank about boobs.
Lots of people have them. I have two. They’re pretty cool.
It took me a long, long, long time to think they’re pretty cool.
When I was younger, I couldn’t be frank about my boobs. They shamed me.
I was thirteen and hated myself for not having the hot tits of a developed woman. I wanted to be like Alysa Milano or Uncle Jesse’s wife on Full House. I had high standards, you see. And while all my other friends were sprouting, I was a boy with a ponytail.

During that awkward junior high period, I HAD TO BE PERFECT. I can guess, but I’m not quite sure from where this controlling neurosis came. I insisted on straight A's. I needed to have popular friends. And I spent hours... HOURS... in the school bathroom with my portable curling iron perfecting the wave of my bangs. I controlled all these elements, so the fact that I could not force my own breasts to grow was utterly painful. I wanted big boobs. I wanted to attract men with cars. I knew they were somehow connected.

This was before the teenage plastic surgery craze of today, a time when silicone was still something only weird Californians knew about. I didn’t even think to beg my mom for implants. Instead I stole her bras. I think it’s pertinent to the story (sorry mom) to state that my mom’s bras were...um... very large. I filled them with anything at first. I went through shoulder pads, paper wads, and even water balloons. I settled on some skin-colored pads I got at the fancy swimsuit store. They weren’t my skin color; they were someone else’s skin color.

I was sure these pads made me look like a pin-up. With this new set of perfect breasts, I pranced around like Rudolph, sure that this new, top-heavy bod would manifest the kind of guy with a Ford Escort or maybe a Geo Storm, the kind of guy who wore overalls with one strap unsnapped. Others didn’t share my vision. You see, everyone at school knew I stuffed. Not just because I miraculously grew mom-sized knockers one day. More because I was so careless. I wore very revealing bodysuits (yes, bodysuits) with my Bongo jeans, and the pads were constantly peeking out the sides. Plus, I didn’t really have any cleavage. It was just very obvious that something was amiss. Yet, in denial I stewed. So much so, that I wore those not-my-skin-color pads until they were really not my skin color. They turned black from daily use and sweat. And years of wear. Years. When I got a lifeguarding job at sixteen, I finally moved on to another form of padded bra that I could sew into my bathing suit. SEW! I had somehow convinced myself that nobody would like me if they saw the real size of my non-existent boobs.

Finally, something clicked that set me free. I don’t remember what it was, but let’s say it was profound. Maybe I found two small pebbles in a clearing. I don’t know, but one day during my junior year I finally FINALLY finally ditched my pads (or cocoa puffs, as some of my peers called them). I embraced my small tits. And to this day, I wear them proudly like I would a polar bear skin if I were in some indigenous Eskimo tribe. I love them. They work well in tank tops. They point to people. They don’t really bounce around too much. They are rad. I’ll say it again: I fucking love my boobs.

Society, however, feels otherwise. Now, after all this work to accept my imperfectly perfect pancakes, bra makers no longer make bras in my size WITHOUT padding. They don’t exist in regular stores. I cannot buy a bra that doesn’t come with its own version of the not-my-skin-color pads. Victoria’s secret is that small boobs are not allowed out in the world.

WHAT?!

I’ve come so far and now this. I refuse to go back to my thirteen-year-old ways. I no longer strive to meet men in overalls. I cannot digress.

I’ve looked through racks and drawers and shelves for bras to find only items with cute names like ‘demi’ or ‘push-up’ or ‘Tshirt’-- all full of styrofoam. If I want an actual bra in my small size that’s just made of lace or fabric, I have to special order it from Spain. Special order! From a special store not unlike Manny’s Big & Tall Emporium. Being frank about your small tits in America is just as rare as measuring in at 7 ft tall. I’m interpreting this to mean not that I have a strange body, but that American standards are ridiculous. And that European men will appreciate my breasts. One day when I am gone, you will know that I’ve moved to Madrid. And that I did it for the boobs (and also to stalk Javier Bardem).

This may or may not be my boob shot by a fellow fan of small boobs, my fabulous photographer friend Leo Reinfeld.