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.
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!
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.
This has been the most miserable winter of my entire life so far. To spread a little sunshine, I’ve compiled a small list of songs to help us power through the cold.
Baby It’s Cold Outside (Dean Martin, She & Him, buttload of others): nothing will keep you warm like date rape by the fireplace. Come on, stay for one more drink. Because “gosh your lips look delicious.” That’s not creepy at all.
California Dreaming (The Mamas & the Papas): a song about a dude who’s so cold he goes into a church and lies about praying so the Priest won’t kick him out. Who knew John Phillips could be so naughty?
Cold as Ice (Foreigner): because if a girl dumps someone she’s obviously frigid.
Ice, Ice Baby (Vanilla Ice): some douchebag bragging about how cold he is. We’re all cold, idiot.
Long Cold Winter (Cinderella): a bunch of dudes named after a Disney princess singing about being cold because some chick left. Sounds like someone needs to grow a pair.
Living in the North has some advantages for a Southern girl. I’m exotic here in a comforting way, like paella. I say “y’all” way more than I ever did back home. The Yankees love that talk. I make sure to keep a hold of my accent, even though I’ve been here close to 7 years now. It’s kind of difficult sometimes, so I call home and talk to one of my family members to get it back.
I fit here in many ways. It’s a blue state, and no one ever asks me if my nose ring pops out when I sneeze. I answered that question on a weekly basis in Arkansas. The answer is “no”, by the way. Okay, maybe it happened once.
Besides living too far away from old friends and family, the brutal winter is the hardest part of living here. I love warm weather. I love wearing tank tops and skirts or sun dresses and flip flops. I love being able to forgo the jacket in favor of sunscreen. The cold here soaks me to my bones. It feels like a nemesis, working to disable me.
We’re having a snow storm today. And we’re set to have record lows in the next two days. School is likely to be cancelled. I’ve been acting like a complete brat. Like this weather is something happening to me. My poor attitude makes me want to do nothing but remain on the couch with the TV remote in hand.
A life-line came through yesterday when a friend had my family over for pizza. The kids were able to play with her kids, running through the basement like it was a playground. I ate too much and stretched out on my friend’s couch instead of my own. We chatted and I remembered that I’m not alone. The weather might keep me from doing some of the things I want to do, but I’m not certainly not the only one.
I’m not likely to ever stop missing the South. Short-lived winter storms and Southern hospitality are things that I took for granted during my formative years. But I honestly like living in Michigan, for six months of the year anyway. The summers here are perfect for playing outside everyday with the kids. I know I’ll eventually have to buy myself a pair of snow pants and go outside in the snow. But today I’ll settle for the knowledge that I’m not alone. Many of us are transplants and even if those of us who aren’t are facing the same snowstorm.
I walked into the gym dressing room a couple of days ago and there was a young woman standing there, full-on naked, as if to say “so, so, suck your toe, all the way to Mexico.” No towel draping, nothing. That part I’m kind of used to. Things like that happen in gym locker rooms. But the weird part is she stood there staring at me as I walked in, freaking daring me to make eye contact. When I finally did, she said, “hi”, as if I had moseyed into her office to discuss mortgage rates.
I walked past Mistress Buff to get to my locker, which was situated right beside a mirror. Lady Godiva put her shirt on, but remained bottomless, and waited. I’m not kidding. The next woman walked in, and She of the Proud Bush stood there, hands on hips, silently demanding the woman make eye contact, which she did, and then the fig leaf-less Eve said “hi”. It was uncomfortable to watch, and I couldn’t look away. But thanks to the mirror, I didn’t have to stare directly into the snatch.
I’ve been thinking about this for two days now. I’ve worked out many scenarios that would create a motivation to make naked eye contact. I could make sense of it maybe if it was an elderly woman who was declaring with her nudity, “Look at me! I am proud of this body that has lived a rich life.” Or maybe if she was surgically enhanced and wanted to get her money’s worth of admiration. But no, she was young and natural. And for the guys who read my blog (there’s at least one, I think), yes, her body was decent. But nothing that justified demanding attention from every female who walked in the room.
So the point is: I still don’t get it, and now you all know that I go to the gym without me posting it on Facebook.
“It’s been that kind of day around here,” she says. “You’re lucky you showed up today.”
“What kind of a day?” I ask, staring at my beat-up Converse and thinking that I should wear a better pair of shoes the next time I show up to life.
“A day of confession. A day of epiphany. A day of relief.” She rubs lipstick on her lips, puckers and smiles broadly for an invisible camera.
“I should have dressed better for this. Worn make-up, brushed my hair.”
“But you did.” She presses a compact into my hand. “Look.”
Pinky-peach powder crumbles over my palm as I open the compact. The woman I see in the mirror is not me, but a woman I used to know. Face painted like a mask, yes. Long hair, freshly highlighted, yes. Wrinkles, no. But not me. She was someone I shed in order to grow.
“But you don’t shed yourself like skin.”
“Did I say that or did you?” I ask, or does she? The words have already evaporated.
“You can have this back.” The compact passes from my hand to hers.
“You’ll want it again soon. And I’ll keep it safe until then.”
Her high heels walk away. Click, clack, click, clack. A private conversation they’re having with the floor. And my beat-up Converse remain silent.
Catfish the TV show has me watching MTV again for the first time since Headbangers Ball was cancelled. At first, I wondered how these people could be naive enough to believe complete strangers about everything they say. Then I realized I have a friend whom I’m never met, and I adore her. What if she’s not real?
Want to know why I adore her? Berva posted select quotes on FB while watching Showgirls with the commentary:
“Everyone involved in the making of this picture… every single one of them is making the worst possible decision at every possible time. And it’s this incredible density of failure that makes Showgirls sublime.”
“I just don’t remember seeing any strippers on Entertainment Tonight, and nor can I imagine Janet Jackson or Paula Abdul agreeing to do such a show.”
“One of the funniest things I’ve heard at one of these screenings: when she said her name was Nomi, he said, ‘…with a G’?”
“Molly offers to make the dress, but Nomi insists on buying it, even though she hasn’t found a place to live, and we don’t know if she’s paying any rent.”
“It’s bad enough that Nomi kicks everything and starts fires and fights, but look: she LITTERS. What an ASSHOLE.”
“Don’t you hate it when you take your kids to work in your job as a topless dancer, and them someone cusses in front of them?”
Here’s where I joined in: And what little shitty kid cries when they hear a cuss word? I guess I should say “she”, not “they”. That little twit was a girl, right? It’s been years since I saw that movie. I didn’t have kids yet. Before I had kids I thought that was ridiculous, and now that I have kids I think it’s double ridiculous. “Mommy, she said the f word. Boo hoo.” Really? Your mom’s tits are out, dumbass. You have bigger problems.
And then, when Nomi goes to see that dumb rapist singer guy and she takes off her bra and he says something like “nice top” and she says “wait till you see the bottom” like her bush is magic. What does it do? Sing, dance, release doves? And then, guess what? She’s a mixed martial arts expert. That movie is just full of surprises!
To which Berva replied: EXCUSE ME. The quote is “I like you better topless.”/”Wait till you see me bottomless.” And yes, her vajayjay does all those things. It’s in an MGM musical, after all.
And then another time Berva posted this on FB: It was soft-spoken me and two loudmouths, sharing theories as to why weirdos are so often loners as well. One of the loudmouths said they’re too weird to function amongst normal people, and so I said “It’s like that book, IF I’M SO WONDERFUL, WHY AM I STILL SINGLE?”
But because they were loud and I was quiet, all they heard was the second part, and they both looked at me like I farted at a funeral.
And this one:
That awkward moment when you know the names you’ve given to neighbourhood cats aren’t even close to their legal names. Today I learned that my friend Little Stevie actually is called Sinbad. It is the worst thing since I learned that Ricky and Vicky actually were known as Gilbert and Tchaikovsky. I can only pray that I never learn the real name of my friend Reginald. It’ll be Smoky or Shadow or something and our relationship won’t weather the shame.
It’s true that I once had a neighbour who referred to Pan as Fats, but. What’s not adorable about some random palooka walking past your cat’s personal window and rumbling “‘Sup, Fats?” like she maybe bought him a beer one time when he was having a bad day?
This is without even going into her brilliant tweets. Now I’m one of those dumbshits from Catfish who’s all “I don’t care if she’s not who she says she is. I LOVE her.”
Of course, I would be disturbed if she turned out to be just the other side of my split personality. She’s not, by the way. I know this because she lives in Vancouver and I don’t have enough skymiles to support this theory. I checked.
I still might call Nev and Max. But only because they’re so cute, and they would take me on a free trip to meet Berva.
So sorry I haven’t been around lately. I’m addicted to Twitter. It’s ugly, y’all. I wonder if Twitter addicts should be called twats for short? That and I’ve been working on my friggin’ masterpiece, no big deal. And of course, it’s summertime (stands up and drops it like it’s hot, because it’s finally hot).
Let’s catch up on current events, shall we?
Madonna still isn’t wearing pants. Pretty soon we’ll be able to see her Depends under that leotard. Come on lady, put on some drawers! Sure, you’re in great shape. But the time for wearing only a leotard and tights in public passes once you hit double digits. If you’re old enough to menstruate, you should wear pants. This goes double if you’re old enough for menopause.
And speaking of adult diapers, what was Miley Cyrus wearing on GMA Wednesday morning? Seriously, it looked like a giant fuzzy diaper and KISS boots. We get it, you’re edgy. You can still have fashion sense and be edgy, Hannah Montana. Excuse me, Ms. Montana.
Speaking of sad children. North West. Really? Only this country’s two biggest narcissists would think this name is good idea. I really hope they’re just punking the press. This kid is already facing a life of therapy, rehab, reality TV crews, and paparazzi. Why add to that shit storm with a ridiculous name? Why do those two do anything, though? Maybe their egos will collide, explode, and kill each other (fingers crossed).
As for stuff that isn’t stupid: it’s a great day for equality. Divorces are for everyone! For real, it’s up to each individual to decide what’s right for him/her. It’s just common sense and common courtesy. I feel so happy. You could say I feel…gay.
I met you in a fever dream as the sides of the world crumbled away. We laughed and kissed and began to dance but the floor started to break.
I grabbed your wrists and tried to hold tight but you got away on your own section of the floor. And even though it was me holding to you, I woke with bruises that didn’t heal for weeks.
Night after night, my world crumbles and rebuilds and crumbles again but you’ve never reappeared. The bruises have yellowed and faded. I put them there myself I suppose, and fever dreams can never be duplicated.
Scapegoats and Sacred Cows 