Mighty Girl
My face.

My Favorite Posts

return to homepage

Mighty Girl Condensed

I'm in love with Webvan. I know people throw the L-word around pretty lightly these days, so let me clarify: If Webvan had a penis, I would propose.
Webvan brings me flowers, wine, and quality ice cream in little round "this is quality ice cream" containers. Webvan never comes home with a can of smoked oysters and some salsa when I gave Webvan a list of the fresh produce I wanted. Webvan comforts me with ready-made meals after a hard day at work. As soon as Webvan can have sex with me, it's a go.
Unfortunately, no matter what Dionysian wonders modern technology has in store, that day will never come. You see, Webvan is dying, and I think I know why:

A Brief Conversation With the Unenlightened Webvan Delivery Guy:
DG: Yeah, I work on the weekends, so Tuesday and Wednesday is my weekend.
Me: Hm. That's kind of cool. You can do all of your errands without worrying about crowds or stuff closing early.
DG: Actually, you'd be surprised. The grocery store is always packed.
12:11 a.m.

We spent hours planning our meals and arranging gear in the packs: camp stove, wool socks, well-stocked first aid kit, water purifier, kitchen sink, and so on. We stopped for lunch near the trailhead after a five-hour drive, and my camping buddy (the Eagle Scout) had a sudden outburst: "OhmyholymotherofjesusCRAP!"
I jerked around to see what had happened; he just pointed to his shoes. Or rather, to his moccasin slippers.
"I left my hiking boots at home."
3:30 p.m.

Raspberry bathroom air fresheners are unsettling. The area where one defecates should not smell edible.
9:43 a.m.

I bought leather pants this weekend, and they're fabulous. They make me want to pose instead of standing still. They make me want to take up chain smoking. They make me want to pout out angry lyrics and crawl catlike toward a video camera while underage models writhe seductively in the soft-focus background. Man, nothing screams rock star like wrapping your legs in dead cow.
2:28 p.m.

Subject: New Economy moment on Muni.
Characters: Young, hostile woman having a loud public conversation on her cell phone.

"You didn't send them yet?! Send it. Send it now... Yes! Now... OK, what else? I'm about to go into the tunnel... What do you mean?... No, we haven't moved yet... On the 14th, why?... Would you spit it out? What do you want?... Yeah. What do you want?... WHAT? Are you joking?... No way. I'm not paying for that, why would you think that?... I never, ever said that... No, I didn't... I never, never, never said I would pay for it, you're insane!... I don't even know where you're getting that... Oh my God. No I didn't. That's $1,000, you think I just have that kind of money laying around?... WHAT? I did not say "Go to Africa, it's on me." That's a joke... Why would I say that? I don't have $1,000 laying around... Yes, I said that, and I sent you $100 for it last month. Yes... You know what your problem is? You think I'm made of money... Yes, you do. I'm beginning to see why you get so upset when I don't just send you checks on a whim... I'm not made of money, I work for it, and I have a lot of stuff to pay for... OK, look, I didn't say that, but if you thought I was going to pay for the trip, and you honestly believed that, I'll try to help out... Yeah... If I have any cash this month, I'll send it to you. OK, Dad?"
11:08 a.m.

Who are these women who come to clubs wearing fishnets, come-hither skirts, appropriately obvious tank tops, and... laptop bags? I know they didn't come from work, so I have to wonder what the hell is in that bag that they must have with them at all times. I watch as they order Cosmos and sway on the dance floor, trying their damndest to look carefree and nonchalant. This effect is difficult to achieve, no matter how much body glitter you've applied, when you're hunched under the weight of a 30 lb. bag.
It perplexes me, but I have theories. Perhaps this woman must carry a full arsenal of concealer, base, blush creme, liner, lipstick, and shadow every time she goes out. Maybe she has an alternate outfit stashed in there (say, some snow pants and ski boots in case the weather turns). Maybe she thought it would be too risky to leave the severed human head in her car. A little advice, ladies: lipstick, and $50 bucks fits in your pocket. The head goes in your freezer.
9:39 a.m.

So I got an electric toothbrush, which is charmingly efficient. You push a button, it brushes your teeth for exactly two minutes and beeps at intervals that indicate when it's time to change sectors. My teeth are shiny and new--they do the little lens flare thing when I smile. The only problem is, my new toothbrush sounds very much like a vibrator. My roommate has begun to avoid eye contact with me when I leave the bathroom.
2:37 p.m.

Dear San Francisco Sidewalk Users:
I have tried to be patient owing to your obvious dearth of intellect and corresponding need to be coddled like a small child. However, I am only one woman. If one more of you nearly blinds me with a hideously oversized beach umbrella that you insist on using in the rain, I shall beat you mercilessly about the ears with my laptop bag. When you are sufficiently subdued, I will appropriate your monstrous "umbrella," snap it shut, and make a kebab of your brethren who will by then have gathered, slack jawed and mewling, to watch your fate unfold.
Thank you.
12:02 a.m.

Walking home from work, I had an absurdity attack as I passed 24-Hour Fitness. The huge windows and frenetic step-class activity combined for the effect of a giant jar full of panicked bugs. The guys running on the treadmill were the bugs that keep climbing up to the top of the jar, falling, then climbing back up again. Glah.
9:27 a.m.

My dentist supplies headphones for her patients. When you've got some quality tunes playing, you hardly notice the smell of burning tooth enamel while she drills. I selected Louis Armstrong.
Two masked dentists leaned over me, backed by a glaring, operating-table light, while I tried not to gag on the spit collecting at the back of my throat. At the peak of my discomfort, Louis sang, "AND I THINK TO MAHSELF, WHUTTA WONDERFUHL WAHHHLD... (cue strings)." I swear, it was like stepping into a Quentin Tarantino movie. I found it so absurd that I had to control the urge to laugh (funeralsbreakupsthethingsIwishI'dknown). But the more depressing things I thought about, the worse the juxtaposition became. When "Life is a Cabaret" came on, I lost it. With my mouth stretched open like a gasping trout, I started to guffaw.
They, mercifully, assumed I was choking. I tried to cover my lunacy with a few well-placed coughs, and hit stop on the CD player while I was sitting up. I shoulda gone with Korn.
10:55 a.m.

12.27.00 BIG BALLS
My sister is a full-time parent. Spending all day with little kids has its effects, and one of them is an inability to recognize sexual double meanings anymore. My nephew opened a Christmas gift that contained a soccer ball, a basketball, and a football. My sister promptly exclaimed, "Look at that! You've got some big balls, Trevor! You've sure got some balls!" When I burst out laughing, she just blinked at me. "What?"
2:19 p.m.

11.27.00 GULP
You know what's not pleasant? Drinking at the water fountain and feeling the stream of water dip when someone flushes the toilet in the bathroom next door.
1:12 p.m.

The bus posters out for Disney's new 101 Dalmations feature a bunch of puppies falling through the air. They have quizzical expressions, and they're posed in awkward, falling-puppy positions. Cute, I guess, but puppies don't land on their feet. Now I can't get those 101 sickly thuds out of my head.
10 a.m.

Yesterday I saw a piece of graffiti that read, "Bongo?"
I said, "Yes, please" and waited for drumming hippies to stampede out of Starbucks.
Nothing happened.
9:54 a.m.

I was reading a women's magazine article about how to dress flatteringly. It had tips for women who have issues with their torsos--too long or too short. Apparently I missed that chapter in the chick book because this is a whole category that I don't obsess about. I know lots of women who worry that their boobs are too small or their butt is too big, but I have never, ever heard two guys at a bar say:

"She's hot."
"Yeah, but her torso's all messed up."
"Whoa...you're right. I didn't notice until she took off the jacket."
11:57 a.m.