Prepping for the last year of my 30’s

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My 39th birthday is coming very soon, friends. I’m preparing with a simple list of resolutions, and lots of drinking. It’s never to late to better/pickle yourself.

Here is my list of resolutions for my last year as a 30-something:

Stop trying to bait Lindsay Lohan with my blog posts. I need to accept that she probably won’t ever be my friend, no matter how much she needs me.

Stop getting angry when people use too many internet abbreviations.

Give up wine for a while. JK! LOL! ROFLMAO! FML!

Wash my bras more often.

Stop telling people about my hemorrhoid surgery. Apparently that’s not appropriate small talk.

Clean up my language. A woman my age should not be using words/phrases like buttload, crapload, shitload, shit-ton, turd* monkey, turd jerky, turd knocker, fart knocker, toot knocker, douche nozzle, douche monkey, sir toots-a-lot, sir farty car, professor fart face, monkey butt, monkey bottomus, poopie pants, butthead, butthole, butt puppet, butt nugget, turd nugget, turd waffle, or butt waffle. I call myself a writer for shit’s sake. I really need to rethink my vocabulary.

I think it’s obvious that I’m ready to take 39 by the gnards. Bring it!

*For those of you who are aware of my long-standing issue with the word turd not being spelled terd, you’ll be glad to know that I’m working past it.

True Blood: thanks for wasting our time

lafeyette
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Many viewers feel completely cheated after last night’s finale. True Blood was a great show for the first season. And some of us hung in there after that. One reason was that we believed it could return to its early glory. Another reason was Eric’s frequently naked bum. Or for me, it was to see Lafayette and Pam.

Here are some of the highlights of the show that culminated in an utterly disappointing last season:

Remember that time in the first season when Jason punched Sookie and we were all, “Oh no!” He totally should have saved that for any other season, when we would have been fine with Sookie taking a fist to the face.

And then Tara turned that vampire who looked like he escaped from a methadone clinic into massive headwound Harry. That’s not how they die, dumbass. The head has to come all the way off.

Or when Tara ran off and became some sort of wrestler and a lesbian and she was FINALLY interesting so they turned her into a resentful vampire. On the upside, the turning scene with Pam in a sweat suit was kind of the best thing that ever happened.

And when Terry died there was an entire episode devoted to his funeral and flashbacks of his life, but when Tara died it was off-screen and then only person who really gave a shit was her crazy-ass mama. Everybody else was all, “Tara’s dead. This sucks.”

What about the whole Warlow season? What a crock of crap that was. “I’ve been looking for you for hundreds of years. I love you. Now do what I say or I’ll kill everyone.”

Do we even need to talk about Lilith, with her band of blood-covered naked chicks with pube goatees? Nah.

Or when Sookie put Russell Edgington’s dead lover’s remains down the garbage disposal just to be a massive bee-yatch?

And how about Jessica? She kills two of Andy Bellefluer’s fairy children (who apparently suffered from soap-opera-rapid-aging-syndrome), and then he presides over her wedding about eight weeks later. Why not? Time obviously has no meaning in Bon Temps, or Sookie wouldn’t have doinked Bill two days after Alcide was shot right in front of her.

If nothing else, True Blood gave us Lafayette. And our lives are better for knowing him. But why, oh why, was there plenty of Holly in the finale, and no Lafayette except for a flash of his lovely face at the end? If Nelsan Ellis doesn’t have a flourishing movie career soon and I’m going to sue Hollywood for punitive damages. I think that’s a thing, right?

We stuck with this madness for seven seasons, only to have it end with Sookie knocked up by a nameless, faceless beardy guy and spreading out food on an outside table a la Parenthood. And with Sarah Newlin chained up and not feeling thankful. I’m calling bullshit, Alan Ball.

An American’s Guide to Ebola

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Want to avoid that wacky infectious disease that liquefies internal organs? Here are a few tips from SGSC:

1. No making out with strangers. This is especially true if they are bleeding from the eyes. I know True Blood would like us to believe that eye bleeding is something that happens to sad vampires, but you can’t accept that as an excuse. Even if he or she is super hawt, eye bleeding is ALWAYS a bad sign.

2. Don’t live in Atlanta. If you already live there, don’t move because it’s probably too late for you. Don’t visit Atlanta, either. This is probably true all the time, not just when Ebola victims are there.

3. Don’t go to West Africa. Our pansy-ass American immune systems are not built for the scary stuff African jungles produce. Don’t be a hero.

4. Wear a hazmat suit for air travel. They’re roomy, comfy, and tell everyone you’re not messing around with the cooties that get trapped in airtight plane cabins. Don’t worry about the embarrassment of wearing bright yellow thirty years after the 1980’s. You’ll have the last laugh when everyone else from the flight bleeds from the eyes/ears/mouth/nose/butt and you’re left with your organs solid.

5. Avoid contact with primates. Sure, monkeys can be cute. But have you seen Outbreak? Those little jerks are breeding grounds for Ebola. A monkey will give you Ebola and laugh at you while you’re dying. And then eat the food from your pantry. They’re evil creatures who want the humans dead so they can take over.

I hope this helps. Good luck avoiding a miserable death!

Love letters from Anne Coulter

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Anne Coulter may seem like a miserable shrew with a used tampon for a heart, but it turns out that she has a romantic side.

Her soon-to-be-released book, Love, Annie: Liberals Are Dumb is a collection of love letters she wrote but never had the courage to send. Or in some cases, she sent them but they were returned unopened because everyone hates her.

Here are a few highlights:

Age 8:

Dear Billy Tubbins,

My name is Annie. I’m the blonde who sits behind you in art. The first time I saw you, I thought we could grow to love each other. But then I saw your artwork. A donkey, Billy? Really? You’re obviously an idiot. Only idiots and women are democrats. So maybe you’re a girl. Is that it, Billy? Either way, I hope you’re hit by a bus, hippie.

Sincerely,
Annie Coulter

Age 12:

Dear Randall,

You may have noticed that I’m a woman now. I hoped this would never happen to me, as everyone knows women are stupid. The curse of Eve has arrived in my womb. I’m officially unclean. I would appreciate it if you stopped looking at me in Social Studies until I come to terms with my status as a dirty idiot.

Thank you,
Anne C.

Age 16:

Dear Tony,

When I let you touch my breasts in your Camaro Friday night, I assumed we had an understanding. You can imagine my disappointment when I saw that stupid slut Janice in your car yesterday. Do you know that she is a feminist? That’s right. Your new little bimbo is a raging FEMINIST! All feminists are whores. I hope she gives you herpes.

Love,
Anne

Age 19:

Dear Professor Lowenstein,

Though I have enjoyed our dalliances immensely, it is time to admit that it’s over. You’re a sophisticated, brilliant, handsome man. But unfortunately you’re also a Jew. I’ll never forget you.

Love always,
Anne

Age 31:

Dear William,

I have enjoyed our courtship as much as I’m able to enjoy anything. But I feel that our time has drawn to a close. You want children, and I believe children are God’s continuing curse on womankind. I’ve worked very hard to get to where I am, and the thought of a little person staring at me with my own eyes terrifies me.

Best of luck,
Anne

Age 40:

Dear Ted Nugent,

It has come to my attention that you and I share a similar political theology. I am very attracted to men who enjoy wilderness and chewing gum. Just like when you became the legal guardian of that under-aged girl so you could doink her without going to jail, you have found a loophole. This time the loophole is in my heart. Please contact my assistant if you would like to get together and shoot a .22 at the feet of poor people while they stand in line for free food.

In loving respect,
Anne

Why I don’t mommy blog

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Because I’m a writer with a blog and I have a couple of kids, people (women) sometimes ask me why I don’t “mommy blog”. Here’s why: I tend to keep this part of my life for myself (gasp).

Many women will admit (some won’t) that when you become a mother you lose a part of yourself. You also gain a new, different self who’s more sympathetic and nurturing, but you lose the part of you that was just you without anybody else to constantly worry about. It’s a huge freaking adjustment.

Like a lot of Gen Xer’s, I waited until my 30’s to have kids. By then I was firmly rooted in my sense of self. My very free self who liked to stay out too late and take lots of naps. When I had a baby, the options to stay out too late, take lots of naps, and be a selfish asshole were removed. It was time for that to happen anyway. No sweat. But the overhaul of self was unexpected.

I was a person before motherhood. Not a perfect person by any means, but I like to remember those days in little ways. My blog is a “safe place” for me. I say what I want because no one is forced to read it. I don’t write about motherhood here (except this time of course) because I’m a mother ALL THE TIME and here I’m just a struggling writer who spends too much time thinking about that date-rapey episode of Louie and wondering if Lindsay Lohan would like me if we met in real life. Here I don’t have to worry about whether or not my kids are getting enough fruits and veggies (they’re not) or if I’m screwing them up permanently (I am). Here I can just take a deep breath and make fun of Kim Kardashian’s fashion choices.

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Rainbow Colors: guest post by Adrienne Losh

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I’ve tried to get married in my home state twice in the past year. Clearly I do not live in one of the nineteen (and counting) states that offer gays the sanctity of marriage. My partner and I have been together ten years and have two young sons. While I would love to marry the woman of my dreams, I get super pissed off that our state constitution denies that we are a family and prevents our sons from having the protection of two legal parents. We are currently waiting to hear what the federal appeals court says regarding DeBoer vs. Snyder and hail to the moms who filed the lawsuit seeking to protect their family and young children!
I wrote the following poem after our latest failed attempt to get married at the clerk’s office. We want what every other couple in America wants: the right to get married witnessed by friends and family in an overpriced banquet hall with a quasi-decent catered meal. Enjoy!

Rainbow Colors

In the basement
Air thick with sweat and anticipation
Bodies crammed inside on a cold spring day
Heat and clerks run overtime.

Standing room only
Come and get your equal rights
For the next four hours only!
Rang the circus call.

Kids dragged along,
Dressed in smiles and frowns
Play on phones
As they wait.

A wide eyed innocent
Passes out dyed carnations
Not of nature
Next to the store bought cake.

Take a number!
False starts
Handed out to the hopeful
Over a series of months
Makes a long morning
“They’re on number thirty now!”
Someone shouts, again.

Boredom punctuated by cheers
Jubilant tearful relatives
Every sort of officiate present
Judge, pastor, Rabbi, Wiccan priestess
Tie all the rainbow colors together.

And just like that
As the judgment was rendered
It is put on hold
The line is too long for some.
Turned out into the cold,
Breathy hope steams from them.

gaymich

Adrienne Losh is a poet/mother/wife/badass. She won’t stop standing in line for equal rights.

An open letter to Dr. Neil Clark Warren (eHarmony guy)

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Dear Dr. Neil Clark Warren, 

Why are we as a society ignoring the creepy factor of your eHarmony ads? We need to get the grodiness of the eHarmony ads right out in the open. I’m sick of being bombarded with skin-crawling messages meant to be conducive with harmonious love-type feelings.

The one with the goth guy. This guy is obviously a device to distract the viewer from your creepiness. Some old dude plops down across from a woman at some speed dating event to tell her how the cow ate the cabbage and we’re supposed to pretend that’s okay. Oh wait, a goth guy. Now you seem like someone whose car a woman can get into with confidence. Well played, I suppose.

Then there’s the one with your granddaughter. It’s supposed to be cute, I guess. She’s bossing some teacher around about how to date, spouting off statistics about her grandfather’s bigoted dating website. Oh, adorable! Baby’s learning how to support hate very early. Good girl!

And the freaking worst is the ten-year anniversary party where the celebrated couple, who are obviously swingers, sneak off to make-out. No one wants to see a married couple make-out, especially if they’ve been married that long. But their friends burst in and smile as if to say, “Oh, you guys. Making out again!” And then they just stand there, grinning and staring. For someone who thinks gay marriage is wrong, you sure are liberal about swinging.

Dr. Neil Clark Warren, on behalf of TV viewers across the country, please adjust your commercials to something that doesn’t give us the same feeling as when we watch the zombies-eating-innards scenes of The Walking Dead.

 Sincerely,

SGSC