I swear, HBO must put something into the water of every house that has their channel. Case in point?
GoldDust and I were talking the other day.
“This show is us,” she tells me. “It reminds me so much of our friendship.”
I YouTube the show and watch a trailer. “As long as I’m not the girl in the preview that falls off her bicycle.”
“We’re all parts of each character,” GoldDust assures me.
Thus, I agreed to watch the show.
Thirty-two seconds into the first episode I was hooked. I was also most like the girl who fell off the bicycle, a struggling writer (wait, does that sound familiar?) who is snarkily funny. I’m snarky. ADMIT IT, I am.
I was so hooked on this series that I ended up watching the first few back to back, sitting on the couch, while eating slices of swiss cheese. It was all delicious. The show and the cheese.
Midway through one of the episodes, the snarky writer that reminds me so much of myself gets a phone call, from a doctor and is informed she has HPV.
I suddenly am having massive flashbacks.
For my 21st birthday, I received great news.
Just prior to my birthday, I had been living on my own the past few years, and was being rather neglectful of things that you shouldn’t be. I wasn’t eating on a regular basis, was drinking like a sailor, and was neglecting basic things like doctor’s appointments.
Well, I moved home for my sanity’s sake, and found myself getting caught up on all these things. The eating, the check ups, etc.
Turns out that the first doctor’s appointment I had came up with bad results. Case in point: cancer-y looking things.
Happy Birthday to me, right?
“What the H-E-Double Hockey Sticks, HBO?” I’m asking myself. “Have you stolen into my room in the dead of night, taken my old journals and created incredibly awesome TV with them?”
Now, granted, when I got this call from my doctor, it wasn’t about HPV. But it was still a call from a doctor basically telling me not good news.
And I’m also sure that millions of women have watched this episode and thought, holy balls, this was me in some way, shape, or form at some misunderstood point of my life.
I hope that a million others watched this episode and thought, holy balls, I better go get my lady parts checked out. In the healthy way, not the dirty way.
But still. HBO. I’m expecting a royalty check in the mail at any time for airing an episode that was basically my life, and thus has really invaded my and my lady parts privacy.
And also, everyone, watch GIRLS. And probably go see your doctor if you haven’t lately.
I was having a conversation with a friend the other day. She’s previously from NYC, and was pretty much a Queen at going out. She and her friends would partake in “shortest skirt” competitions, get vodka in water bottles from club owners after closing, and wear shirts that rival, or just plain blow GoldDust’s latest fashions out of the water on controversial.
The other day, when I told her about my #AlternaPurse hashtag, and in effect, my storing of personal effects in my sock, she told me this tidbit:
“Bars in New York are so different. You could get searched more intensely than when you were in line to board a plane. Girls would get up to bouncers and be asked to pull their bras away from their bodies.”
I must have a questioning look on my face.
“Well,” she explains. “That’s a popular place to store like drugs and things.”
After thinking more about it, I realize that she’s right and not only that, I’ve done it. You probably have too [if you have boobs, and they’re the kind of boobs that need a bra]. Granted, I’ve never stored drugs in there, but I’ve stuck my credit card in there, and my phone when I’ve needed both hands for other things…
- Breaking the seal
If I had done this on that particular night when I was robbed out of my back pocket, maybe I’d never have lost that $43.11.
One other night in fact:
Macy and I are heading downtown. We’ve dolled up to end all dolling up. I look adorable, if I do say so myself. We park the car and are touching up make up when it happens.
“Want me to hold your license and stuff?” I ask Macy. The shorts I’m rocking don’t have a back pocket, so I’ve been forced to carry a purse.
“That’d be great,” Macy replies. She’s wearing a dress — even less chance of having pockets. She goes to grab her id and — “Shit. I can’t find it.”
We search. We search like there is no tomorrow. I am pulling Boo’s car seat and toys out of my car and setting them on the curb in the quest for the lost license. Finally, we realize, it can’t be there. My car has eaten her license.
“Let’s just go,” Macy decides. We’re heading to our regular bar anyway — the doorman Security knows us. So we start walking, and miraculously, they let us in without her id.
We’re dancing and enjoying ourselves when something jostles Macy.
“What’s wrong?!” I ask her, startled.
She holds up her id. She found it. “It was in my bra!” She declares.
Thus, we come to the present day — where I’m getting heckled for having stored things in a sock. Would they have been safer in the cleave? Probably. Suppose things hadn’t fallen out, after all, I might have had my identity stolen. Or my money stolen. Or never gotten into contact with the man of the business card. Terrible things could have happened.
Oh. Wait. Terrible things have happened: it’s called the JoeyBra.
Yes. Someone is making money off of this. They are taking our drunken abilities to shove random items into our bras and charging us for it. Not only that. Now that this is such a well known, common concept, people are looking into all implications of the cleavage storage system causing us breast cancer.
For many young women today, tucking cell phones in the bra has become a cool, hip way to have simple access to these essential devices. Most of us have no idea that cell phones are small microwave radios that should not be kept directly on the body.
The ways some people are using their phones today could increase their risk of developing breast cancer and other diseases tomorrow. Cell phone’s microwave radiation seeps directly into soft fatty tissue of the breast.
Geez, people. I had no idea this would turn into a diatribe about breast cancer. I’m sorry. But not really, because let’s face it – if you anything like me, you’ve done this. And now after reading this, there’s a solid chance that you won’t.
Conclusion: I’ve saved all your lives.