SWN: Sloth, Whiteness, Nudity

Seriously you guys, I could learn a lot from the cast of Jersey Shore. The three major obstacles in my life right now can be summed up in three letters: GTL.

In guido speak, that's "Gym, Tanning, Laundry."

I am going to the Dominican Republic next week and I need to do all of those things. I mean, I need to do all of them always but especially right now.

The gym I need to hit not so much to look hot but rather to create a caloric deficit which I can then fill with daiquiris and steak. Nothing is hotter than getting a nice food belly while wearing a bikini, am I right? The only thing hotter is having a blistering sunburn on said food belly. Which brings me to...

Tanning. I have documented many a time how white I am. On the whiteness spectrum I fall somewhere between chalk and Glenn Beck. I make my little sister look Punjabi. For real:

Ebony, ivory, livin' together in harmony...

My sister has a face, she just doesn't like it when I post pictures of her on the Internet. Some people are so private.

Anyway, if I go out in the sun (especially drunk) without a base tan, I will surely burn. See, this is for health, not vanity.

Finally, laundry. I have, like, one ankle sock, a sweater with elbow holes and those harem pants my mom brought me from Spain; everything else is dirty. I have to do laundry this weekend or I will look like the spawn of Ruprecht and Tila Tequila.

The only difference is I'm whiter than him, and my clothes are probably less clean.

GTL!

SWN: Sloth, Whiteness, Nudity

Art House Tailgating 101

I saw Greenberg with my sister last night. It was the kind of quiet, quirky character-driven story that makes you so uncomfortable that you laugh extra loud at any jokes--even weak ones--to release the tension. But there was a girl in the front of the theater who cackled even during unfunny scenes (when she wasn't cackling she was coughing or playing with her hair). My sister and I concluded that she must be high or drunk, and felt our theory was confirmed when we heard her drop a glass bottle midway through the movie.

All of which begs the question: Who decides to get wasted watching Greenberg? I was all set to put my judgment pants on (they are, as you might imagine, itchy and tight in the crotch) when I remembered a little incident from my past involving cheap vodka and an art house film called Little Voice.

Woah, Ewan McGregor was in it? For you, Ewan, I would have tried not to be so sloppy. (Also, is it my imagination or does Brenda Blethyn look exactly like Liza Minnelli in this poster? No wonder I drank...)

I wish I could tell you what Little Voice was about but I can't because I was wasted. It was the fall of my freshman year of college, and my friends Charlie, Carolyn and I decided to drive out to a movie theater in a nearby town. It was a Friday, which seemed to us as good a reason as any to get drunk. Carolyn, as I remember, abstained, but Charlie and I mixed up a truly vomitous concoction with Dubra vodka, Mountain Dew, and Kool-Aid. We poured the red mixture back into the Mountain Dew bottles and smuggled them into the theater.

The main problem was that the bottles were 20 ounces, the cocktail tasted like Hawaiian Punch, and I wasn't used to drinking alcohol at movies. I chugged it like it was a soda, and then all of a sudden halfway through the movie I started crying hysterically because something caught fire onscreen. Charlie and Carolyn ushered me out and drove me home, and to thank them I puked in the backseat of Charlie's Toyota Land Cruiser.

So I guess I can't judge the woman who sloppily laughed her way through Greenberg. I can just be glad she wasn't weeping, and hope that whatever she was drinking didn't contain liquor from a plastic bottle or any ingredient that might, hypothetically, stain anyone's car seats hot pink.

Oh, since I titled this Art House Tailgating 101, I guess I should offer some tips. I covered not sobbing and trying to drink clear things... what else? Maybe get high instead. Then at least you'll get all paranoid and hopefully stay quiet. I should totally write "The More You Know" segments for TV. Do they still do those?

Art House Tailgating 101

Soundtrack of My Childhood

I'm home sick today and it's gray and rainy in New York, so it seems like the perfect time to pass on the Oh My Blog award I got from TB over at Year 31. Blog awards, as I've mentioned before, are like chain letters passed from one blogger to another. I am always flattered when I get them, but fulfilling the "rules," which are usually the same (post 5 or 7 or 10 things about yourself) is really only fun once (and if you're already a blogger, posting inane things about yourself is what you do every day). That's why I'm so glad TB got creative. Her rules were to pick from a variety of challenges, like blogging drunk (um, been there, done that), taking a photo of yourself when you first wake up and posting it (no photo of me will ever be worse than this), writing about your most embarrassing moment (I have a whole list of them) or sharing the soundtrack of your childhood. I know I've shared with you my love for imagining fight sequences set to Ludacris songs, but my musical history goes deeper than that.

For example, when I was 4 years old, one of my favorite things to do was to dance around my living room to the soundtrack from The Big Chill (on cassette tape, naturally). My least favorite song was "A Whiter Shade of Pale," because it was slow and sad and talked about virgins. My most favorite song was definitely "Good Lovin'" by The Young Rascals. It is the stuff spastic underpants dance parties are made of.

(I didn't know they had a Pilgrim tambourine player, did you? What is going on here?)

Fun fact: Years later, I would finally watch The Big Chill expecting an energetic romp set to Motown classics. I would be depressed for weeks afterwards.

When I was ten, like every other girl in America, I purchased Madonna's Immaculate Collection, which I would listen to over and over on my Walkman, pretending I was performing for my entire elementary school. My favorite track was "Like a Prayer," because it required the most elaborate staging in my imaginary show. There was the gospel choir, obviously, who I generally hid behind a curtain until their big reveal a few minutes in, dressed in sparkling silver robes and making furious jazz hands. Then there was the lighting: it started with a single spotlight on me, but as the tempo picked up lasers got involved. And finally there was the question of a small platform that would rise up as the song reached its climax, lifting me above the gospel choir in all of my fifth grade splendor. (YouTube won't let me embed the video, but you know you want to watch it again.)

Sometimes I would practice singing "Like a Prayer" in my bedroom--practicing, I guess, for the day that the imaginary concert became real, as if my glee club teacher would turn to me out of the blue and say "You know what? Fuck Pablo the Reindeer. I want you to do a revue of Madonna's entire musical canon!" I used to tape record myself, and once the recorder caught a moment when my sister, then four, interrupted me. I yelled at her in perfect pitch, without stopping the song: "Life is a mystery--get out of my room!--everyone must stand alone..."

Summers of my youth were defined by Billy Joel's Storm Front album, which my parents always played during our annual vacations in Block Island, Rhode Island. I can't talk about my love for this album in front of Jeff, because he hates Billy Joel with the burning passion of a thousand suns.

Luckily I know all the lyrics to "We Didn't Start the Fire," and so can torment him easily whenever I want.

Puberty was all about early 90s rap and hip-hop (which offends Jeff only slightly less), and no song sticks in my memory more than "Informer" by white Canadian reggae rapper Snow (who, judging by this video, looks like Skippy from Family Ties if he had grown up to become a classics professor. WTF? I for one always imagined a badass Jamaican guy.)

There's a line in the song about where Snow comes from, but since he raps in what sounds like pig latin it's impossible to decipher. The general consensus in 7th grade was the he was "born and raised in Connecticut," although internet searches present alternative translations: "Etobicoke," which apparently is someplace in Toronto; and "the ghetto." Nowadays of course the question isn't "Where is he from?" but "Where did he go?" If this song is a clue, he is probably licking someone's boom boom down. 

This next one is kind of sad. My grandfather died when I was seventeen. He was my first major death but I couldn't cry--not when I heard, not at the wake, not at the funeral (In restrospect it didn't help that my great uncle made jokes throughout. When we lowered my grandfather's body into the ground, into one half of a shared plot reserved for his extremely Catholic spinster girlfriend, Uncle Jerry muttered, "Phil's finally gonna get laid by Claire.") Anyway, eight months later, packing for college, I finally cried. I was listening to, of all things, the soundtrack to Boogie Nights, and “Sister Christian” by Night Ranger came on. Something about the lyrics and the sad, slow melody flipped a switch and I started to sob, collapsing onto my half-packed suitcase. Now, whenever I listen to that song I well up, not just because of grandpa but also because fucking Night Ranger makes me cry, which is so incredibly lame.

Then of course came college and Liz Phair, Lauryn Hill, Radiohead and existential crises, but that's a blog for another day.

Now to pass this sucker on: To Owen The Man, Rock N' Roll Gourmet, and Mattitiyahu. I want to know your soundtracks. Rock N' Roll, you can do a cooking soundtrack if that's easier :)

Soundtrack of My Childhood

A Passage From The Project Runway Haggadah

So I'm not sure you guys all know this, but I'm Jew-ish. Not Jewish, but Jew-ish, like, kind of. Going by my ancestors I think I'm 1/4 Jew, 1/2 lapsed Catholic, and 1/4 some kind of noncommittal white trashy Protestant. My mother is only half Jewish by blood (and not even officially, because the bloodline was passed through her dad, which  doesn't count to conservative Jews) but has morphed over the years into a full-fledged Jewish mother. Every year she throws "The Seder for the Marginally Jewish," in which religious half-breeds of all ages come together to get bombed on non-kosher wine and skip over the Hebrew parts of the Womanist Haggadah because no one knows how to pronounce anything and besides, we're already drunk. It's super fun. The prophet Elijah doesn't usually show up, but sometimes we'll get a stray cat.

Anyway, last Thursday after watching Project Runway I made some off-the-cuff comment to my friends that I should write a Project Runway Haggadah in honor of Passover, and promised as much on my recap for The Huffington Post. Now, of course, I am kicking myself, because not only is this an overwhelming undertaking that I don't have the Sunday night attention span for, but it also has the potential to offend an entire people. So here is my cop-out; I hope you enjoy. Happy Pesach!

The Make It Work Mah Nishtana (The Four Questions)

What makes this season different from all [other] seasons?

1) Why in all other seasons do we not show the HP netbook even once, but in this season we do every fucking episode?

2) Why in all other seasons does Tim Gunn seem like he truly cares, while in this season he shows up looking either half in the bag or ready to cut a bitch and even wore jeans once? JEANS?!

3) Why in all other seasons is Heidi pregnant, but in this season... wait, nevermind.

4) Why in all other seasons do we watch sitting upright or reclining, but this season we DVR because there is usually a really good CSI rerun on?

Up next... the ANTM bible! Just kidding, I'm done with reality theology. Please excuse me while I go feed my gefilte fish.

A Passage From The Project Runway Haggadah

Hot Tub Unibrow Time Machine

I went last night with Jeff and my sister to see Hot Tub Time Machine. Ever since I saw the promos, featuring John Cusack in a movie about traveling back to the 80s via hot tub, I knew that much like Wayne's coveted '64 Fender Stratocaster, tickets to this movie WOULD BE MINE.

It lived up to its title in pretty much every way: It was campy and fun, but it didn't try too hard to be awesome because it knew you went to see it just because of the premise and the title (um... which are the same), so it wasn't especially awesome. But it was good. Solidly entertaining.

Afterwards, naturally, came a discussion of what we would do if transported back in time via hot tub or DeLorean or what have you:

ME: The only thing I would really want to change is in 7th grade when all the mean girls ganged up on me. Instead of slinking off and crying I would tell them to go fuck themselves. Oh! But before I did that I would run to the bathroom and pluck my unibrow.

ZOE: No, you can't do that. You'd be a completely different person.

ME: But there were plenty of things wrong with me apart from the unibrow! I wouldn't wear better clothes, or go get Accutane.

ZOE: Still, you couldn't get rid of the unibrow. It might change something. You could end up a stuck-up bitch.

ME: It's not like I'd suddenly be cool, I'd just look less like Peter Gallagher with a retainer.

ZOE: No.

(Whatever, Zoe, from here on out I'm carrying Tweezers with me every time I use a hot tub, just in case.)

Hot Tub Unibrow Time Machine

30 Things Not To Do Before I'm 30 Part 30 (Kidding, Just Part Deux)

First, a quick public service announcement: if you don't care at all about my actual life and are just looking for my Project Runway recap, you can find it here. The powers that be at the Huffington Post haven't featured it on the site yet. 

Okay, so, the other day I made a list I didn't finish. It's a joke list, really--a way of turning the normal "what am I doing with my life now that I'v reached a new milestone birthday" angst on its head. And also, obviously, a way for me to have a list I can confidently check off. No money? Check! Mo' problems? Check! Lack of bedazzled pubic mound? Check! (Oh, we'll get to that in a second.)

11. Run a marathon (thanks, Kelli, for the suggestion). I ran track in high school. One day I will write an epic post about how awful I was (which eventually led me to fake an injury to quit the team--again, parents? SO PROUD.). I do not enjoy running, nor am I good at it, so 26 miles of running seems like something I won't do until I am trying to flee some serious (and possibly Bugle-related) weight gain or punish myself for crimes against humanity like...

12. Vajazzling (thanks, Anne! This list is writing itself!) For the uninitiated, this is something that Jennifer Love Hewitt is trying to make happen, much like how Gretchen in Mean Girls tried to make "fetch" happen. The site (yes, it's real) defines "vajazzling" as "Bedazzlin your lady parts with crystals" There is so much wrong with that sentence, and we won't even get into the lack of an apostrophe. First off, let's start with the use of the verb "Bedazzlin'". Does anyone else recall that the Bedazzler looked like a giant staple gun? Are you suggesting I staple crystals onto my labia, Vajazzler? Also, why specify crystals? What else would you suggest I use? Candy buttons? Old 42-cent stamps? And finally, I don't have a vajina, nor do I want it "jazzled." The whole process reads like misspelled stage directions from a bargain basement porno. 

13. Write my autobiography. (Potential titles include Unabrow: True Tales From a Hirsute Childhood and Did I Invite You To My Barbecue? Then Why You All Up In My Grill? The Una LaMarche Story.)

14. Enter a competitive eating contest (Like, officially. I still beat the pants off Jeff pretty much every day.)

15. Be in the running towards becoming America's. Next. Top. Model (Tyra could not HANDLE this.)

16. Get contacts (I don't like things touching my eyeballs. I'm sure I'll have to eventually surrender, but for the next few weeks I'm just going the be the kind of girl guys don't make passes at.)

17. Do a shot of Jagermeister (that's on the "Things Not To Do Ever Again" list.)

18. Get another tattoo (unless it's a tattoo of this list, down my entire back. Then maybe.)

19. Run with bulls (Dance with wolves, though, is a totally different story.)

20. Do a post of 40 Things Not To Do Before I'm 40 (Too soon.)

To be continued, since another thing not to do before I'm 30 is write any posts on the blog that require any effort! (Kidding... kind of.)

30 Things Not To Do Before I'm 30 Part 30 (Kidding, Just Part Deux)

Slouching Towards Adulthood, Part One

Today I am uninspired, so I'll share with you the beginning of an essay I'm working on that chronicles my awkward, stumbling path towards a career (could a path of mine—anywhere—be anything BUT awkward and stumbling? Probably not...). Come with me, won't you, on a trip down memory lane, back to where all that "real life" bullshit started—at my college graduation.

Me (in pink flip flops), Jeff (behind me) and the gang at our 5 year reunion at Wesleyan in 2007.

I remember very little of my graduation from college, except that, in our bright red robes, we looked like a giant blood clot streaming down onto the football field, where we finally pooled, nervous and confused, at the feet of our proud relatives and stoic professors. I was marching behind a huge, stumbling sorority girl who said nothing but “Oh, shit. Oh shit!” under her breath as we waded into our seats. And then, as if we weren’t all edgy enough, someone had a seizure as the President made his opening remarks. She had to be carried away on a stretcher, restrained by paramedics, as we got to our feet to accept our diplomas. We watched as a piece of our clot was gingerly loaded - gown shining, tassle in-tact - into an ambulance, and then we graduated. Immediately after the ceremony I threw my gown away and climbed to the top of the psychology building. I stood on the roof, the toes of my sneakers stuffed into a crack in the ledge, and smoked a cigarette as I watched the last of the red dots disappear from the field. I stayed up there for over an hour, sucking down nicotine and contemplating the ramifications of ending college with an epileptic fit. It seemed to me to be a very bad sign.

To be continued...

But wait! There's more! Psych out!

BONUS:

Fun "30" Facts of the Day:

30 is the minimum age for United States senators. (Watch yo'self, Kirsten Gillibrand!)

According to Matthew 26:15, Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus for 30 pieces of silver. (Is that, like, a lot?)

30 is also the code for international direct dials to Greece AND slang for pornography, since its roman numeral is XXX! (Those two facts are not related, that I know of. But I hear those Greeks are a kinky bunch.)

Slouching Towards Adulthood, Part One

30 Things Not To Do Before I'm 30

Brace yourselves--the 30 posts, they are a-comin'. After all, I'm now less than three weeks from the big day, and while I'm not particularly worked up about it (meaning I'm not fearing it in the least, except maybe for the fear that I am now too old to throw myself a decent party. I'm just so tired all the time... can't we all just order in Chinese and watch Fletch?) I do feel the need to thoroughly document it here on my little piece of Internet real estate (in the grand scheme of the web, my blog is surely a water-damaged studio walk-up).

So. I never made any promises to myself about the things I would do before I turned thirty. In retrospect I wish I had. I could have made a list with challenges like "Eat own weight in Bugles" or "Watch more than twelve hours of television in one day," and handed myself an easy victory. I guess at least I'm not saddled with directives from my clueless just-out-of-college self to own my own house or have published a novel, but now that I'm almost to the big 3-0 I find myself wanting some kind of list to check off. So, I present to you, 30 things I will NOT do in the next three weeks.

1. Finally learn how to do a cartwheel (like I said, I'm tired, and at the age where my legs don't go over my head... that's what she said.)
2. Get a graduate degree. (If I'm lucky, I may never need one.)
3. Have children. (My eggs are too busy drinking right now.)
4. Get six-pack abs. (Unless there is a beer called "Abs." OMG, gold mine. There's my first million, right there. Quick, who knows how to make hops?)
5. Travel the world. (Except vicariously through The Amazing Race.)
6. Make a shitload of money. (Keep clicking on those ads, though. Momma needs a new filling in her upper first molar!)
7. Learn how to straighten my hair. (What's the point? It's totally gay.)
8. Learn how to make hospital corners. (Mom, you did not fail me; I am just lazy.)
9. Bungee jump. (Look what it did to Jake Pavelka, guys--HE PICKED VIENNA!)
10. Finish epic lists. (JK, I'll finish this at some point before my birthday.)

30 Things Not To Do Before I'm 30

Scenes From a Marriage: The Truth About Elvis

Jeff: So I got some 18th century literature from Amazon.
Me: Oooh, fancy!
Jeff: Some 17th century, too. Like Don Quixote.

[Jeff takes a book out of its wrapping.]

Me: Ah, The Federalist Papers! In their original paperback form.
Jeff: Yes, bathroom sized!
Me: You shouldn't use your brain that hard when you're... trying to do other things.
Jeff: Yeah, you'll stroke out. [beat] That's how Elvis died.

If only he'd had Uncle John's Slightly Irregular Bathroom Reader or a good funnies page!

Scenes From a Marriage: The Truth About Elvis

Momma C's Fashion Throwdown

I was at my mom's house this weekend teaching her how to use her new BlackBerry (yes, I am a certified Mom IT specialist; I also taught her how to drag things into the Recycle Bin on her computer) when she ran to her REAL LIFE recycling bin to pull out the New York Times' Style magazine from a few weeks back.

"I saw something in here," she said. "And I thought, Una would have a field day with this!"

(Turns out, though, that I didn't even need to have a field day because my mom's comments are so awesome by themselves. Observe...)

"Is this it? I think this is the one..."

"Doesn't she look like The Exorcist? It looks like snakes are about to come out of her eyes!"

"Or this one..."

"There's your poster girl for fashion. What man would look at this woman on the street and say, 'Hey baby, how you doin'?'... I mean, he'd have to be totally demented. She's one step away from spitting on you."

See? I come by my sass honestly.

Momma C's Fashion Throwdown

Scenes From a Marriage: It Puts The Lotion On Its Skin

Sunday night. An attempt at self-beautification, as usual, goes somewhat awry.

Me: (knocking on the door to Jeff's "man cave") Hey, just FYI I'm wearing a moisturizing face mask that makes me look like Hannibal Lecter.
Jeff: Lemme see.
Me:

I totally skinned Powder's face off to get past security guards at the asylum.

Jeff: Oh my God, that is creepy.
Me: It's La Mer.
Jeff: La what?
Me: Claaaaaarissssssse...

Moments later, I am reading and letting the mask sink in. Jeff rushes past me. I hear what sounds like a zipper being unzipped.

Me: Are you packing a suitcase? Are you leaving me? Is it the mask?

Jeff wordlessly enters the bathroom, and I hear the sound of his beard trimmer.

Me: Are you shaving your head? Are you joining a monastery? I'll take it off.

Jeff emerges, having trimmed shaved off all but his mustache.

Jeff: I'm gay!
Me: Fair enough.

Yeah, I was topless. Which makes it that much sexier.

Scenes From a Marriage: It Puts The Lotion On Its Skin

Weekend Mailbag

So in case I haven't told you guys, I am super smart and a member of The Phi Beta Kappa society, meaning I graduated college in the top 10% of my class. And a few times a year, I get a reminder of just how special I am:

Yeah, that's Mister Ua LaMarche to you. Mr. Ua is yet another one of my alter egos, along with Ewe-na LaMar-chee, homemade mayonnaise queen of Knoxville, Tennessee. I like to think that Mr. Ua needs no last name, kind of like Mr. T. Ua! (I also like to think it's pronounced like that sound Al Pacino makes in Scent of a Woman.)

I also got a letter this weekend from The Danbury Mint. I always open anything that says "mint," because you never know when it might be a fat check or a box of Peppermint Patties. But this... oh, this turned out to be almost as good.

It was an order form for the MICHELLE OBAMA INAUGURAL DOLL. Like many things too good to be true, I had to announce her in ALL CAPS.

"Own a piece of history," the brochure pleaded, like it was selling pieces of the Berlin Wall or sand from Omaha Beach instead of a creepy porcelain First Lady glued to an air hockey puck. I do kind of want to own Michelle, though. I bet she'd fit in great with my other dolls, Annie Hall and Alvy Singer, Mr. and Mrs. Satan, and Bartman.

I can see their Toy Story-like interactions now...

Michelle: Why, hello. Do you like my Jason Wu?

Alvy: My grammy never had a Jason Wu. She was too busy getting raped by Cossacks. 

Mrs. Satan: Does it come in black?

P.S. Wow, this blog has devolved to filibuster-like content. I'm not reading the phone book yet, but last month you came along with me as I got my passport photo taken, on Thursday Jeff and I filled out our census form and you just basically watched me open my mail. My driver's license is up for renewal in 2015, so get excited!

Weekend Mailbag

This Is Why I Can't Have Nice Things

So that box of memories my sister gave me was filled with more than just embarrassing diaries and evil thoughts about other people's overalls. It also contained:

• A book full of slides taken during a production of a play I starred in junior year of college, not long after I smoked hash in Germany and attempted to bleach my hair and give myself bangs. You will see these in my annual birthday "Go Fug Myself" post.
• A copy of "Kidnapped," aka Book 13 of the Sweet Valley High series by Francince Pascal. This was my favorite SWH story, because Elizabeth got kidnapped by a mentally-ill orderly at the hospital where she worked as a candy striper who made her eat frozen pancakes and called her "George" (and if I remember correctly it was all that whore Jessica's fault since she asked Elizabeth to sign up for candy striping so that Jessica could go on some TV show in an effort to hump some new guy in town, the one with the deaf sister who Jessica later tries to sabotage because of jealously over Bruce Patman). Anyway. It was my favorite because Elizabeth, the decent human being, is the clear victim while Jessica has to look inward and realize what a terrible person she is. (I think we all know that as soon as I finish this blog I'm parking on the couch to revisit this relic.)
• Evidence—and here I finally reach the point I was trying to make with the title of the post—that I do not care for things well. Exhibit A:

I know you're probably thinking, it's just an old book cover. Granted, Otherwise Known as Sheila The Great was a masterpiece, but you can buy it at Barnes and Noble!

Um, no:

OMG YOU GUYS, JUDY BLUME SIGNED A BOOK FOR ME! She's like the adolescent's version of J.D. Salinger! This is like a national treasure and I ruined it!!!!! Now it looks like Judy had cerebral palsy and was weeping while she wrote it. (Maybe she had just re-read Tiger Eyes; that book is fucking sad.)

If future civilizations found this they'd assume it had been fossilized after a flash flood or something, when it was really just a nine year-old not taking care of her books. Kind of makes you wonder about museum artifacts, doesn't it?

This Is Why I Can't Have Nice Things

March Madness

It's been a long week. Hell, it's been a long year and it's only March. I've been working nonstop for the past few weeks, so much so that I am not even caught up on all my shows (or as Jeff calls them, my "stories."). I KNOW. I have been burning the candle at both ends, by which I mean both my hair and my ass are on fire. Like, metaphorically.

Anyway, due to my general inability to form sentences or wash my face on a regular basis, today's post is going to be kind of a catch-all. That's a nice phrase, right? It means "random bullshit filler" but it sounds so much more inviting.

So firstly, I have been wanting to showcase Jeff's birthday cake, which was made by a twelve year-old. For real.

I know, it's depressing, isn't it? When I was twelve all I could make was a gimp lanyard, and even then not well.

If you are in New York and need a cake or baked good, I highly recommend that you check out Sophia's blog. She's the daughter of a family friend and makes amazing desserts. The blog is also fun to read even if you aren't in New York and just like looking at cake porn.

Next, I have gotten some more awards from fellow bloggers over the past weeks, and even though I think you all know enough about me that I don't need to make any lists of fun facts, I wanted to publicly thank and recognize the people who took the time to show me love. Thank you Mainland Streel, Ashley from Grunge, Glamour & Graphomania, and Ashley from Our Journey Begins, As The Kings...! I feel like I left someone out; if I did please don't be offended. It is 2 am, I am seriously tired, and like I said, my ass is on fire.

While I'm on the subject, though, I want to tell all of you who've left blog links in the comments that I will visit your blogs, I promise, one by one, as I find the time. I also feel bad that I haven't been responding to your comments as often or as thoroughly as I'd like to. I wish I could spend all day just blogging and reading your blogs and buying baguettes and carrying them around feeling whimsical and maybe even wearing a boater shirt with horizontal stripes (even though I know how few people that actually flatters). But for now I've got to prioritize my demanding day job and, of course, manage my America's Next Top Model Fantasy Team.

Okay. TGIF, you beautiful readers, you. I have to go collapse face down in a plate of beignets now. Or, I guess, on my pillow. That might be more practical, and sanitary.

March Madness

Jeff and I Fill Out The Census Form Drunk

11:00 pm. Jeff comes home. We have both been drinking, separately. I am responding to blog comments and preparing to get my Lost on.

Jeff: Did we get any mail?
Me: We got a census form. We have to fill it out by law. Or else they'll arrest us.

(Moments later, as I am navigating Hulu...)

Me: Are you actually filling that out?
Jeff: Yes.

(I see Jeff fill in my name and date of birth.)

Me: Are you pretending to be me? That's illegal! They'll arrest you!
Jeff: No, I'm just answering the questions.
Me: (looking over his shoulder) How do you know I'm not Hispanic, Latino or Spanish?
Jeff: I checked under your hood.
Me: They have a check box that says "Negro"? That is so wrong.
Jeff: I am trying to do super important government stuff. Please be quiet.
Me: You didn't list me!
Jeff: Yes I did.
Me: You're Person #2. Where am I? ... Oh, I'm Person #1? Why wouldn't you put yourself as Person #1?
Jeff: You're Person #1 to me.

He is the greatest. But that doesn't mean I'm not potentially Hispanic.

Aaaaaand... scene! Don't blog (or fill out the census) drunk, kids!

Jeff and I Fill Out The Census Form Drunk

Dental Damn

I went to the dentist today. I’m not the kind of person who freaks out about the dentist (which is convenient, really, because I am also the kind of person who regularly eats things off the floor and loses fillings courtesy of two year-old caramels found in the further reaches of the pantry, thereby ensuring abundant dentist visits). I think the reason I like my dentist so much is the hygienist, Thelma. Sure, she scrapes the shit out of my teeth, but she’s funny while she does it. “That poor Alexa Joel,” she’ll mutter. I think she’s talking about the suicide attempt, until she continues: “To have Christie Brinkley as a mother but the face of Billy Joel.”

Anyway, today I found out I have cavities for the first time since I was a preteen (well, excepting an incident in college when I broke a tooth eating God knows what and decided to just let it be like The Beatles told me to in times of trouble because I was young and stupid and wanted to spend all of my money on cigarettes, and then seven or eight months later I had to have a root canal because my tooth was essentially a well big enough to fit Baby Jessica or that girl from The Ring... but that wasn’t really a cavity so much as a giant gaping fucking hole). Anyway, I am distressed. While I admittedly guzzle wine and coffee to the point where my pearly whites are more like canary diamond yellows, oral hygiene is important to me. And I had kind of a record going with the no cavities thing.

Damn!

(Hence the title, “Dental Damn,” which I very much wanted to use for this post, because in addition to reading about my sad oral history, I know you all were jonesing for a thinly-veiled reference to cunnilingus. Speaking of which, Happy Hump Day. We’ve come full circle, y’all. I feel good about this.)

Dental Damn

The Bad Thoughts of Una LaMarche

I think I mentioned previously that my sister gave me a box of old journals and other potentially embarrassing relics last week. When she handed it over she said, "I've just given you two months of blog fodder." The only problem is that I like to think of myself as quirky and funny nowadays, as opposed to, you know, a shitty poet or a heartsick diarist. Maybe one day I'll start a separate blog with all of the teen angst (including entire pages that consisted simply of lyrics to Liz Phair and Ani DiFranco songs). Luckily there was a bright spot--something appropriate for this curmudgeonly blog--in that box of high school melodrama: a small brown notebook titled, simply, "The Bad Thoughts of Una LaMarche."

Abandon hope (and, apparently, hair), all ye who enter here.

I am pretty sure that this was a school assignment having to do with Holden Caulfield, who was himself a pretty sassy curmudgeon, running around New York dismissing people as "crumby" and "phony." Seeing this adorable little book, I had high hopes for my burgeoning 9th grade misanthropy... but sadly as I read through it I found that I barely cursed at all (although in my defense I think I had to hand this in to my teacher). A lot of things (people's fingernails, shoes, hair, overall appearance) I deemed "nasty," and a few times I just wrote ASSHOLE! underlined a bunch of times, as if channeling Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda. There were, however, a few bad thoughts that I wanted to recognize:

2:23 PM (School) Those overalls are not becoming.

I don't even have to see the person I'm talking about here; this is a universal truth. I think Ghandi even said it once, to Mother Teresa. He was all "We must become the change we want to see... by not wearing overalls. What are we, farmers?"

8:28 PM (Home) This show is so stupid. I can't believe I'm watching it.

Hold up, now. This is not the self I know. What could have been stupid enough that I felt guilty for watching it? What was even on back then? Herman's Head? That, admittedly, was pretty gay. No matter, though; in fifteen years, tiny self, you'll have no shame left, and will delight in watching back-to-back episodes of I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant and Toddlers in Tiaras.

7:18 AM (Subway station) I HATE WHEN THE SUBWAY'S LATE! I hate everything!

Preach, l'il Una. I still think this, like, every day.

2:00 PM (School) I HATE people who read stuff with feeling.

Hahahaha. Remember when people had to read passages aloud in English class, and most of us would try to sound as disaffected as possible while still correctly pronouncing all of the words, but there would be that one kid who had to enunciate and emote like they were performing Shakespeare in front of the college admissions board?

7:25 AM (Subway) You bitch.

This always applies, whether you're talking about the subway, a fellow passenger, or yourself.

2:01 PM (School) If you're fat, don't wear horizontal stripes.

What, I was trying to be helpful! (BTW, this is totally going to be the title of my memoir-slash-self-help-book, like how Kelly Cutrone's is called "If You Have To Cry, Go Outside.")

Side note: I am pretty sure that the "104" scrawled on the cover means that I had 104 bad thoughts in the span of a week. I was a featherweight, surely, but look at me now... I bet I have 104 bad thoughts in the course of a day. My parents, needless to say, are so, so proud.

The Bad Thoughts of Una LaMarche

I Can't Take Me Anywhere, Part Infinity

I was at a swanky soiree tonight. Everyone was wearing cocktail dresses and I was in a turtleneck and pants that hadn't seen a dry cleaner in years. I wasn't really paying attention to the dress code.

Also, I had my giant-ass bag, which is really an overnight bag that I carry like a regular purse. I like it because I can stick novels, umbrellas, sandwiches, and shoes in it, but you know what it's not good for? Dancing. It is, like, impossible to do the Roger Rabbit with an albatross like that yoked to your shoulder. It swings like Poe's pendulum, full of half-eaten Subway $5 footlong, threatening to knock over the skinny, non-turtlenecked, well-dressed people who thought ahead to bring those chic, tiny clutches that can only fit a junior tampon, a Xanax, and a few folded bills.

Me, only less well-dressed and carrying 10 pounds of tuna, sneakers, and Mary Karr.

I like to think that if I had dressed up and brought the kind of purse you can only see under a microscope, things would have been different. But I think we all know that's not true.

Sigh.

I Can't Take Me Anywhere, Part Infinity

Hot Probs: Your Burning Sensation Questions Answered

Thank you all for submitting your Hot Probs! I was totally wearing my glasses when I answered these, just FYI. (I may also have been eating a Hot Pocket and watching Hot Shots! Part Deux, because I like themes.)

Dear Sassy,

They say it's no use to cry over spilled milk. Is it alright to cry over spilled wine?

Love, Where did the wine go?

Dear WDTWG,

The reason they say not to cry over spilled milk is that you have to save your tears... for when you're forced to burn your house down because it reeks of vomit, which is what old milk smells like. Seriously, if you ever spill milk on a carpet, just torch that shit. Wine, on the other hand, deserves more than just a sniffle. The correct reaction to spilled wine is to A) Try to lick it up, cat hair be damned; B) pound your fists dramatically on the nearest hard surface; and C) lean back, tilt your head to the sky, and scream "Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" (you can throw in a few "Why, God, why"s for flair--totally up to you). Then go get something to cover the wine stain (a pile of laundry, a magazine, a child) and drink the rest straight from the bottle.

Wonder what would you say to a fan who have just 'sharted' reading your funny-as-hell post?

Cheers, Zachary

Dear Zachary,

The fact that I can now command human feces is truly mind-blowing; thank you for letting me know. I am drunk with power. I shall use my newfound skill to give Rush Limbaugh explosive diarrhea during his next public appearance, and to constipate Oprah whenever I don't like her Book of the Month Club pick. Also, Ryan Reynolds' poop will heretofore be heart-shaped.

Dear Sassy,



The Man In The Yellow Hat stole the Caramilk secret from right my nose. When I try to confront him, he either flat out ignores me or pulls a hissy fit. Now I don't want the Caramilk secret back, I just want to know why he did it. When he won't talk to me, do I have a chance at ever finding out why? Is there a way I can get him to talk to me about it?



Sinsneerly, Gruntilda

Dear Gruntilda,

This question is an enigma wrapped in a conundrum sprinkled with mystery and coated with milk chocolate. Is the man in the yellow hat the Gorton's fisherman, or the flamboyantly-dressed dandy who kidnapped Curious George from the jungle? I am not familiar with Caramilk, but Google tells me it is a caramel-filled candy bar. This leads me to suspect that the man in the yellow hat is working for Slugworth, Prodnose, or Fickelgruber and is avoiding you because he is a confectionery spy. If he is in fact the Gorton's fisherman, he probably can't talk to you because he is busy fishing and growing his beard. If he is the dandy illegally sheltering an African primate, he probably cannot talk to you because he is in hiding from the ASPCA.

Dear Sassy,

Is it wrong to adopt a child that you have fostered just to drive them as crazy they have made you over the past few years?



The Looney Mommy

Dear Mommy,

I don't have children, so I consulted my Mr. T talking keychain. He said: "Don't gimme no back talk, sucka!" I'm pretty sure this means that you should proceed with the adoption but also encourage your child to wear a mohawk and as much gold jewelry as their tiny neck can support at all times.

Dear Sassy,



I want to be rich, but not famous. My problem is that I don't want to have a boss or go to a job or really work at all. I have a blog, a hubby, and a kid, but I'm not sure how to parlay these things into a life of leisure. Please help!



Signed, TB

Dear TB,

I feel you, girl. That is a Hot Prob of mine, too (sans kid). Here's what I suggest: whatever is on your blog now, erase it and start over. Post photos of Jessica Simpson and other celebrities and draw crude penises on their faces. Try to start a Twitter war with John Mayer. Have hubby go on America's Got Talent and eat as many cheeseburgers as he can while falling down drunk--this will impress David Hasselhoff, who can only eat one. Teach the kid to play online poker and voila, you are sitting pretty. All you really need to do when you're not rolling around in your pile of money is practice drawing those penises.

Dear Sassy, 


This post is so very. This may seem like a really stupid question... you inherit 5 million dollars the same day aliens land on the earth and say they're going to blow it up in 2 days. What do you do? 


Thanks in advance, Patronized Bunny Rabbit

Dear PBR,

That’s gotta be the most spooky-ass question I ever heard. All right, this is important. After taxes is just the beginning, and then there’s social security, legal fees…I guess I'd just slide that wad over to my father, ‘cause he is like one of the top brokers in the state. Or I’d pay Madonna a million bucks to have her sit on my face and have her ride it like the Kentucky Derby. She should pay me, though. Another option is to go to the zoo and get a lion. And then you put a remote control bomb up its butt and push the button on the bomb, and you and the lion die like one.

P.S. I don't patronize bunny rabbits!

Dear Drunk Auntie Sassy,

I have (as yourself) been passed along the "One Lovely Blog Award" and according to Ashley King we are all so totally making it big now.
Is it proper etiquette to throw myself a reception, get drunk at said reception and make a Courtney Love-esque speech?
All this done in my living room, alone with my bottle of wine in my skivvies, of course.



Thanks, The Drunk Mommy Diary

Dear Drunk Mommy,

Um, yes, totally. The reception should have a pinata filled with fifty dollar bills and your skivvies should have something emblazoned across the ass in rhinestones (mine say "Mrs. Poo Pants"... long story). The ceremony ends with you singing "Nobody Does It Better" to your mirror reflection, using the empty wine bottle as a microphone. I would suggest lighting a torch, Olympic-style, but that can go very wrong, and the fireman won't really understand what your blog has to do with accidentally setting fire to your kitchen, and they WILL refer to you as Mrs. Poo Pants if you forget to put your robe back on. You've been warned.

Dear Sassy,

Boy, do I have a hot prob. My wife is just too goddamn awesome. She's witty, successful, beautiful, and she has gobs of adoring fans. How do I take her down a peg or two?

Signed, Beeeeee

Dear Beeeeee,

This wife of yours sounds too good to be true. Is she a Japanese body pillow? Anyway, if she is human, while she's sleeping, shave a few inches off of the heels of all of her left shoes. That'll taker her down a peg, literally, and make her think she's crazy. Or you can always take away her sweatpants privileges, hide her Sex and the City DVDs, and start referring to her as "Stephen" during lovemaking.

Dearest Sassafras, 



Should I invest in a pair of boobs (like a certain high school friend of mine) and troll for a sugar daddy? It seems like the next logical step. Advise me, great one. Bless me with that ill knowledge.

Dear The Young and The Breastless,

From what I hear, breast augmentation is expensive and painful, and sometimes makes it look like you have dented flesh cantaloupes bolted to your sternum. Sugar Daddys, on the other hand, are affordable and delicious milk caramel pops that will yank the fillings right out of your teeth. The two have absolutely nothing to do with one another! Stop trying to trick me!

Dear Drunken Sot Auntie Sassy,

If dreams are really our subconscience speaking to us, then what was I trying to tell myself about peanut butter and flying monkeys that I didn't already know?



Thanksomuch,Wizard of Jiffy

Dear Wiz,

Was the peanut butter smooth or chunky? Were the monkeys eating the peanut butter or were they flinging it like feces onto the walls? Were the simians by any chance flying out of your butt? I need more information to make an informed analysis, but my instincts tell me that you should stop cutting your own bangs and should probably switch to Fios.

What's your damage, Sassy??

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you for asking! Probably a little liver, maybe some lung from the smoking in college. Possibly some brain from the time I fell headfirst from a bunk bed onto a tin dollhouse as a child.

Dear Sassy, 



I think perhaps I would like to be you when I grow up. What would be the best way of going about making that happen? 



Sincerely, Wanna B. Sassy

Dear Wanna,

Aw, color me flattered! Thank you! It is pretty easy to be me. Here are some of the steps I took:

1. Get conceived, gestate, be born
2. Develop acute fear of having things touch head; step into all clothing from ages 3 to 7 (includes turtlenecks)
3. Grow sweet unibrow
4. Be awkward for entirety of high school
5. Watch National Lampoon's European Vacation and Big Business more times than you might care to mention
6. Adhere to diet of red wine and sketchy fig bars procured from Korean delis

But you can also just steal my identity. My social security number is 265-77-0986.

Dear Sassy,



I've noticed that my ex's kids are alarmingly ugly. This makes me more than a little happy. I want to point and laugh. Am I going straight to hell for this? Because if I am, I may as well make it worth my while and let him know just how ugly I think they are.



Hellbound

Dear Hellbound,

Yeah, you are probably going to hell, but I'll be there too someday and we can sneak sips of Cutty Sark when we're not busy getting whipped by hideous imps. You should delight in your ex's kids ugliness, but rather than pointing and laughing, say it with sign language. Unleash your inner ginger bitch.

Dear Sassaligious (or Sassamafrass, your call),

I've been blogging for a couple months now, but I still only have a couple of followers. What should I do to drive up readership to my blog? I've tried to reach out to other bloggers etc, but no avail.



No really, my true question is: How much personal nudity is too much personal nudity? Will it alienate my conservative audience? Should I try to keep it classy or what?



Softy

Dear Softy,

I prefer Sassquatch, thanks! My friend Hipstercrite did a post last week about how to drive traffic to your blog if you want to check it out. But don't worry about followers if you've just started; I blogged for over three years with NO followers. Luckily I didn't even realize there was such a thing as followers so I didn't care. Now, of course, my goal is to have more followers than [insert your favorite cult leader].

As to your true question, there's only one way to find out. Give your audience a little nudity at a time. Start with an elbow, then a collarbone, then a thigh, and then a nipple. If you ease them in they won't even notice. They'll be like, aw, look at this sweet picture of Buckwheat from the Little Rascals that Softy posted. That Buckwheat is such a scamp!

Dear Sassy, 


I have this new dog that craps everywhere and rams himself into things... please tell me to get a cat. What should I do?

Dear Pussy Whipped,

I wish I could tell you to get a cat, but a cat will only try to kill you, which makes a little bit of shit and vertigo seem pretty tame, now, doesn't it?

Dear Sassy, 



I'm in love with my own ass. It's so awesome that I can't stop thinking about it. My problem is that the rest of my body diminishes the greatness of my ass. It's as though the rest of my body is jealous of how fantastic my ass is, and is in active rebellion against the ass--trying it's hardest to look crappy, and the ass can't carry the hotness load for the whole rest of the body. I end up looking frumpy, dowdy and dumpy. What's a girl to do?


Bootylicious
(P.S. my captcha for this comment is 'asesse'--is that a sign from above?)

Dear Booty,

I think your only option is to make certain your jealous, attention-whorey body can't upstage your best asset. Yes, I think this calls for an assless burkha. And also, yes, the comment verification word was a sign from Allah that this is totally okay.

Dear Sassy,



I am a new reader but quickly fell in love with your blog. I am especially inspired by your brows! Being a fellow uni-brow sufferer, I was the constant butt of jokes in junior high. Since then I have learned the fine art of plucking, but I am so very tired of doing it. Would it be unacceptable to shave my brows off and draw them on chola style? Or perhaps wear eyebrow wigs? Please advise!



Sincerely, All Plucked Out

Dear Plucky,

Technically I only have one brow, but I'm glad she inspires you! I often tire of plucking. Once I tried an eyebrow wig but it ended up kind of defeating the purpose:

I would tell you to shave them and go full chola, but you'll eventually tire of shaving too, plus then you'll have no eyebrows. I say hand your hirsute forehead over to a skilled threader, or just grow your bangs and let your brows reunite as they have wanted to for all these years. It will be like Fievel and his dad at the end of An American Tail.

Got more Hot Probs? Leave 'em in the comments or email me. This is Heather, I mean, Sassy, I mean, TWEETY, signing off.

Hot Probs: Your Burning Sensation Questions Answered

Fun With Pathetic Fallacies

I am weird about inanimate objects. It started when I was a kid, with Cheerios. I always felt compelled to finish every single one in my bowl, not because I was hungry or because I didn't want to waste food, but because I imagined that the Cheerios were all related, and that if I left one or two or sixteen alive and ate the others that would be cruel. What if I separated a baby Cheerio from his parents? Best to just let them all reunite in my tummy, I reasoned.

I prescribed similar human feelings to my stuffed animals. Over the years I amassed five or six, and since I could only sleep with one comfortably I made up a schedule and rotated them every night so that none would feel neglected, even though my secret favorite was my Pound Puppy, Harold. (When I brought Harold to college with me I still felt guilty about abandoning the others, and when I quickly decided that a Pound Puppy had no place in my dorm room, I agonized over my decision to stuff Harold into a cardboard box in my closet. I felt just like the grandma in Flowers in the Attic, only I didn't leave Harold any siblings to have gross incest sex with. My junior year I tried to clean him in the washing machine and he came out with only one eye. Soon after his seams started to rip open. Now he lives in a box at my mom's house. It's like Harold is starring in his own personal version of Hostel.)

Last week I got on the train to go to work. The train was packed except for one seat, which was occupied by a single Mento (is that the singular of Mentos?). This happens all the time in New York: someone will leave a candy wrapper or a newspaper on their seat and everyone else will let it be, opting to stand as if the newspaper might have herpes or be wired to a remote detonator. I mean, I get the 9/11 paranoia; I still get freaked out by paper bags left beneath seats. But a Mento seemed pretty harmless. I picked it up and held it for the remainder of the ride (if I had put it in my bag, odds are 99% I would have found it months later, thought it was mine even though I haven't purchased Mentos since 1996, and eaten it) and threw it away when I reached my stop.

It only just occurred to me that the Mento might have been riding the subway for the first time, on his way somewhere, when I thoughtlessly kidnapped him and then disposed of his body.

There's probably some kind of medication for this.

P.S. "Pathetic fallacy" is the actual medical term for people who treat inanimate objects like they have human feelings, but it seems a tad judgy, no?

P.P.S. Hot Probs answer blog coming soon!

Fun With Pathetic Fallacies

Hot Prob/Hot Ass

I want to give thought, consideration, and a martini to your Hot Probs, so I'll save the answer post for tomorrow. In the meantime, I have a few Hot Probs of my own...

Dear readers,

I look like hot ass today. And I mean hot like fetid, not hot like physically attractive. Maybe I should say ‘assy ass’ so as not to confuse. I think it’s because I didn’t wash my hair. I always think I can get away with it and then halfway through the day I go to wash my hands in the bathroom and discover that I look like the love child of Fran Lebowitz and Charles Manson.

How can I look less like Sasquatch (or, more appropriately, Ass-quatch) and more like Salma Hayek after an oxygen facial?

P.S. Also today I ate a “Mexican lasagna” for lunch. It had tofu in it. I was not amused. Why did I think something called a Mexican lasagna would be awesome? I wouldn't eat an Italian enchilada. Oh, wait, who am I kidding, I totally would. Anyway, point being, why did I eat this?

P.P.S. Possibly related: My lip gloss smells like maple syrup. Am I maybe having a stroke?

TTYL,

Sassy

Hot Prob/Hot Ass

Introducing: Hot Probs!

I have Heathers on the brain today. This led to a Tourette’s-like exchange of quotes with friends on Facebook: “I love my dead gay son!”... “You are such a pillowcase.” ... “Heather my love, there’s a new Sheriff in town.”

And then I was all, “Shut up, Hot Probs is on!” And my inner monologue was like, Shut up! Hot Probs should totally be a show! “Show” then immediately morphed into “blog column,” because you do not want me to produce this using the video function on my camera. You really don’t. (Hmmm, unless I get Tom, Chuck, and Burt to co-host. Then maybe.)

So anyway, please feel free to send me your Hot Probs. Once I get enough I’ll post an answer blog. Think of it as Ask Your Drunk Aunt Sassy.  No question is too trivial.

Here are some sample Probs sent in from complete strangers who are totally not just me wearing a Groucho Marx nose:

“Dear Sassy,

Which is more expensive: electrolysis treatments for a six year-old or the therapy bills later on?

Sincerely,

Una Brow”

“Dear Sassy,

I just licked yogurt off of my cell phone, which I then realized fell on the subway platform yesterday. Can I get the syph?

Love,

Fruit on the Bottom”

“Dear Sassy,

Someone pooped in the office bathroom and didn’t flush. Who did it?

Thanks,

Encylopedia Brown (get it?)”

I can answer your prob in rhyme if you like, but probably not in sign language... unless your question is “What are the lyrics to Thre Dog Night’s ‘Joy to the World’?” Then maybe I can.

Introducing: Hot Probs!

Go Fug My Jeff

So, as those who have been reading the blog for awhile know, in past years on my birthday I have made fun of old photos in the spirit of the hilarious website Go Fug Yourself. (If you missed them, here are my 2007 and 2009 entries.) This year Jeff has permitted me to do it to him, as kind of a back-handed birthday ode that doesn't allude to blowjobs (well, if he's lucky). I have to get it done before his birthday's over, so here goes:

1981

Oh, who am I kidding? I cannot hate on this. This is freaking adorable, even with the Rod Blagojevich hair (and also further proves that overalls, like rompers, are only acceptable when worn by small children).

1985

Note to all would-be intruders: This man lives in my house. He has a black belt in karate pajamas and can complete a perfect roundhouse kick to the clavicle even during REM sleep.

1986

Who wears short shorts? All three of these assholes! (Jeff made me write that; I do not generally call children assholes, unless they are banging something on a subway pole or crying on an overnight international flight.) Also, Jeff is on the right. And they are standing in front of a well in Pennsylvania, on what was obviously the best and most leg-baring family trip EVER.

1998

Jeff is pictured here wearing a Phish tee shirt at a Phish concert. Generally you do not want to be "that guy" who wears the tee shirt of the band he's going to see, but I understand that Phish fans are generally too high to adhere to protocol.

1999

Jeff does a really good impression of Leonardo DiCaprio from What's Eating Gilbert Grape. I just didn't realize he went all Method on that shit.

2001

Jeff totally had an Edward Cullen phase before Twilight even existed. Or he might just have been on a hunger strike.

2002

A scene from the straight-to-DVD Ace Ventura: The College Years (if only he was wearing Alex's Hawaiian shirt! It would be perfect! Sadly, like Barney Stinson, Jeff likes to suit up whenever possible).

2005

This is cheating, because Jeff was really drunk when this photo was taken. However, he is still wearing an upside-down pink sweatband with a heart on it and therefore the judge (moi) has ruled this admissible.

2006

Hipster Jeff. Rrrrowr. I am not even fugging this; I love his luscious hair. I can pretend I'm a roadie with MGMT or some such band the kids are listening to these days...

circa 2006--The Most Egregious Fashion Faux Pas of All

This is Jeff's ass. But those are not Jeff's jeans. Those are MY JEANS. MY SIZE 4 JEANS. And they look better ON HIM. Thankfully, this was a number of pounds ago. I've been feeding him Ensure through an IV in his sleep (when he's not wearing his ninja PJs, obviously; I don't have a death wish).

Get ready for a super sized Go Fug Myself when I turn 30 next month... oh yes, it will be epic.

Go Fug My Jeff

Giving Head: A Birthday Ode

Last night I went to bed with a twentysomething. This morning I woke up with a thirtysomething.

No, I’m not having an affair with Timothy Busfield. Jeff has turned the big 3-0.

True story: The first birthday gift my now-husband ever bought me was a glass head, the kind electronics stores use to showcase headphones. He worked at Pier 1 at the time, and he told me he got me “the weirdest thing” that the store sold. Keep in mind we had only been dating for a few months and he was presenting me with a head-sized box. Ah, the red flags ignored by young lovers.

Yes, I married this man.

A few years later, when we were living together, I returned the favor by purchasing 10 styrofoam mannequin heads for Jeff from eBay. He was going through a phase with his photography wherein he was obsessed with taking pictures of two things: raw meat and mannequin parts. I thought about getting him some steaks, but that seemed unromantic. He loved the heads. He stored them in our office closet along with our mullet wigs and Christmas ornaments. Without fail, every December I go looking for tree lights and startle upon finding ten white faces staring out at me. It’s like Cocoon up in there. (I wonder if spending a few hours in the closet would do anything for my crow’s feet...)

This year times have been tight and I didn’t think in advance to give Jeff any sort of creepy body parts (that aren’t attached to me, anyway). The longer you’re married, the less you give head, I guess. (Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all week.) Instead I got him a few books, a tee shirt, and MTV’s The State on DVD. I’m going to make him dinner and we’ll drink a bottle of wine.

Maybe it’s a sign of aging, but I’m starting to realize, like the Grinch before me, that real gifts can’t be bought in stores. This weekend my sister gave me a box of old stuff from my mom’s house. One of the things in the box was a letter I wrote to Jeff less than a month after we started dating. I don’t believe I ever gave it to him. Ahem...

May 11, 2003

Dear Jeff,

I am sitting in my room at 3 AM listening to Etta James and unable to stop thinking about you—see? You keep me up, too, even when you’re not here.

This whole thing—you and me—has taken me by surprise... of the wonderful, turned-on-my-head, out-of-my-mind variety. I want you to know that I think you’re amazing. The more I get to know you, the more I find myself grinning on the subway, spacing out (more than usual) at work, humming. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. So, if I ever fall quiet, or turn my eyes away, or “Mmmmm” for no reason, please know that I am just buying time, trying to find the words to let you know that I am happy to be with you.

Love*,

Una

You are such a gift, my love. Happy birthday.

*OMG, I totally signed it "love" after LESS THAN A MONTH. Thank God I didn't give this to you at the time; it would have totally freaked you out. But, yeah, I loved you. And I know you loved me too. The glass head said it all.

Giving Head: A Birthday Ode

Belated Oscar Fashion Throwdown

Before I start in on this, I want you all to know that, yes, I am a hideous troll, passing judgment on others while wearing glasses and fat pants and spot-treating my adult-onset acne with Persa-Gel. The real reason I mock celebrities' fashion choices is because I want to be them. Glad that's out of the way.

I mean, for instance, I have always wanted to wear a gown that was half-pinata to the Oscars, so that I could pack a couple of decent-sized bags of Tootsie Roll midgies to snack on while staring at the back of Clooney's head and making up bawdy limericks.

I'm just... confused. What is that sparkly beige bodice doing on this Purplesaurus Rex lei of a dress? Am I going mental? Zoe's smile here looks suspiciously like a grimace; I think maybe the bottom of this dress is holding the top hostage and she's just issuing a silent scream for help.

I have also always wanted to turn snakeskin into asphalt and then roll it out into a big o'l caftan, put on Elizabeth Taylor levels of eyeliner, and mix myself martinis while listening to Petula Clark records. (Note: I have no proof that Nicole Richie was actually doing any of this before the ceremony. I mean, except for the caftan and the eyeliner, obviously. And I must commend her on taking my advice to eat, like, fifty meatball subs. They look well on you, Nic. Keep it up.)

Okay, so, FACT: Diane Kruger is hot as shit. 

Also FACT: She is dating Pacey Witter and therefore she has WON AT LIFE. (If you like it, Diane, put a ring on it. For real.)

So I guess she can totally be nonchalant about her cat using her Chanel couture as a scratching post. She's all, "Ain't no thang, bitches. I might look like I'm molting, but at least I'm not trapped in a cult and saddled with a baby, unlike some people I know (cough, Joey Potter, cough)."

Hey, what has two thumbs and hates Miley Cyrus?

This girl! I know, I know, she's only sixteen and I should pick on someone my own size--preferably someone who remembers to put shirts on when attending globally televised events. Because seriously, what is that top? It looks like a Maidenform corset from the 50s. What hath John Galliano wrought?

Okay, so last night my mom and I fought over Jennifer Lopez's dress. My mom loved it. I did not. When I first saw it on the red carpet I thought it looked stiff and kind of sticky, like it was made of damp ShamWows or congealed cotton candy.

Turns out I was pretty close:

It's styrofoam! Right? No wonder she looks so awkward in this photo; I would be too if I was dressed in the stuff microwaves came wrapped in.

And it gets even more awkward, you guys. Amanda Seyfried wore the same exact material.

Luckily she was able to quickly distinguish herself as the one whose boobs looked way more like a shoehorn. Crisis averted!

Confession time: I actually loved a lot of the dresses this year. Very sadly there were no Bjorktastrophes, not even ol' Rose Boobs Theron (see previous post). But you don't want to hear me gush about how great Helen Mirren or SigWeave or Gabourey Sidibe or Kate Winslet looked, do you? You want the smackdown. And I'm totally ready to give it to you (if you'll wait just a sec for me to reapply my Persa-Gel).

This last one kind of saddens me, because I love SJP. I can't help it. I'm totally a Carrie, y'all.

I must admit that at first I thought she kind of rocked it. Does it resemble something Ladybird Johnson might have worn on Roman holiday? Granted. But she looks so happy and it's the color of butter, my favorite food, and I kind of dig the retro vibe even though it has no waist and she is pulling it up because it is obviously too long and the flowers on the bustline are the color of week-old dishwater.

But then I saw the side view:

Suddenly this woman is seven months pregnant, and an asteroid has hit her squarely on the thuttocks. This is not, I fear, the look she was going for.

So... who did you hate? Who did you love? Let me know in the comments!

P.S. I'm sorry I haven't posted photos of all of the great dresses (there were many). I'm just super tired and "thuttocks" was all I had left. Believe me, had I continued this would have spiraled into gibberish peppered with upside-down Spanish exclamation points and all-caps mentions of RYAN REYNOLDS.

Belated Oscar Fashion Throwdown

Oscar Fashion: Charlize Theron is Breast to Impress

I'll do my full Oscar fashion rundown this evening (live-blogging last night left me totally spent!), but here's a taste to tide you over.

When I first saw this, I thought: boob roses! They remind me of the Red Queen's roses in Alice in Wonderland (the Disney cartoon; I haven't seen the new one yet). Can't you just see her seethe? "WHO'S BEEN PAINTING MY ROSES AUREOLA-COLORED?!"

Dude, Charlize, we all know where your boobs are. Well, at least those of us who are not adolescent boys know where they are. The rest might need some help, in which case your dress would serve as a handy guide, but that is neither here nor there nor appropriate.

Also, why are you lookin' all bedroom-eyed in the above photo? You look awful confident for someone sporting chest labia. Maybe those aren't roses at all... is the Pink Panther is feeling you up from behind?

More titillating observations to follow... (Ha! I said 'tit.')

Oscar Fashion: Charlize Theron is Breast to Impress

Oscars: The Live Blog

Tonight, starting at the very first glimpse of Ryan Seacrest's sparkling veneers, I will be live-blogging the Oscars for The Huffington Post. I'll link to it as soon as I start.

UPDATE: Live blog is up here.

In the meantime, can we discuss the fact that Oscar is holding a pointy sword directly over his balls?

Academy Awards legend has it that a woman named Margaret Herrick, who was then working as the Academy's film librarian, commented back in 1928 that the gold statuette looked just like her Uncle Oscar. "Oh, that Oscar," she said. "He's a nudist with alopecia; looks just like Yul Brynner, only without ears. Always standing on film canisters, covering his penis with a sword... when I last visited him in the asylum he was making keychains out of gimp!"

I still totally want one, though.

Oscars: The Live Blog