Welcome to Evany Thomas! I live and word in the Bay Area, can play a drinking straw like a penny whistle, and once walked around with a detonated appendix for 5 long, strange days. I'm also a sleeping pose expert.

And that's not all!

ay

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments

And no, Fonzie 'n' me aren't having an affair (how you flatter me!). I hate to burst your "evany vs. pinkie" bitch-fight fantasies, but Winkler (the actor who portrayed Arthur "Fonzie" Fonzarelli on Happy Days ... pause ... I just realized that I have also had the pleasure of a "real life" encounter with not only the actress who plays Mrs. Cunningham, but, more titillatingly, Scott Baio of Chatchi fame. Perhaps, if my cards are played carefully, I will meet them all! Potsie Webber! Ralph Malph! Richie C! Joannie! Howard! Al! ... Man! Now I DO have a reason to keep on keeping on!) was merely a guest director on Clueless (the so-cheesy-I-can't-believe-it's-still-on-the-air TV show that's based on the people-say-it's-based-on-austin's(jane not powers)-emma-but-I-can't-see-it feature film), where my fine friend Sophia (of LA roommate fame) works in the costuming department.

oh, mercymercyme

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments
n a recent LA-to-SF road trip, I caught my self fucking ROCKING OUT to Marvin's Grapevine, a song that, though usually a real "just can't change the dial fast enough" song, was the only damn thing I could tune in whilst cruising down the I-5 in my blindingly red rental Neon just outside Lemoore-Hanford at 11 o'clock in the pee em. Don't get me wrong. It's a fabu song and all, in fact it was once a true favorite among me and my little friends back in the day of the reunion classic "The Big Chill" (which incidentally, is the name of THE f'rogurt hot spot in LA...known county-wide for its freakishly large portions of super-yum low- to no-fat fro-yo, it is the epicenter of all sorority life, offering a lip-glossed, honey-blonde, steely bun bonus for my fellow ice-cream cravers shooting for a little piece of virtue), but the years since then have been ravaged by the Raisins (bendable! poseable!) who have ruined the song fer good.

Rocking out as I was, I still felt relief as the song started its fade. But, oh! imagine my chagrin when the very same bom bom ba bom bommm, bom bom bom boms started up once again. And, after the second go around, it started again, only this time it was CCR's version, which played twice. Then some motowny woman's version played, then two more of Marvin's.

Just as I felt my sanity running away from home, the umpteenth "honeyhoney I knowwwww, that you're letting me go..." crackled out range and I was free to go on with my life.

The whole thing would have rendered me totally immobilized had I not already heard rumors of this abomination of nature from my fine friend Amy, who had stumbled upon the station during a drive back from an all liquor, no sleep trip to Vegas.

Her encounter started when she pulled into a motel with the cloying tune playing absently in the background. She shut off the engine, went in and slept, stumbled out to the car the next morn, started the car, and was greeted by "Grapevine." She turned to her co-pilots and said "isn't that freaky? this was playing as we pulled in last night. huh! just like 'groundhog day!'" The song played all the way through, and then it started again. And again. And again. Amy described the next hour as one of the most emotionally diverse times of her life; she told of her initial giggles, followed by nauseous unease, then rolling fear, then disgust, anger, a brief giggle revival, boredom, then relief as they finally drove out of the grasp of the cursed tune.

Apparently I was lucky to at least get different versions of the damn song...Amy had all Marvin, all the time. Maybe the station is now trying to appeal to a wider body of advertisers? The whole thing is just totally flummoxing. Is this the pet project of some obsessed billionaire? (Bill! You SHOULDN'T have!) Is this some small desert community's attempt at a tourist-pulling gimmick? What? What?

I'm entertaining any and all explanations, so if you have an idea, suspicion, faintest clue, or, better yet, have a similar experience, DO mail me with the low-down (julie brown). Maybe we can form a support group.

Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

here's why I'm guilt riddled

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments
o I haven't written anything in oooh, a month. I wish I could say it's because I've been off kicking ass in some other arena of my life, curing the big "C," volunteering at the SPCA as a petter/stroker, wearing a red power suit. But no. Last weekend I went to Reno where I acted as midwife to Matt's thirtieth year, lost $200 that I couldn't afford to lose, and ordered room service for the first time. Twice. And this weekend I watched TV. All weekend. And nothing was on. I watched Galleger (lord how do you spell that...you know, the bald fella with the perennial Oliver cap and all those props). I watched america's funniest home videos , like more than once. I watched Grease, the movie, and sang along to all of the numbers. And again, I wish I could say this total waste of human life (why do you think they call it "present") was the result of some sort of chemical seesaw, that I was real, real depressed and couldn't, just couldn't be creative, that I was indigo blue. But, again, no. I was chipper, my fingers taptapping on the RC, making and eating a batch of meringues while watching mission impossible.

Pray/prey for me.

gynamite!

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments
The only thing that stands between a person and happiness is finding an honest, good: a) mechanic. b) doctor, and c) pair of shoes. Right now, I'm a third of the way. I have a fabulous general practitioner. Not only is her office right next to a good-coffee cafe in this really cute, village-within-a-city area of town, but she's chatty, informative, funny, and honest. Fer instance, this is what we talked about in our "getting to know you, getting to know ALL about you" discussion on my very first visit:

She asked me if I regularly self-examine my breasts. And I said, "Well, my first inclination is to lie and say 'yes' [because I know I should, and I don't want to get in trouble, have her yell at me and stuff...see my rant about flossing to learn more about this incredibly irrational kind of thinking] but, no, I don't really."

And she says, "Let me tell you a story: the worst case of breast cancer I ever saw was on a twenty-six-year-old ... how old are you?"

[throat clear] "Twenty-six."

"Yes," she says, smirkingly, and not unkindly, "I knew that, I just didn't want you to miss the point. Well, this woman was a smart cookie, a PhD candidate. And she was married to an X-ray technician whose job it was to scan women's breasts for cancer. [Lingering and meaningful raised-brow eye contact] They had been together for years, and she always thought that he had been giving her regular 'check ups.' But listen up. Someone caressing your breasts during sex is NOT probing you for funny lumps. Cancer is possibly THE furthest thing from their mind. Anyway, since HE always thought that SHE had been checking herself, since she, of all people, knew the risks, somehow a huge tumor went undetected. When she finally came to me, it was falling through her breast. Literally. [Beat] She was very lucky. It turned out okay in the end ... she lived, but only after having a mastectomy, and now she's a doctor with two kids, still married. I don't tell you this to scare you, but you need to know that your youth doesn't make you immune. There are very few things that you have any control over in this life, but your body's one of them. Don't miss the opportunity, okay?"

"oKAY!"

"All right, let me show you how it's done. Give me a girl scout salute."

[I give her a girl scout salute.]

"Second only to your clitoris, these three fingers have the most nerve endings in your body. Use them to learn and memorize the landscape of your breasts."

Everything was so damn frank and straightforward that I didn't really have a chance to get shy. She explained the correct way to check everything (soaped up in the shower, then again lying down) and we discussed when to do it (a week after my period ends), and then the "hold nothing back" conversation wandered into the peaked and valued land of safe sex:

"Do you practice safe sex?" [Bam. Not even one pussy-footstep.]

"Yes. I'm very careful and I get tested regularly."

"Great. That's wonderful to hear. Before we move on though, I'd like to quickly cover some safe sex gray areas...I'm sure you know it all, but let's just review. Oral sex is less risky than other kinds of sex, but it's still dangerous...especially with a new partner. When a relationship is just starting out, and you're still trying to impress your partner with fresh, minty breath, you tend to brush and floss more than usual, which makes your mouth extra vulnerable. Your gums don't have to be bleeding ... vigorous brushing and flossing create all sorts of tiny abrasions that up the risk factor. Not only that, but pre-come ... you know what I mean when I say 'pre come,' right?"

[Solemn, saucer-eyed nod.]

"It's often clear and looks like saliva and can come out in such small amounts that even the man may be unaware of its presence. Anyway, this pre-come has a much higher concentration of HIV than the ejaculate itself. So if you're using unprotected oral sex as foreplay to safe sex, you're putting yourself at risk. Also, I'm not sure if you have sex with other women, but in case you do, then you should know that two women having sex are not by definition having SAFE sex. There have been reported cases of the virus passing along via shared sex toys and oral sex during menstruation. So, be careful. Be safe. Take control of your body."

Right ON! Then, during the actual be-stirruped examination, she asks me, "Are you comfortable with your body?"

"Well, growing up I never thought I would be, but somehow in the last couple of years I've managed to grow into it. So yeah, pretty much."

"I thought so. You know, I can count on one hand the number of women I examine who are comfortable with their bodies, and I think it's great."

I was a tad unsure how to take this last exchange...I mean, are you SUPPOSED to be noteworthily comfortable when you're in the midst of a pap-smear? But in the end I decided to take it as a compliment.

I take them where I can get them.

hair today

Saturday, mar. 15, 2008   |   0 comments
About two months ago, my hair started falling out. I was in LA at the time, at my best friend's wedding (not the movie), and every time I ran my hand through my hair (as is my wont, flirt that I am: "Ohmygod that's a cute top you're wearing! [toss of the mane, finger comb, wriggle]"), I'd end up with a baby fistful entwined in my fingers. And when I brushed, it was worse - after a few good strokes (ahem) you couldn't even see the bristles for all the blonde.

At first I thought it was stress. I mean, ten minutes before the ceremony was supposed to begin, I, the maid of honor, was dressed in sweats and unloading ice from the car. Or maybe it was the pollution? But as the fallout persisted, I started thinking it might be a life-wide issue.

But how depressing would that be if my hair fell out when my life finally took a turn for the better, after all those dues I've been paying?

And then I started noticing that my (remaining) hair was giving off this dirty wet sponge smell, even right after the shower when I knew it was clean. Super freaky. I was beginning to get rull tense about the whole thing until I actually took a good look at one of the deserter hair clumps and noticed that it wasn't falling out, it was falling off. The root of the matter wasn't at the roots. My poor hair was just up and breaking off after years of bleach abuse.

Fee-you! I wasn't allergic to happiness, it was just that my hair was breaking up with me. That, and it was, well, rotting. I went to my tres cute hair woman Amy (who also cuts Jill, Heidi, Richard, Laura, and Tom's hair), and she said that since my hair is so thick, and I kept putting it up right after I washed it (blow drying the stuff took over two hours), it was never actually drying. So it started molding. She says it happens to one of her clients that has dreadlocks, and he has to rinse his rotting clumps with Listerine. But since my hair was already way past the mouthwash phase, I just cut off the whole kit and kaboodle.

And now I'm featuring that same old blonde bob. A personal retro look that brings me right back to senior year in high school.

Just in time for reunion (or, as Megan calls it, rue-union).