Friday, December 31, 2010

Auld Lang Sigh: Super Poignant Holiday Message PLUS Bonus New Year's Video Blogs!

Throughout my childhood, my father had a New Year’s Eve ritual: he would gather all of the remnants of the candles he had burned that year--most of which were just stumps--and would melt the bottoms, sticking them all to a large platter, creating a colorful, misshapen skyline. Then, around dinnertime, he would light all of the wicks, and we would watch as that year’s wax slowly dripped away, mixing into a big pool until all of the flames were extinguished.

It was very Laura Ingalls Wilder of us, no?

That image sticks in my mind, more than Dick Clark, or confetti, or drunken kisses at midnight, as the purest expression of a year coming to an end. Well, that and Calista Flockhart hysterically weeping. It sort of ruins the poignant tone I’m going for here, but for some reason I cannot forget an episode of Ally McBeal in which Flockhart, as Ally, reflects on her year while laughing and crying simultaneously. In that episode (and yes, I Googled this; as good as my pop culture references may be, I am not, thank God, able to quote verbatim from every bygone 90s show), a character said, “If you think back and replay your year, and if it doesn't bring you tears of joy or sadness, consider the year wasted.” I always think of that line on December 31st.

I am going to spend the evening with a select few of my very best friends, with home-cooked food and plenty of wine and, of course, the man I love more than words can express, for whom I would light a thousand candle stumps, if not for the fact that in doing so I would surely set the house on fire. I will not cry tonight. I’ve done my crying and I’ve done my reflecting and I’ve made countless expeditions to the very darkest reaches of my navel (and, okay, sometimes my heart) over the past twelve months. So I won’t cry tonight. But 2010 certainly qualifies, by Flockhart standards, as a year not wasted.

(Then again, if you’re measuring the success of your life using obscure Ally McBeal quotes, you have bigger problems. Shit.)

Anyway, I know I sound tortured and melancholy, but there were a few fabulous things that happened in 2010. Most of you started reading this blog, for instance (thank you so much for choosing to spend a part of your day reading my ridiculous ramblings--please make sure to pick up your award if you haven’t yet). I turned 30... and continue to get carded on occasion*. I got a fancy new job at a wonderful pink newspaper. I saw some of my dearest friends get married. I welcomed my sister back to New York. I watched my nephew grow into a little person. I explored Rome and Florence with my mother. Jeff got me a Slanket for Christmas (Oh yes, that post is coming. Just you wait.)

*About once a year, in the types of bars that require night vision goggles, but hey, I’ll take it.

The truth is that even though I’m glad to see the candles burn out on 2010, I’m feeling incredibly optimistic about 2011. I haven’t felt this excited about the turning of a new year in a long time. I just know this year will be a good one; I can feel it.

I was going to write a sappy New Year's message, but you know what? Fuck it. It's video blog time! (I put on my best old man sweater and made sure not to get a haircut just for this occasion. You are welcome!)

Um, take two:

Sigh. Maybe I should just act stupid on purpose.

Finally, a musical interlude...

Happy New Year!

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Sad English Wrinkle

Jeff and I saw The King's Speech last night. It was great, although trying to cure Colin Firth of his adorable stammer is like trying to burn Cindy Crawford's mole off with the head of a match, or trying to file down Tom Cruise's crazy, off-center saber-tooth so he looks slightly less like the insane man you saw on the B train yelling that his vagina was on fire.


The movie was great, but what I always look forward to the most are the previews. I LOVE PREVIEWS. You know those times when you're sitting in a movie theater and there are like an interminable number of previews, and every time the new green screen comes on people start groaning? FUCK THOSE GUYS. Previews RULE.

As I get older, I react to previews much in the same way my father does: I pantomime my opinion of the movie. If something looks good I nod, or give the thumbs-up sign to Jeff. If something looks sad, I feign weeping into my popcorn, my silent wails filling the theater. If something looks bad, I roll my eyes or pretend to projectile vomit all over the backs of the heads of the people in the next row.

Jeff has a different method: He summarizes each movie in three words. For example, after seeing the tender, dramatic preview for Blue Valentine, he leaned over and whispered "Vagina estrogen feelings." And then, after the preview for Mike Leigh's latest heartfelt Brit-flick, Another Year, he thought for a moment before deeming it "Sad English wrinkle."

Sad English Wrinkle*. Another fine band name. 2011 is looking pretty bright, folks. Pretty fucking bright.

*Although, would this confuse fans of The Rolling Stones? (Sorry, Mom.)

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Phlegmy and the Jets

It's been a quiet week here in Lake Wobegon.

It snowed some. You may have heard. We got two feet in Brooklyn. Cars were buried. Toddlers were probably lost. It got so bad that someone abandoned a Dodge Caravan pointing the wrong way on our one-way street, with a note expressing the car's dwindling will to live (kidding, it just said that the owners were coming back and listed their cell phone numbers.) Walking to the grocery store felt like The Day After Tomorrow. I fell down a few times, surprising no one.

I also contracted consumption, probably from accidentally ingesting a piece of dessicated fruitcake that I thought was some sort of delightful sprinkled cookie. I have been coughing up my insides for days, only instead of wasting away my pants have stopped buttoning. It must be the five-pounds-of-chocolate chaser I've been taking with my soup.

Jeff and I agree that if I were the eighth dwarf, I would be Phlegmy. Or I could start a band and call it Phlegmy and the Jets, and all we would play would be lame Elton John covers, and maybe Freebird, if requested.

So, yeah, this post is just to make sure you know you're not missing anything. Please resume your regularly scheduled drinking.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Jimmy Dean Is Not My Lover

This is a compensated review by BlogHer and Jimmy Dean, however the opinions and feelings expressed here are my own.

Well, he kind of is. I’ll get to that in a sec.

First, though, can we talk about the fact that it’s almost 2011? That the second decade of the new century is officially in full swing? That a child born in 2000 would now be able to understand quadratic equations? That Two and a Half Men is entering its eighth season? EIGHTH?! It’s blowing my mind, man. It’s also reminding me that it’s time for the time-honored (and, likely, dreaded) tradition of New Year’s resolutions.

If you’re anything like me, your resolutions probably center around the hope that you will to do something--anything--better next year. Eat better. Exercise more. Spend less time looking at shirtless photos of Ryan Reynolds. Anyway, I’d wager a guess that approximately 99.9% of the female population focuses their efforts on diet and exercise. The fantasy that we will all someday happily subsist on grapefruit slices and steamed salmon while flexing our perfectly toned triceps unites us in sisterhood, like bra-burning... or DSW fire sales.

As frequent readers of this blog know, I enjoy a diet based largely on wine and the types of candy likely to remove fillings. You also know that my fitness regimen consists of wearing orthopedic-looking sneakers that purport to burn my buns, and occasionally trotting out my Pilates magic circle, doing pliés during Gossip Girl commercials until it inevitably springs from my knees and flies across the room and breaks something.

No more!

In 2011 I’m committed to making better choices--choices that make me feel better. And that’s where my new lover Jimmy Dean comes in.

Do you know what I eat for breakfast on a normal day? Coffee. Yup, just a cup of steaming acids mixed with half and half and filled with enough Splenda packets to choke a Clydesdale. It’s not that I don’t want to eat breakfast--in truth, it’s my favorite food group--it’s just that after I sit down at my desk with my coffee and start my work, I forget. And then it’s lunchtime, and I’m starving. I’m jittery and irritable, and so hungry I lunge at the nearest cheeseburger.

This morning I threw an egg white, cheese, and Canadian bacon sandwich on a honey wheat English muffin into my purse as I ran out the door. Yes, threw. It was easy. It was frozen. It was a Jimmy Dean D-Lights product (visit the official site). Did you know Jimmy Dean made things other than sausage patties? Well, he does, and they’re amazing. This baby clocked in at 230 calories and a whopping 15 grams of protein, with only 4.5 grams of fat. It was ready after two minutes in the microwave and it looked--and tasted--better than any deli breakfast sandwich I’ve ever had.

Egg McMuffin be SO JEALOUS right now.
[Play "Dreamweaver" while looking at this photo for full effect. Except instead of "get me through the night," think "get me through the morning." Which is not as sexy, but whatevs.]

And it’s funny: eating a healthy breakfast made my day better, instantly. It made me feel like I’d won a small battle before I’d even checked my email (where, trust me, many more battles awaited). Plus, I got to eat bacon. Bacon! What isn’t made better by bacon? Nothing, that’s what.

Now that I have the breakfast thing down, I just have to follow through on my other resolutions. Like taking more time to relax and de-stress with yoga and walks in the park. Like turning off the TV and (reluctantly) shutting down the laptop and cracking open a novel. Like backing away from the topless photos of Ryan Reynolds and cuddling up to my real, live husband, who had the good sense never to get involved with Scarlett Johansson in the first place.

How are you going to change your habits for the better this year? Leave a comment sharing your goals and you’ll be eligible to win a $100 Visa gift card courtesy of Jimmy Dean D-Lights! Isn’t that, ahem, delightful? I’m also going to pun a lot more in 2011. Deal with it.

Here are the rules for the Better Breakfast, Better You giveaway, which lasts from today (12/28) to 1/30/11 (check out the sweepstakes round-up page over at BlogHer to see what other bloggers are saying):

No duplicate comments. You may receive two (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods:

a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post

b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post

c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post

d) Read the official rules for alternate form of entry. (Visit the Official Rules)

This giveaway is open to US Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by e-mail. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Geral Ford Decapitated; Clinton, Obama Unmoved

The above photo appeared on my Dad's Facebook wall with the following caption:

"The miniature Presidents join the Christmasmania at the Mueller-LaMarche household. The fallen one is Gerald Ford. His arms and legs were broken, but now he's headless, too. I may have to replace him with Chevy Chase."

Monday, December 20, 2010

I'm Not a Flamenco Dancer... But I Play One At Holiday Cocktail Parties

I'm not going to lie: all year long I look forward to December's glut of holiday parties. I fantasize about canapés and cocktails, and stunning dresses and strappy heels and shiny baubles that I will somehow wear despite the 40-degree weather and the fact that I am perpetually broke.

What I seem to have an uncanny ability to repress, though, is the central horror of holiday parties: the obligation to get approximately 500 relatives and family friends up to date on your life without horribly depressing them.

"If I told people what was actually going on," Zoe mused yesterday while sipping her drink in the anti-social corner we'd staked out next to the dessert table at my father's holiday open-house, "I think they'd finally stop asking me."

I know just what she means. There are parts of my life that are great, but there's also plenty that's too complicated to get into without trapping myself in a long conversation. Back when I was single, if a random guy struck up a conversation at a bar and I knew I would never see him again, I would often make things up. Once I said I was a flamenco dancer. I don't know why I lied... it just seemed easy, and non-committal.

Look, I know that people mean well, and that they might genuinely be interested in my (or my sister's) life, but repeating the same chipper, glossed-over, fake-happy version of the past 11 months to an endless stream of acquaintances you only see once a year while double-fisting plastic cups of wine and trying to stuff your face with pita chips gets old quick. Luckily, the questions are always the same, and so you can prepare ahead of time:

"So, how's life?"
Honest answer: "Long and confusing and probably ultimately unsatisfying and meaningless, just like Lost. Did you believe they all died at the end?"
Correct answer: "Great! How are you?" [Listen, nod for up to three minutes, then leave under the auspices of refilling your wine, never to return.]

"Are you still at [job you left four years ago]?"
Honest answer: "No, I got fired from that place for threatening--allegedly--to set my desk on fire after my boss refused to give me a raise. Then I played online poker for awhile, until it got to the point where I didn't even bother to put on pants for the Chinese delivery man. Now I work from home writing a Twitter feed about funny stuff my cat does. I think I'm pretty close to landing a book deal."
Correct answer: "Yup! Can't complain." [Smile until your lips start to actually crack, then back slowly away towards the cheese plate.]

"How's married life treating you?"
Honest answer: "Lately, whenever one of us goes to the bathroom, we make the touchdown sign with our hands. Does that mean the magic is gone?"
Correct answer: "Why, do you swing?"


But that might make them think twice about asking next year...

Sunday, December 19, 2010

The Bringing of The Wings

Every year on the Saturday night before Christmas, my mother throws a big holiday party. And every year, it is my job to bring the wings.

I pick them up at Wing Wagon on Flatbush Avenue--100 wings: 50 mild, 50 hot--and march the 8 blocks or so to my mom's house carrying them as if presenting a gift to a visiting dignitary. There is no other way to do it; they weigh about 20 lbs, and so I carry them with my forearms, palms upturned.

I'm like the Angel Gabriel, but with hot sauce.

(Incidentally, the Annunciation might have gone even better had the Annuncer (?) thought to bring snacks.)

Last night, when I finally arrived at the party, I made little signs to distinguish the trays: "Tender and Mild (like the baby Jesus)" and "Hot & Spicy (like Santa)."

I was going to say "Hot & Spicy (like Satan)," which would have made more sense, but I think it would have have dampened the holiday cheer.

Friday, December 17, 2010

TGI...WTF? Special Pants Edition

Hey guys. I've been having some blogger's block lately. I think part of it is just end-of-year exhaustion; all I want to do is commune with the couch and sob to Love Actually while eating peppermint bark. Also, my computer keeps crashing and I fly into fits of rage that can only be calmed by injections of eggnog directly into my bloodstream. Also, I've written almost 300 posts in 2010--my most prolific year yet--and as a result I've burned out and been reduced to posting photos of my stupid outfits and four year-old advent calendars. Sorry. (Incidentally, whenever I don't post for a few days I get more followers... maybe I should play hard to get more often? Or maybe you guys are rewarding me for shutting up once in awhile?)

Anyway, this is all a long-winded way of saying that I am Blanche DuBois-ing out today and  relying on the kindness of strangers--today's TGI...WTF? post is brought to you by two readers, Katie and Margaret, who emailed me links to the following terrifying products:

1. Bikini Jeans (submitted by Katie)

Now, I've worn some unfortunate denim in my day, but these cross a line. They are big in Japan, where it is apparently still 2002 and everyone is blind.

2. Peek-A-Butt* (submitted by Margaret)
*This is not the product name, but should be.

Made from what appears to be the pelt of Cheer Bear, this could conceivably be a costume in the little-known fantasy porn She-Ra, Princess of Power-Bottom.

P.S.This is the work of a 22 year-old Australian designer who may or may not be in unrequited love with a body pillow (I'm just speculating here).

P.P.S. A few years ago, I read somewhere that Brits use the word "pants" as slang, meaning "total crap." Which would make the above specimens pants pants. I love learning.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

These Boots Were Made For... Probably A Four Year-Old

Last winter I had the horrifying realization one morning that I was dressed as a cross between Rainbow Brite and Animal from The Muppets.

This year, I've upped the ante by throwing in a dash of "Kim Kardashian touring the fjords."

Those are not jeggings! I still have a shred of dignity left.

It's amazing Jeff agrees to be seen with me in public.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Say It With Pasties This Christmas

On the fourteenth day of Christmas (in 2006) my true love gave to me (except the other way around) a kick-ass homemade advent calendar...

Scanned in two parts: Too big for the Interwebs!!!

Enlarge to spot the following:
  • red spangled pasty!
  • Rudolph's nose job!
  • Dudley Moore!
  • Santa cursing!
  • Paris Hilton's death mask!
No, this is not my way of telling you I am pregnant. This was created in 2006, when I slept around with a lot more elves (Keebler--call me!).

But yes, that is a real photograph, and yes, in the real photograph I am flashing Jeff.

There's a name for girls like me in Santa's workshop.


Monday, December 13, 2010

A Real Doll

I have never been part of a Christmas pageant, in case you are wondering.

I console myself with the knowledge that it would not have gone well. I would have undoubtedly eaten my bagful of “frankincense” Play-Doh or tried to play “Look in Butt” with Joseph at an inopportune moment.

The closest I came to pageantry was taking part in my elementary school’s annual holiday concert. I say “holiday” and not “Christmas” because even in the late ‘80s P.S. 282 was sensitive to its diverse audience. There was something for everyone: a lively Hannukah song for the Jews, an educational Kwanzaa song for Africans, a number of spirited numbers en español for the Hispanic population (as well as the totally not racist romp “Pablo the Reindeer”), and a whole crapload of call and response ditties honoring our rosy red deity, Santa.

One year our glee club teacher Mrs. Montgomery added a new song to our festive repertoire: a special almost-solo piece that would feature four girls acting (and singing!) as dolls. We would get to wear wigs and makeup, which sealed the deal for me, the littlest wannabe drag queen in Park Slope. I was over the moon when I was selected for the honor of singing John Rox's classic Christmas carol "Are My Ears On Straight?" I practiced at home in front of the mirror, perfect red circles drawn onto my cheeks with lipstick. And like Narcissus before me, I became so transfixed by my visage that I took my own breath away (granted, my breath-taking was less literal).

Basically the same thing.

Eventually, the big day arrived. The crowds gathered. And I completely chickened out. Stage fright got the best of me and I stayed home with a faked fever on the night of the performance. Of course, for absolutely no good reason, Fox 5 News covered the concert, so I had to watch my best friend Adri bask in what should have been (at least partially) my glory... on TV, larger than life.

There's no Christmas moral here, I just wanted to share. At least I got to keep the wig.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Trojan Horseshit

My laptop has been penetrated by Trojans.

Yes, I have a virus. Again.

It makes the resolution on my screen freak out and get super zoomed in and pixelated. It also prevents my anti-viral software from running.

I am so mad I want to pull that little Japanese "I'm a PC" girl's hair. (Eh, I've wanted to do that anyway; she's so fucking smug about her fucking photo album. My Windows gallery tends to erase photos at will, but clearly that's just because I'm not adorable enough to operate it properly.)

Anyway, this is just a message to please stand by while I fill my DVD tray with Valtrex.

Have a great weekend!

Thursday, December 9, 2010

It's The Little Things

Last night Jeff and I high-fived after realizing we had both remembered to buy toilet paper.

That is all.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

My Breakfast With KevBac (Like My Dinner With Andre But With Better Hair)

About a year ago, as I teased on Twitter and Facebook, for those of you who follow me there, I got to have breakfast with Kevin Bacon.

(No, I did not order bacon. I’m sure he gets that all the time. God, people, BE COOL.)

Anyway, I’ve written before about how much I hate doing celebrity interviews--how awkward and perfunctory and disappointingly unsexual they are--but this was different. I wasn’t just chattering nervously into a phone in my cubicle. I was sitting across from Kevin Bacon.

Wait, let me back up.

First, I was walking to a restaurant at which I had a reservation for a party of two, with Kevin Bacon. I tried to sound all cool on the phone, like I didn’t care, like KevBac and me go way back, like back to high school, where we may or may not have lived together in a small town where this total dickhead reverend who looked a lot like the Trinity Killer from Dexter banned dancing and rock music.

Then I stood outside said restaurant nervously fixing my hair. A family walked by and stopped, perusing the menu before deciding to move on. “WAIT!” I wanted to scream after them. “Kevin Bacon is about to arrive. You are totally passing up the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to eat eggs next to Hollow Man!” But I didn’t. Instead I went inside and told the hostess that I was meeting someone. “It’s Kevin Bacon,” I added before I could stop myself.

I was hoping that she would look me up and down with narrowed eyes, wondering how Kevin could do Kyra so wrong, and with such a delectable, nubile young thing, but instead she smiled and showed me to my seat, like I wasn’t potentially meeting him for an illicit pancake rendez-vous. Maybe my tape recorder gave me away.

Then I sat down at a table facing the door and put on my glasses, because I had to make sure I’d be able to recognize KevBac when he came in, since, I assume, his only directive in finding me was “the girl who spits up on herself as soon as you walk in,” or “the girl with the crazy eyes who has already consumed the entire bread basket.” I made eyes at the couple at the next table. The eyes were saying, “Wait ‘till you see who you’re about to be sitting next to!” but I think the lady half of the couple misinterpreted the eyes, because she gave me a dirty look and asked for the check.

Finally, as I was lifting an oversize latte to my lips, he walked in. I waved. He sat down across from me. I tried to be cool.

I was not cool.

I stammered and spoke in my unintentional excited helium voice and asked him what was good on the menu, and when he recommended a messy Mexican egg dish that involved beans and cheese I did not have the good sense to say no. So while asking him about his childhood and his music and his acting I was also shoveling steaming spoonfuls of egg white and bean goo and melted Moneterey Jack into my maw. It probably got in my hair; everything does.

But KevBac was very nice, if a bit reserved, and as we talked he warmed up and even laughed occasionally, and by the end he was asking me where I went to college and when the check came he paid for my breakfast.

Then he walked off into the crisp fall morning in his skinny jeans and knit skull cap and I never saw him again.

Oh, well. At least we’ll always have Columbus Avenue. And beans.

Read the article--which was finally published, over a year after our meeting--here.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Curmudgeon of the Week Kev D Wishes You A Happy Tuesday

I told you I'd bring back good ol' COTW, a favorite blogging device of mine since it allows me to show love to my readers and be lazy AT THE SAME TIME.

I decided I needed a man this time around. You know I love the ladies (and in eighth grade, the entire school believed I, um, really loved the ladies thanks to my butch haircut and penchant for oversize corduroys), but I've had eight women in a row now (that's what Wilt Chamberlain said!) and so I thought I'd throw a Y-chromosome into the mix.

Besides, Kev D. here made it easy for me to love him. Instead of filling out my questionnaire, he submitted a misanthropic missive to people who try to force merriment on hapless, unsuspecting days of the week. (Hint: He doesn't like them.)

Bonus points for his "Oh, hell no, bitch" face

Name: Kev D.
Blog:  Highway 10 Revisited

It all started off when somewhere, some lunatic first thought to themselves that “saaay, Friday is one day before Saturday, and boy oh boy does that ever make me happy”, figuring it was like some kind of a holiday to him. So he goes around wishing everyone a 'Happy Friday.' Wow, so witty and clever. This is the same joker who probably has a nickname for everyone he’s ever met in his entire life.

“What up [enter obnoxious nickname that only this person uses]?"

Long pause.

"[repeat obnoxious nickname but stretch out the final syllable and make the voice go higher and higher by at least three octaves]!”

You know, I bet they have a big fucking barbecue too, and always mention that they’re going to grill or golf or whatnot. They do real well for themselves, no doubt. They say shit like 'that's what I'm talking about' or 'you da man' or 'story of my life'. They’re named like, Karl or Travis, or Casey, or like Wendy. Well shit, the keener intern/temp/asshole from two cubicles down (the one who bakes cheesy doodles and marzipan hot buns for EVERYONE in the office every two or three days) picked up on this cheerful and awesomely fun behavior and started applying it to Mondays too. You know, to be ironical and/or cute or something. It wasn’t. It’s not. They’re not.

Telling someone that they have a 'case of the Mondays,' Office Space-style, is lame, but it isn’t nearly as lame as suggesting to “turn that frown upside down” and then bringing it all home with a big ol’ “Happy Monday!”

Seriously, fuck you. Turn your head upside down and stick it UP YOUR ASS WITH BROKEN GLASS. Now. Go back to the temp agency forever and ever please. Now. But hey, guess what? Happy Monday and Happy Friday just weren’t good enough for these happy office folk. It was only the beginning. This brings me to one dreadful Tuesday, when someone said unto me, ‘Happy Tuesday.' I don’t remember when it was, but I seem to remember taking a few personal days afterwards, understandably so. I even contemplated quitting. I wanted to set fire to my ears and never go back to the land of hearing.

“Well, enjoy the freshly baked lemon poppy seed jalapeño popper pizza bagel coffee cupcakes that I baked from scratch. They’re healthy and nutrasweet! Happy Tuesday!”

This is where we’re at now? Celebrating moments of time just for existing once a week? Obviously Wednesday and Thursday came next, and so now, we’re all pretty much fucked. Perky, chipper, screechy-voiced weenies are coming out of the woodworks wishing us all Happy Anyday and wanting to tell us about their weekends and plans and home renovations. What’s next you ask?

“Happy 5th of November everyone!”
“Happy dusk on a Sunday!”
“Happy Bathroom Break! Seriously, number one or number two?”
“Happy Which Conference Room is the Two O’Clock Meeting in this Afternoon??!!”
“Happy 3:17 PM Eastern Standard Time.”

What happens when their birthday falls on a Tuesday? Does their head explode when they try to process the joy at having two such gigantic things to celebrate?

“Happy… Tuesduh-Berrrthday- toomEEEeeEEEee HELP …. SYSTEM FAILURE…”


Dare to dream.

The only consolation is that these people probably aren’t happy at all, and that’s why they need to pretend that it being Tuesday is reason enough to throw a HAPPINESS PARADE. Guess what? It isn’t. You can be happy, and it can be Tuesday, but if ever you feel the need to say Happy [insert any day of the week], please stop for a minute, take a big deep breath, and jump out the god damn window.

That’s it. Happy Tuesday.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Scenes From a Marriage: Sloppy, Sloppy U.S. History

"Thanks for the sex, boys!"

Tonight, Jeff and I are going to see Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson on Broadway. We got the tickets for free (thanks, Dad and Lisa!), which is the only way I can get Jeff to go to a musical, even if it is full of testosterone, gore, and history.

Yesterday morning I tried to make him see the light.

Me: At least it's not Boring, Boring Millard Fillmore.
Jeff: Yeah, or Shitty, Shitty James Buchanan.
Me: Ha.
Jeff: Or Rapey, Rapey Warren Harding.
Me: Wait, what?
Jeff: Or Slutty, Slutty Calvin Coolidge.
Me: Calvin Coolidge was a slut?
Jeff: Yes, I can't believe you don't know this. He slept with his entire cabinet!
Me: Even the men?!?
Jeff: They were all men!
Me: Wait, Calvin Coolidge was gay?

Jeff erupts in laughter. I wait for it to subside.

Me: Okay, but seriously, who did Warren Harding rape?*

*Note to anyone as gullible as me: the answer, obviously, is no one. I don't want to start a scandal.

PB Loves J

So Robin Plemmons has appeared on this blog before -- I've featured her greeting card dick jokes and she wrote a hilarious guest blog for me in October. But I'm not quite done singing this woman's praises.

Robin makes delightfully uncouth crafts which she sells on Etsy, and after Twitter-flirting with her for many moons I finally gave her my credit card information. Here is what I bought:

Jeff calls me PB. It does not stand for peanut butter, but rather something far more nefarious that you would probably not want to spread on a cracker.

It was supposed to be a Christmas gift for Jeff, but since I suffer from a serious medical condition known as premature unwrapulation, I gave it to him right away. It now hangs in a place of honor, right next to the bathroom, which is I'm sure how Robin would have wanted it.


Robin also gave me some amazing gifts, packed in a lovely shoebox that once housed some charming house frau clogs. Like this block of awesome (no, really, that is its official name):

Along with some whorish Hallmark cards and a Twitter ornament!

We haven't gotten our tree (whom I have pre-named Firdinand) yet, but I'm sure he'll appreciate an ornament made of his own flesh.

There are just 19 shopping days left until Jesus' fake birthday, people, so if there is anyone in your life who would appreciate a tender acrylic painting of boxer briefs, tell Santa to get his rosy red ass over to Robin's store, stat.

P.S. I have not abandoned Curmudgeon of the Week! There's one coming up and I'm working my way through the list. Not that you asked, but because I'm defensive. 

Friday, December 3, 2010

TGI...WTF? Unlucky Ch'Arms

I almost want to present this without comment, except for the following keywords/phrases:

Kathy Najimy
Spanx for your arms
(No really, that is what they're called.)

My final keyword is "quadraboob."

This doesn't even belong in Veronica's Closet, y'all. And Kirstie Alley made some unfortunate style choices on that show.

P.S.:  Kristie Lynne and Stated4all, I need to send you your pagan mix CDs! Email me with your addresses!

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Skip To My Lou

The name on my Starbucks latte today read "Lou."

I find this very exciting. Usually it says "Yuna," which sounds like a bowel-stimulating yogurt.

Also, our next-door neighbor in Texas used to call me "Una Lou." She was young, with long hair and what I remember to be perpetually bare feet. I never had a real nickname, so I relished it.


A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll, the name of a tomboy who stashes her tumbling curls inside a jaunty cap.

I think I'll be Lou today.

The only question is, which Lou? Lou Gehrig? Lou Diamond Phillips? Lou Ferrigno? Lou Rawls?

The possibilities are endless.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Holiday Gift Guide Part 3: Picture Imperfect

When Jeff and I got engaged in late 2006, we met with a wedding photographer recommended by our chosen venue. We liked his work and decided to hire him. A month or so later, Jeff answered an anonymous job ad and ended up getting hired by the same company, and so by the time we got married Jeff was working for our wedding photographer.

There were a few downsides to this--I mean, who wants their boss following them around all day when they're getting married?--but the pros far outweighed the cons, especially when Christmastime rolled around.

Since Jeff's employer took our photos, he had access to every single shot, which meant that we were privy to something most couples never get to see: the outtakes. And let me tell you, nothing is funnier than people looking busted on what is supposed to be the happiest (and, some might argue, prettiest) day of their lives.

I mean, am I right? Bish, please.

You should have seen Jeff's face when I presented him with an album of our worst wedding photos. I think he cried a little bit...

...which is a common side-effect of uncontrollable laughter.

It was probably because I looked so pretty.

Or because we were so in love...

(I'm pulling that Muppet face at the thought of seeing male genitalia for the first time in my life later that night*.)

*JK, I was so not a virgin. The sentence above was for my grandma. Let's hope this type is too small for her to read.

The face below, however, is a totally real-time reaction to being manhandled by my newly minted spouse.

I love these so much more than our posed, Prom-y photos (which had to be taken against an indoor deciduous forest exhibit since God decided to urinate on our Special Day).

I mean, thanks to these I'll never forget the moment when Jeff developed hemmorhoids cutting into our wedding cake.

(He wore a similar expression a few years later when we finally tried to eat the frozen top layer.)

So, yeah, this present pretty much ruled. To paraphrase my patron saint Ferris Bueller, if you have the means, I highly recommend making your own outtake album.

It is so choice.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

The Last Unibrow?

Have you guys ever seen the trippy, unsettling 80s cartoon (is there any other kind?) The Last Unicorn? Well, replace the horn with some excess facial hair and you have the story of my life. "Am I really the last?" I often sigh in the voice of Mia Farrow, gazing out at pastoral scenes, clutching my tweezers.

Anyway, a few months ago, I wondered where my unibrowed sisters were--if they even existed--and thanks to a tip from a reader, I think I found them.

I want to go to there. Road trip?

(We might have to pass through Afghanistan, but I'll buy the McRibs.)

Monday, November 29, 2010

The Naked and the Fed


I am so full, you guys.

Thanksgiving, for me, is just the beginning of a weekend-long food bender. I'm an all-or-nothing kind of girl, and so once I've eaten my own weight in crescent rolls I figure I might as well stuff my pie-hole with anything remotely edible until I pass out or can no longer button my pants, whichever comes first. Cheese, bread, spaghetti and meatballs, pancakes, pulled pork quesadillas, babaganoush, warm gingerbread with vanilla ice cream--nothing is safe once I'm in the dark, savory recesses of my K-cal hole. Especially not my triglycerides.

Seeing as I've just emerged from my food coma, I don't have much blog fodder except to list everything I've consumed since Thursday (see above). Well, except... my sister did sent me a photo yesterday of myself at age 3, standing naked in front of a Christmas tree and pinching my nipples, but I can't post it here or I might get investigated for child pornography. (As it is anyone who sees my laptop screen-saver is going to have some serious questions.)

On the upside, though, I think Jeff and I have our Christmas card concept.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Th**k You

I've always loved Thanksgiving for the food (and the excuse to trace my hand and make it into a turkey wearing a Pilgrim hat), but I've  never really gotten comfortable with the heartfelt thanks part. I used to dread being asked, round-robin style in my classroom or at the dining table, what I was thankful for each year. The pressure was just too much. (Plus, my mouth was usually so full of stuffing that to open it would cause a small breadcrumb avalanche.)

In all seriousness, though, I have so much to be thankful for that it's impossible to put it all into words. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am. This year has been a rough one, and I must admit that I'm thankful it's almost over. But a lot of great things have happened, too. Many of you started reading this blog, for one. I got a new job that allows me to go drinking with sailors, watch movies, and make fun of Gerard Depardieu, all while on the clock. I had freelance opportunities open up, I got to reunite with my beloved KevBac (albeit by phone), my amazing mama let me visit her in Rome, and my beautiful sister moved back to New York (she says it's for school but I know it's because she likes watching Teen Mom with me.) Even though I am 30, my father still takes me out to dinner and lets me come over to his house to drink martinis and watch Mad Men on DVR. He swears he will pay for my cable, too, if the Cablevision gods smile upon me and my poor, entertainment-blighted apartment building.

The love of my life puts up with my many moods and tantrums, surprises me with flowers, and literally just brought me a donut while I was in the middle of typing this sentence.

I have an incredible group of friends who are whip-smart, wise, witty, and wonderful. I even made Internet friends this year, other bloggers whom I feel I know even though we've never met.

So even though at times I've wanted to flip the bird--or at least sing a sassy Cee-Lo song--to 2010, I'm going to spend today thinking about all of the people and things I have to be thankful for.

And then I'm going to go to town on some stuffing.

Happy Thanksgiving!

(I'll be busy eating until Monday, so I'm taking the weekend off from blogging. I'm also going to Boston, the home of the Pumpplecake! If you never hear from me again, that is why.)

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Christmas Una's Pagan Playlist


It’s the day before Thanksgiving.

Do you know what this means?

It means as of 5 pm EST tomorrow I can start listening to Christmas music!

(Yes, I am one of those people. But I don’t care what you say; it’s not a choice. I was born like this.)

If I could only listen to one song for the rest of my life, it would probably be the skating theme from A Charlie Brown Christmas.

Well, that or “Pussy Control” by Prince.

(Or a mashup of the two, like on Glee! Consider that gauntlet officially thrown, Ryan Murphy.)

Also, when I hear Frank Sinatra sing about snowflakes and holly sprigs and stockings, it’s like my ears are filled with butter-drenched puppies and there’s mistletoe hanging over my crotch.

(I take away the mistletoe when he sings about the baby Jesus, though.)

Also, since you asked, yes, I WILL share with you my ultimate pagan holiday playlist:
  • Cool Yule, Louis Armstrong
  • Santa Baby, Eartha Kitt
  • Skating, Vince Guaraldi Trio (Charlie Brown Christmas)
  • Nutcracker Suite, The Brian Seltzer Orchestra
  • Baby, It's Cold Outside, Ella Fitzgerald
  • Let It Snow, Lena Horne
  • Christmas Every Day, Smokey Robinson & The Miracles
  • All I Want For Christmas Is You, Olivia Olson (from Love, Actually--don't hate)
  • The Christmas Waltz, Frank Sinatra
  • Saludo (Aguinaldo), Luis & Maria (from Merry Christmas From Sesame Street, 1975)
  • Run, Run Rudolph, Chuck Berry
  • Merry, Merry Christmas Baby, Dodie Stevens
  • Put A Little Love In Your Heart, Al Green and Annie Lennox (Okay, this is not a holiday song per se, but it's at the end of my favorite Christmas movie, Scrooged, so it counts).
Leave a comment with your guilty pleasure holiday tune* and I'll pick one lucky** reader at random to receive an old-school mix of the above Christmas classics.

*This is optional; you can also just tell me how I'm going to burn for eternity***, or how surprisingly good Prince looks with Farrah Fawcet hair.

**No, I am not being sarcastic.

***You probably won't get the CD, though.

UPDATE: I'm capping this contest at 69 comments, because that is awesome. And since there are 69 I'm picking three winners (in celebration of the inadvertent dirtiness). Using a random generator they are:

1. Stated4all
2. Kristie Lynne
3. Erin (the 4th comment from top; sorry, other Erin!)

Congrats, guys! You just won something of absolutely no real value! I'll be contacting you for your addresses. Get ready for some sweet mix tape action.


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Holiday Gift Guide: Special Blogger Edition

(Let's try this again...)

New Yorker cartoon print: very expensive
Stealing Jpeg from Google image search: FREE
Shopping is fun!

The holidays are a great time for stereotyping. Every year by mid-November, we’re inundated with gift ideas for that special -- albeit cookie-cutter -- someone. Dads are allowed to be into either gadgets or golf; Moms, fashion or food. Does your partner appreciate scarves or wine stoppers made from twigs and berries? If not, good luck and Godspeed. Have fun sucker-punching strangers over the last iPad at Best Buy.

Bloggers, of course, are treated no differently. Since we need so few tools -- (Computer? Check. Free time? Um. Willpower? Sigh.) -- all gift ideas inevitably involve external hard drives, coffee-makers, or those carpal tunnel squeeze balls that look and feel like a single, giant testicle.

I came up with eight genius--if occasionally imaginary--gift ideas for BlogHer's 2010 Gift Guide. Read them here.


I wrote a post for today linking to a piece I wrote for BlogHer that's not up yet.


Monday, November 22, 2010

Disgusting Foods Associated With Thanksgiving That I Would Still Totally Eat

That post on cock soup yesterday really whet my appetite, and got me thinking about this coming Thursday, a glorious day on which Americans are encouraged to consume as much as humanly possible (okay, well, that used to be a novelty) while watching inflated Simpsons characters bump into skyscrapers and drinking to avoid feeling bad about what we did to the Pequot Indians*.

*Contrary to the warm, fuzzy Pilgrims + Indians 4EVA stories we learned in gradeschool, in Connecticut "thanksgiving" was celebrated after a successful attack on the natives, and their decapitated heads were reportedly kicked through the streets of Manhattan. Try eating a guilt-free dinner roll now.

Anyway, I started fantasizing about the grossest, most gluttonous creations we've have managed to come up with so as to consume as many calories as possible in one sitting... and, subsequently, coming to terms with the fact that I would totally put all of these in mah belleh.


Ah, the turducken. Edible poultry nesting dolls that celebrate our right to stuff birds inside of other birds and then eat them so that we form the fourth layer... a Homoturducken, if you will (homosapien, people). I don't actually like duck, but how can I say no to such a pornographic protein explosion?


Pumpplecake, the dessert version of the turducken, if you will, is new this year, and the only thing I need to know is, Where have you been all my life, sugar tits? Your eyes do not deceive you--this is a two-layer cake with two different kinds of pie baked in, plus what looks like enough icing to kill a Shetland pony (and Shannen Doherty, if she happened to be posing next to it at the time).

Rounding out this trio of triple bypass goodness is...


This can be viewed as a kind of wedding of the previous two--while it appears to be a cake, this entire thing is actually constructed of savory Thanksgiving staples. The top and bottom layers are ground turkey; the middle layer, stuffing. The "frosting" is mashed potatoes and the topping is yams and marshmallows.

(Okay, so that last one does kind of trigger my gag reflex, but it's a psychological trap. It only looks like ground meat covered in buttercream. And even that, if I'm being honest, would not be a deal-breaker. Of course, it would all depend on the potency of the peyote.)

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Perhaps It Can Be Served With Cock Au Vin?

When I was in 9th grade, I had a mousy social studies teacher who displayed absolutely no sense of humor, and who one day decided to read aloud to us from some story involving roosters.

Only she didn't say rooster. She said cock.

To a roomful of fourteen year-olds.

The first time she said it I forced the giggles back down into my throat, but she kept saying it, over and over, almost like she was testing us on purpose (which she must have been, because since when do roosters figure prominently in American history?)

I lost it around the third cock.

(I don't think I need to tell you that that's what she said.)

Anyway, my teacher was quite disappointed in us. "I expected more maturity from you," she said, fixing me with a sour stare.

I hadn't thought of her in years until yesterday, when my sister bought me a gift:

Yup, still hilarious. It's good to know my inner fourteen year-old is alive and well.

P.S. How many copies do you think Cock Soup For the Teenage Soul could sell? I think a lot.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Scene From A Marriage: Grape Expectations

Jeff and I have both had crappy weeks. He's been overworked and under-appreciated, while I've been phlegmy and under-showered.

So when he showed up after work with flowers, it was extra romantic because I was in my underpants on an exercise ball trying to work my core without choking on my cough drop while waiting for America's Next Top Model to download on iTunes.
I promptly displayed them in our most exciting vase.

But wait! There's more!

Jeff: I also got you this... [lifts bottle of wine from bag]
Me: Awww.
Jeff: And this... [presents a Rocky Road bar, Chick-o-Sticks, and a handful of Mary Janes]
Me: OMG! I did the same for you, except without the flowers. It's like the gift of the Magi!

I show Jeff the bottle of wine I bought on the way home, and Petit Écolier cookies, the kind with the chocolate on top of the biscuit with the little schoolboys engraved on them.

Jeff: You know how I love schoolboys!

(Jeff is always trying to come out to me and I refuse to let him. True story: Right after we got married, we had our recessional and then got ushered into a little room to have a few minutes together before entering the reception area. I looked at Jeff. Jeff looked at me. We clasped hands. He said, "I'm gay." Jealous, ladies?

Anyway, I ignore him and turn my attention to the wine.)

Me: Let's open yours first, since it has a screw top!
Jeff: It's a Malbec... I got it because you like that.
Me: I have no idea what mine is. I got it because the guy at the wine store was having a tasting, and I felt awkward not buying it after I drank two Dixie cups.
Jeff: There's your blog for tomorrow. (I know--this is so meta it is totally blowing your mind right now.)

He is making fun of the fact that I feel obligated to spend money on things I do not want or need, like the time I answered the door expecting my Thai delivery man and instead found a canvasser for the New York Public Interest Research Group, who implored me to donate the minimum amount of $64... and I did. (In my defense I was confused... and hungry.) Or the time I got drunk and bought a monogrammed whiskey decanter just because I had a Pottery Barn gift card. (What? I was drunk! Someday I will use it or gift it to my nemesis, Uma Thurman.)

Thursday, November 18, 2010

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Holiday Gift Guide Part Deux: Moonlight (And Vibrators) in Vermont

This is a repost from last winter, but I just got the Vermont Country Store catalog in the mail and I seriously think I will be doing all my shopping there this year. Get excited, friends and family!

A few years ago, I was looking to buy Jeff a Monchichi doll for Christmas (since that was his childhood nickname—seriously, he was born with a full pelt of fur head of hair), and I stumbled upon the website for The Vermont Country Store. Not only did I get the Monchichi, I also bought like six packages of delicious lebkuchen—German cookies that are like pillowy discs of chocolate-covered soft gingerbread. The site was weird and wonderful, selling everything from maple syrup to underwear to sock monkeys. And thanks to my purchase, I got on their mailing list.

Isn't it magical? I mean, look at that table of contents:


Move over, Wal-Mart!

Seriously, check out some of the insane goodies on sale:

I must disagree that nothing delights a young child like a Jack-in-the-box (nothing HORRIFIES a young child... well, me, anyway, more than the tinkling keys of Pop! Goes the Weasel as I wait for a freakish clown to spring into my face) but I can vouch that nothing delights an adult more than chocolate-covered booze!

They also sell my favorite cookies: The mealy, almond-flavored, neon-colored bars you are most likely to find rotting away on a dusty shelf in an Italian bakery. Yummy. (They age like fine wine; dust only adds to the flavor.)

While we're on the subject of old, musty candy, take a gander at this:

Skybar! Zagnut! Walnettos! If this isn't the cutest little country store I've ever seen, I'll eat...

Well, I'll eat this hat.

Um, a felt fedora with an attached burka? YES, PLEASE, SANTA.

Haven't left your house since the Ford administration? How about a record player, a cassette recorder, a handheld slide viewer, or a typewriter?

Watch your slides while you listen to Benny Goodman 45s and type an angry letter to the Beatles for wearing their goddamn hair so long and smoking too much reefer. Good times!

Another blast from the past:

Man, how much would someone make to do a remake of this for hipsters? I'd call it "Fuck! Your Hair Smells Like Magic." Potential investors may contact me in the comments.

You've got to love a store that sells cassette players, children's toys, cookies, and ...

Vibrators! Accompanied by a photo of a sexually robust Wilford Brimley doppelganger. He knows that you'd rather order your "German massager" along with your ribbon candy from a nice family establishment instead of "run down to Sex World or visit some uncomfortable website." And fucking how, dude.

Of course, who needs sex toys when you can wear scents like Woodhue, Tigress, and Ben Hur?

Rrrrowr. There's also one called "Persian Wood." Snicker.

Here's something you don't see everyday: a miniature cast iron stove!

Here's the best part of the description: The set "includes a miniature iron cooking pot, kettle, frying pan, spatula, griddle holder and coal bucket that you can arrange to taste." [Emphasis mine]. I like to imagine someone coming over to my house and seeing my miniature cast iron stove and going, "Oh...oh my GOD. What were you THINKING putting the kettle on the LEFT BURNER??? YOU DISGUST ME." and then storming out.

Anyway, yeah. The Vermont Country Store. I guarantee that you'll find something awesome—and hopefully kind of inappropriate—for your loved ones within its bizarre warehouse. I recommend a gift basket consisting of Ben Hur cologne, a package of Walnettos, a Hitachi Magic Wand, and a handheld slide viewer. Keep that special someone guessing this Christmas.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

The Critic

I'm still sick, and don't have the strength to summon another stream-of-consciousness post (although I will tell you what is blowing my mind right now: Nermal from Garfield is a MAN, and he's 31 years old. The more you think about it the creepier it gets...) so instead, please enjoy these movie reviews I wrote for The Observer this week, filling in for our critic Rex Reed.

I saw The Next Three Days and Made in Dagenham. They wouldn't let me into Harry Potter because I'm not important enough, which is probably for the best as I haven't read past book two (I KNOW) and thus couldn't tell my ass from my Azkaban. (As Dorothy Parker might have said had she lived today, "You can lead a horcrux to culture but you can't make her think.")


The best movie review I ever wrote is still the one on I Know Who Killed Me. (Stigmata? I don't even know her!... sometimes I slay me.)

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Billie Jean King Is Not My Lover, And Other Sickbed Non Sequiturs

I’m sick again. I don’t know why God hates me so much considering I drink of his son’s metaphorical blood so often. Anyway, being sick wipes me out. It drains my energy, it clogs my pores (which means I am EXTRA PRETTY), and most of all, it saps my will to blog. Ironically, of course, it also means I have more time to blog, or it would if I didn’t spend the equivalent of an eight-hour working day watching Three Amigos clips on YouTube.

Usually post ideas come to me suddenly after I read an article or watch something on TV or have a conversation with Jeff. A lot of bloggers work on posts for days, editing them until they are perfect, stand-alone pieces, but I just let it fly, seat-of-my-pants style. I joke that this is because I value quantity over quality, but really it’s that A) this blog started out as a way to get myself to write more or less every day and it’s important to me to stay true to that; and B) if I start to think too hard about my blog posts it freaks me out and I get the mental equivalent of shrinkage.

Which is what is happening right now.

Anytime I find myself staring at my computer screen trying to think of ideas it feels like my brain is suddenly really drunk, and is lurching around my mental attic opening cobwebbed boxes in the hopes of finding the idea equivalent of a mint-condition Faberge Egg it can get appraised on Antiques Roadshow.

For example, the first thing I latched onto today was Tiger Eyes. I have not read Tiger Eyes in fifteen years but suddenly I thought of it and I wanted it so I Googled it.

Then I found its Wikipedia page and thought, did Ione Skye model for the cover?

Seriously, this is EXACTLY how Diane Court looks at Lloyd Dobler for the entirety of Say Anything.

Then I remembered that the main character’s name is Davey, which made me me wonder if I could write a whole blog post about how I went through a phase of wanting to have a bunch of girls and name them things like Frankie and Charlie and maybe even Billie, after Billie Holliday, not Billie Jean King.

Then I wondered if naming fictional tomboys after a heroin addict was worse than naming them after someone with really terrible hair, which ended with me Googling Billie Jean King and developing a theory that she might actually just be Carrie Fisher dressed as Sue Sylvester from Glee:

Then I thought that Tiger Eyes would be a really good name for a memoir written by one of Tiger Woods’ mistresses, or maybe by Tiger himself, if he didn’t mind sounding like a teenage girl.

Then I realized that there are multiple Judy Blume titles that could, taken out of context, describe the Tiger Woods scandal: Then Again, Maybe I Won’t; It’s Not The End of The World; and Here’s To You, Rachel Uchitel (okay, really it’s Robinson).

Then I thought, maybe that would make a good blog post. Especially if I could find other authors whose book titles mirrored other public scandals. I was able to match Sarah Palin with Danielle Steele (whose books include Rogue, Impossible, and Accident), but then I got a migraine and had to put my sunglasses on in bed.

Then I thought, Is this what Kanye West’s life is like all the time? I took a picture of myself with my BlackBerry and considered removing my entire bottom set of teeth and replacing them with Tootsie Rolls, because I can’t afford diamonds and besides, my forehead shines enough for my entire face as it is.

Then I thought, Shit, I still have to write a blog for tomorrow. But before I do that...

And now we've come full circle. I've blogged without really blogging, and I managed to work in Lloyd Dobler and Tootsie Rolls.

I feel good about this. 

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