Prayers and Medication

It’s also not OK to post “what happened?” on a dead person’s wall. If you don’t know the family well enough to pick up the phone, you don’t need to know.

I recently saw that some utter dipshit had responded to one of these classy wall post questions with a detailed account of the person’s suicide. I hope that violation of privacy was worth knowing what happened.

A few years ago, I was introduced to someecards.com by a co-worker of mine. She was a terrible person to work with but I found the site very inspiring. I quickly began compiling a list of dark and funny card sayings of my own that I found hilarious. Then one day, as if they telepathically read my deepest desires, Someecards.com added a feature where users could create (and save) their own cards. You could even list them publicly so other people could rate them and send then to their friends. I was in heaven. I immediately started bombarding my friends with my some e-genius.

Then I forgot about it for like 4 years.

Then, this morning—jogged by my BFF’s birthday—I remembered the site and logged on. All my old cards were there.

Enjoy.

I’ll be performing on the legendary Naughty Show in the Main Room at The Comedy Store on January 26th @ 9 pm. I’m joined by Theo Von, Chris Spencer, Julia Lillis and, of course, Sam Tripoli. There will be pole dancers, Porn stars and sketches. This is a show not to be missed.

Tickets are $5.00

This morning, I discovered that, in 2006, Keith Sweat came out Christmas Album called A Christmas of Love. I apologize to all the peripheral Keith Sweat fans for the untimeliness of this blog as I am sure we could have all benefited from a little Sweat in our holiday. I don’t know much about A Christmas of Love other than it was this the only album he came out with that year and it was the first album he completed since 2002 when he released Rebirth.

I have to say, If you are going to put out a body of work with such a spiritually cocky title like Rebirth, you better follow it up with something pretty quickly. And don’t blame us for this expectation; you’re the one who claimed to be reborn.  All we are asking is that you confirm that. Ironically though, while Sweat had generated albums every 2-3 years steadily since 1987, Rebirth proved only to be the beginning of a 6 year hiatus—EXCEPT for A Christmas of Love, which oddly isn’t even listed in his Wikipedia Discography. Which leads me to believe that A Christmas of Love might have been more accurately called A Christmas of Desperation.

I imagine it’s early January of 2006. The note on the Bentley has just come in the mail. Keith opens the envelope with trepidation. He stares at it and sighs.  He looks out the window, the one that overlooks the driveway, and ponders the question he has dreaded his whole life; does he still have what it takes to make ‘em sweat? Just then he spots Mrs. Sweat, decked out in Chanel, carrying only the keys to the Porsche he bought her for Christmas and his American Express Platinum card, the one with the 18% APR and the airline mileage incentive plan. She’s got a Fred Segal look in her eye.

He takes a seat in the Louis Vittion re-apolstered vintage Knoll chair and rests his elbows on his knees, letting his head falls between his hands.

“It’s over,” he whispers to himself.

And then it hits him, like a ton a bricks you might build a chimney with, the only way out of this mess. He picks up the phone and dials the number for ICM.

“Steve, it’s Sweat. Call Rhino. I’m doing a Christmas album.”

Now to Keith’s credit, I must say, it’s not like he pulled a Clay Aiken and just re-filtered old holiday classics though the Sweat machine. From what I can tell, the nine tracks on this album are all original love songs, written to set the mood and ensure your next child is born on September 25. But the best part about this album, on a personal level to Keith, is that it seemed to be the bottom he needed to revive his creative juices and never have to look back (or acknowledge) A Christmas of Love. By 2008, Sweat had released Just Me, a much more humbly titled album and the first not done through Elektra Records. He then went on to complete Ridin’ Solo in 2010 and Til The Morning in 2011.

Seems Keith finally did have the Rebirth he had hoped for.

Since 2007, Sweat has been the host of a nationally syndicated radio program based upon the Quiet storm format. The Keith Sweat Hotel (known as The Quiet Storm with Keith Sweat on WBLS in New York City) is syndicated through Premiere Radio Networks.^[2]

I hope everyone had fun bidding farewell to 2011 and ringing in the new year. Despite my boyfriend and I both being sober now, we were able to eek out a pretty good time last night. As I tweeted a few days ago, when you are a non-drinker, New Years Eve can make you feel like you have a highly contagious disease. You find yourself being left off of the invite list for parties or party buses as it were (yes, Jade, I’m talking about you). It can be quite hurtful and depressing but I suppose it’s the price you pay for getting to be sober! (my new years resolution is to be more sarcastic).

At the risk of being optimistic, I am going to share with you some of my goals for 2012.

1. Hate less people.
At this point, it might be accurate to say that I hate about 80% of the people I know. Many of these are peripheral acquaintances, the rest don’t even know I am alive. Yes, you heard that right, I spend time hating people I have never met. While I conceptually understand this is a waste of time, spending time judging others makes me feel like I have some power—like as if by speaking I am convincing others that my opinion matters somehow.

2. Hate myself less.
This is gonna be a much harder feat for me as I have been my #1 arch enemy for decades. IT’s not that I am a bad person, I am just really annoying. I just don’t seem able to handle things with the balls and integrity that I think they should be handled. How I would handled them if I was me. I simply don’t accomplish enough things and I detest the fact that I am human and need food, sleep water and exercise.

3. Lose 8 lbs.
An agent recently told me I wasn’t L.A. gorgeous. I’ll show him.

4. Do stand-up on TV.
Seems like a reasonable goal for someone who hates doing clean material.

5. Figure out who my REAL friends are and spend a lot more time with them.

6. See my family more.
I have an adorable niece in Boston who I want to get to know better. And as I get older, I actually feel more in need of quality time with my mother than ever before.

7. Write more.
Whether this is more stand-up, a book or a script, I want to write much more in 2012. It’s an art form that I have complete control over and I really like control.

8. Travel.
And I don’t mean to Peoria, IL. Whether it’s for stand-up for vacation, I would really like to see a place I have never seen before.

9. Floss more.
Daily even.

10. And finally, I would like to book an acting role.
Cliche, I know, but what the hell, it’s true. I want to be a professional actress.

If anyone read this, I would love for you to comment by listing some of your goals for this year. I think we can all benefit from a little optimism.

Wishing you all a healthy, happy and prosperous 2012!

Compact cars: great for gas, bad for dead bodies.

I have so many questions for these two love birds, like which Sears took this picture? Why white eyeliner? Is this card meant to warm the hearts of family members or just your church group? How many prior children between you? Did he ask for a paternity test or just take your word for it? How high are you and on what? Can you really afford this baby?

Merry Christmas Everybody!

Comedian Lou Santini says, [paraphrased] pens aren’t something you buy, they are something you just have. Pens exist. They are meant to be assumed and taken for granted.

Easy for him to say.

I grew up in a penless household. No matter where you were in my home, you could never, EVER find a pen. Countless friends and service providers were told to “hold on” while the large receiver rested atop the parallel arms of our house phone and we scoured utensil drawers, closets, refrigerators for something to write with. Even after my mother yelled at us when she found her $20.00 Chanel lipliner widdled down to a nub, she still never thought to buy pens.

The aftermath of this upbringing is that shopping for pens is now something I do compulsively. Every time I go to a CVS or even a 7-Eleven, I always thing I need to buy more pens. And if I am going to Staples, you can just forget it.  What should be a quick run for paperclips turns into a vortex of time staring at an indecipherable wall of ball points, felt tips, gels, rolling balls, fine and medium points, easy grip, capped and retractable pens. There is blue ink and black ink or what about red ink? Bic or Pilot of Stapes brand? Sets of 2, 4, 15,18! It can take me hours to decide. And you know you have a problem when you go in to buy printer ink and end up spending more money on Mini-Sharpies.

1. Dunkies: slang and/or abbreviated version of the loved coffee and doughnut giant Dunkin’ Donuts
1. Mush: Newton townie slang for ones friend or associate. 2. A chick with big hair who smokes Marlboro lights or a guy who works at a gas station, usually residing in Nonantum, MA.

WELCOME! This is the official introduction of the newly redesigned DanielleStewart.com. Thanks for checking it out!

The site was made by the talented and patient Brian Monarch. If you need a website, he gets my highest recommendation. He is extremely easy to work with and an all around cool guy.

As you can see, the site is heavily inspired by Dunkin’ Donuts aka Dunkies, which originated in Massachusetts and seems to be available in every state except California. If I had known this, I never would have moved here.

Here is a photo of the first Dunkin’ Donuts location EVER in Quincy, MA.

I am originally from Newton, MA, a close suburb of Boston where rich kids and townies share the halls of Newton North High School, where I (barely) graduated from. They recently tore down the ol’ girl but here’s what it used to look like.

When I bring up my longing for a Dunkin’ Donuts local in LA, people will often tell me how much better Kristy Kreme donuts are. I always agree with them. A big misconception about Dunkies is that people go there for donuts. I can understand how this could be confusing given the name. But donuts at Dunkies are simply an afterthought. It’s all about the coffee.

Dunkin’ Donuts used to be where everyone in Newton got their coffee. Then, in 1990, a gourmet coffee shop named Cafe Apassionato opened in Newtonville. It introduced us to things like lattes, macchiatos with soy milk and double shots of expresso over ice. It changed everything. It marked the beginning the civil coffee war in Newton.

Suddenly, a $1.00 cup of coffee “regular” wasn’t good enough. People wanted to pay at least double that to enjoy blends from Sumatra and Ethiopia, boasting “full-bodied flavor” with hints of smokiness and chicory. I started to see construction trucks and utility vans parked outside Apassionato. Even the salt-of-the-earth blue collars had turned into coffee faggots.

Then came Starbucks. By 1994, the Seattle chain had purchased many of the independent coffeehouses in the Boston area. Gourmet coffee became mainstream and Dunkin’ Donuts struggled to keep up. In almost no time, the city was divided; Dunkies people and Starbucks people.

Even I, a total cheerleader for Dunkin’ Donuts, turned Starbucks for a time. I was a coming of age teenager, desperate to seem worldly and sophisticated, and so developing a palette for $3.00 Cappuccinos and micro brew beers was at the top of my priority list. It was a phase I’m not proud of.

But as I came to know myself more, I gradually made my way back to my roots, the roots of medium coffee with cream and sugar already added when delivered to me. The roots of the pink and orange. And kudos to Dunkies for not giving up, for updating their menu to offer Americanos and Au Laits and blended espresso drinks. But when I go to Dunkin’ Donuts, I am not looking for a safari for my taste buds, I am simply looking for a great cup of coffee.

Now I am a stand-up comedian who travels the country for work. The first thing I do in every city I land in is Google the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts. If I can squeeze in a trip or two, I make sure to make it happen. I fucking LOVE Dunkin’ Donuts. It just makes me happy.

I’m just having one of those days.

My face is broken out like a teenagers, with a big red one placed dorkmatically in-between my eyes; just off center enough that it impairs my vision. If seeing it isn’t enough of a reminder that I am paying off my karmic debt of crystal clear skin all through high school, the pain I experience when I affix, and chronically fiddle with, my cheap and crooked $15.00 aviators from Off Broadway shoes, won’t let me forget it.

Note for myself: If the name of the business specifies SHOES than they are not claiming to be in the sunglasses business, please listen to them. 

I was half asleep this morning when I put on a pair of what I used to think were my fat jeans, only to find myself in an ill-fitted conundrum of oversized pancake ass and a T-shirt outlined muffin top.

As I was driving to my crack of dawn hair appt (9:30), it struck me as odd that bakery’s actually sell muffin tops. While it might be true that the top of a muffin is indeed the best part, I think if they changed the name to something like Cake Cookie, they would sell more. I’m just saying, I don’t care how good an eclair is, if they are calling it back-fat, I’m not gonna buy it. 

I wanna say upfront that I absolutely LOVE my hairdresser. Not only is he very talented at cutting hair but he is cool as shit and totally straight and cute. So I always enjoy our time together, when I can afford it. Today I was splurging for a cut and color because my mother has always ingrained in me that when money is scary low, spend more.

As we approached the end of the second hour, I mentioned that my meter was about to run out and he offered to run out and refill it. Unfortunately, all I had was a dime, which didn’t buy us much time. So during the final stage of my haircut, the bang cutting stage, I could tell he felt rushed. Realistically, I would much rather have a $68.00 ticket then have uneven bangs but apparently that wasn’t in the cards for me today. 

When someone spends 2 hours with you, carefully mixing and applying color and artistically shaping your hair, there is never a feeling of “more than enough time to correct it if I think it looks weird” after they are done. There is usually an urgency to get you out of that chair and get the next customer, who has been impatiently waiting for 10 minutes, into it. So being the insecure person that I am, I mess with my bangs a little in the mirror and if there isn;t a immediate noticeable inconsistency, I say thank you and leave. However, today, it definitely seemed like my bangs were lopsided so I asked him if he could take that side up a little, which he did. Then I said thank you and left. 

From the moment I got into the car and examined my bangs in the rearview mirror, I have been compulsively OBSESSED with the fact that the once longer side is now too short and when I shake my head to let the bangs fall naturally, the short side looks almost jagged. I spent the next 30 minutes inching down Santa Monica Blvd (cause that is the only offered speed at noon) fucking with my hair, trying to settle on a adjustment that looked right. No fucking dice. 

I may as well have been drunk texting and driving with the amount of attention I had on the road. But who could blame me? Between my hair issue, the whitehead I just discovered next to my nose and my off-kilter shitglasses, there was really no attention left to be paid to moving traffic. 

My next stop was a trinket store, which happens to be the only store east of Westwood that carries this particular thing that I need by Sunday. Today marked my second attempt to shop at this store, the first being yesterday when, after spending 40 minutes picking out exactly what I wanted, they told me I couldn’t buy the item because they wouldn’t break a $100.00 bill. Just my luck, the parking lot for the store was completely full, as was the “additional parking in back” lot. Being that its in West Hollywood, circling the area looking for a street spot was an exercise in immortal patience and futility. After what I can only assume to be $5.00 worth of gas, I finally found a metered spot close-ish by and parked my car. But wait—I have no change for the meter. Is this really happening?

LISTEN UP WEST HOLLYWOOD—If you are going to be dicktards and section off 90% of your “city” to resident permit parking 24/7, and then have the audacity to announce that your meters run until 10pm or even 2 am, then LEAST you could do is install and electronic meter system so that people can go into overdraft trying to buy a $7.00 trinket for a friend. I fucking HATE West Hollywood. You hear me? LOATHE. 

After 13 years of drunken, unsafe sex with strangers, I decided it was within the realm of my character to risk leaving my car for 5 minutes with no money in the meter, rather than play it smart and safe and go buy a pack of gum for change. The chances of the spot still even being there by the time I got back were slim to none and no ticket dollar amount could ever outweigh what finding the spot taken would have done to my sanity.

Ok, so I was wrong. Coming out of the store and finding that the $7.00 trinket had now cost me $75.00, combined with the reflection in my car window of my uneven $150.00 hair blooper AND the shooting pain from my visible zit, exasperated by my audibly crappy eyewear, proved to be a recipe for broad daylight breakdown in the middle boytown. 

“God fucking damn it! WHY???!!!” I screamed as I dropped my purse on the ground and fell to my knees.  

Just then I felt it. My higher power’s biggest revenge for taking his name in vein.

My period. 

So I got myself together and headed straight for CVS where I proceeded to spend $80.00 (even with a coupon) and completely forgot to get tampons. 

Dear road diary, eh?

I have been in Edmonton, AB (that’s Canada for you ethnocentric American types) for 3 days. It has yet to be above -11 degrees and everyone here is uncomfortably kind.

Years ago, when I traveled Europe with my friend Johanna, we would meet men who we assumed were gay. After having slept with them, we learned to readjust our gaydar to a new setting: Canadian. I do not mean this in a derogatory sense at all, if anything it is self-deprecating to American women who are used to a general air of selfishness, a result of an upbringing sweetened by Capitalism and private heath care.

At the risk of sounding like I am wearing socks with Birkenstocks, I have noticed that the niceness of people really does wear off on you. Since touching town in Edmon-town, I have found myself going out of my way to be the kind of human Jesus intended us all to be. It started with the free carts at the airport. You know those carts that help you schlep your over-packed luggage (even worse so now that it costs $25 to check each bag. Although, ironically, Air Canada doesn’t charge you for that because they still care about the people) from baggage claim to ground transportation? I never get those carts in American airports because it’s cheaper to carry the luggage myself and then just pay for a massage later. Well in Canada, those carts are free. Fucking free. Unreal.

That small gesture by Canada caused a chain reaction within in me. After buying $100 worth of groceries for the week and taking the cart a quarter of a mile off-site to the  condo I am being accommodated at, I unloaded my purchases and then promptly returned the cart to exactly where I found it, in the foyer of Safeway. I feel I should mention that this good-doing deserves and extra gold star, seeing as it was in -24 degree weather. Not normal (American) behaviour (spelled it with a ‘u’ out of respect).

My point is, I feel that I have learned something. Something I have always known but never believed, or more accurately, never had faith in. Which is, do onto others as you would have them do onto you. It’s contagious and if practiced, could actually have a shot at making the world a better place. Its old school bible shit.

I guess I’m a little slow on the uptake.

Sincerely,

A white person among white people

My best friend is a very honest person. I’d like to think she gets it from me. The following is her current profile summary on (unnamed) dating site. I hope you find it as refreshing as I do.

I am bitter and recently traumatized. I have a long, rich history of going out with men who stop calling me after 1-3 dates, peppered with a few notable exceptions of longer running abusive relationships. I’m guessing this is because of my relationship with my father, which, after many long years of 12-step programs and therapy, I have learned was filled with what psychologists refer to as “covert incest”. I always just thought I was his favorite ;)

Although I’m told by many that I’m a catch, it’s hard to get caught when I spend my Saturday nights hiding in my apartment with all the curtains drawn, watching youtube video clips of kittens and avoiding the phone. If you do happen to meet me somewhere (perhaps at Rainbow grocery buying ingredients for wheatfree, sugar-free cookie dough), and we miraculously hit it off and get into a relationship, we will most likely have a whirlwind ‘honeymoon’ period lasting about 3-6 months at which time I will completely lose interest in having sex with you due to the deeper level of intimacy we are reaching in our relationship.  You should know, I am only sexually aroused by relative strangers. Committed, loving boyfriend - ew, that’s just not sexy. Don’t worry, though - I will still cling to the relationship and make you hold me every night, platonically of course, treating you like a hostage, due to my abandonment issues.

Most likely, I will be single for a good long while considering my core belief system in which a healthy relationship is as common as a unicorn galloping through the streets of San Francisco.

You should email me if you like scarred women with catastrophic views of romantic relationships who enjoy napping.

Other Interests:
Zoloft, Therapy, Self-help books, staring at the computer screen while shoveling cookie dough in my mouth

Even without pictures, she’s receiving an overwhelming response. Looks like my favorite damsel won’t be in distress for long.

I love high heels. It’s kinda weird that I do since I have been 5’8”ish 5th grade and it gave me a complex about my height. Not that 5’8”ish is THAT tall for a girl but I have always felt like the gawky and clumsy, too tall girl amongst all my adorable 5’3”ish friends. I am certain that many women would like to be taller, maybe even as tall as I am, but that is only because most women are under 5’5” and woman want to be anything they are not.

But for whatever reason, I love wearing heels. They make me feel sexy and confident. However, after a night in these podiatric torture chambers, I am often left crippled. Aside from the pain of crunched toes, strained arches and blistered heels, wearing pumps causes problems in my knees and lower back as well. But having been raised by a fashion designer, I was taught at an early age that pain is a small price to pay to look good. And I agree. 

So I didn’t think twice about packing my favorite high-heeled black boots as my only footwear option on a week-long gig out of town. In fact, I thought it smart and practical to travel light. What I earned was a boat load of regret on Sunday night as I reluctantly put those boots on once again, for my final show, to sore and aching feet. I vowed that I would chose only comfortable shoes to bring with me on my next trip. 

Unfortunately, I don’t really own any. I have one pair of brown motorcycle boots that are somewhat practical feel-wise but definitely don’t match with a majority of my outfit choices. So out of desperation, I went to Marshalls to see if I could find something stylish and affordable. In my world, these two adjectives rarely exist together when it comes to shoes and they never do when it comes to boots.

Marshalls surprised me though. For the first time ever, I saw a pair of black boots that were in my price range and didn’t make me wince.  When I tried them on, my feet almost came.  They were as cozy as house slippers. I was wary at first, it seemed too good to be true, like one of those purchases that seems ok in the store but when you get home you can’t figure out what you were thinking. I ran the look by my boyfriend who is uber stylish, much more so than me. He approved them and so I made them mine.

I have worn them 3 times now, and I have to say, I am not sold. There is something about them that doesn’t sit well with me. They are lacking the edge I normally seek out in footwear. I realized it’s because they are made by Born, the super comfortable clog manufacturer (that I would never buy from) and they are actually just sensible shoes DISGUISED to look like fashionable motorcylce-esque boots. Yuck!

No matter how absolutely comfortable they are, I still feel like a big dork wearing them. Why am I so resistant to wearing a halfway decent looking shoe that is all the way comfortable? Is it my fear of getting older and losing my edge or is my identity as a women so fragile that it can be rattled by a boot choice out of my (yet ironically into my) comfort zone?

I am ashamed to say that this sensible shoe choice has made me hyper-aware of what a shallow and shell of a human being I actually am.

And tomorrow, I am fucking returning them.