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!

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

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.

Anyway.

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.)

Sad English Wrinkle

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.

Phlegmy and the Jets

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.

Jimmy Dean Is Not My Lover

Special Christmas Post From Sister Zoe!

So to give Una a break, I decided to do a special holiday edition guest post. I wanted to make it exclusively photos from our 80's and 90's Christmases, but after looking through old albums and boxes, I'm realizing why we were never one of those families who sent out holiday cards with large photos of their kids wearing Santa hats. Two major dilemmas:

#1: Before the age of 6, we were basically always naked. Our parents were probably afraid our Christmas cards would look more like holiday themed child pornography. Gross. That sounds really gross. I'm sorry. But seriously, we were NEVER wearing clothes(It makes sense now that we drew pictures of our family for our holiday party invites). I mean, Una is 6 years older than me, so by the time I was born she had started wearing clothing most of the time… but for reals mom and dad, why didn't you make us get dressed before posing in front of the tree? Its December, guys.

We must have had really good heat, because these days once December rolls around I have a long daily debate with myself about whether showering is worth the 5 minutes of freezing my ass off when I get out. Is this just me? I swear to god, I'm way dirtier in the winter solely because I am avoiding being naked for reasons of warmth.

There is a photo I sent to Una last week that I think she mentioned. She is maybe 3 years old, and she is posing in front of the Christmas tree pinching her own nipples. Here is the cropped and edited version: Hahahhhhhhh.

Then there is my favorite series where we are at my grandfather’s house in Rhode Island.

Now, I'm pretty sure my father’s parents have never been naked, but they (mostly) tolerated our liberal, New York, naked, breast-feeding toddler ways. Now as you can see, we both begin fully clothed. Una stays this way throughout the photos (good thing, because she's 11, and also, who could resist wearing that styling magenta sweater 24/7?), my grandfather is also thankfully clothed the whole time. I won't post the photos featuring him here (as old men with naked children are not usually well received) but to give you the visual, he’s rocking regular grandpa attire--golf cap, sweater vest, plaid pants and all--which leads me to believe it must have been rather chilly. Look, there’s a fire burning. Much like the burning desire of 5-year-old Zoe to strip down to nothing and take bare assed Christmas photos. I’m posing like it ain't no thang:

 Una is also clearly psyched about this photo being taken.

I sit on people's laps, on the floor, in chairs, stick straight in front of grandpa's tree.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate that we grew up in a house where nakedness was OK. Without it there would probably be no “Look in Butt.” I mean, can you imagine a world without fundamental childhood games like “Look in Butt”??? I’d like to take a moment to note that I never played “Look in Butt,”I was classier than that, which isn’t saying a lot, but still. I appreciate even more that our nudity wasn't a whole family kind of thing. Have you ever seen the ‘True Life’ episode "My parents are nudists"? To each his own, I guess (nah, that shit is weird… no one wants to see their dad carve a turkey naked, gah).

OK, I feel like this is becoming a creepy post. Let's move on.

Dilemma #2: When we got modest, we also got incredibly awkward. Thankfully there are no Christmas photos of me from age 12 and on, as I was too busy drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade and writing about the profoundness of death.

This was the best one. And I don’t mean the funniest; I mean the one where we look most attractive.

In 1987 we got a few good ones. Though Una looks uncomfortable….

But really she was just jonesing to put on her Fievel the mouse costume Christmas outfit:

Oh, and here I am:

Just kidding! None of that ruffle shit for me, cause that Christmas I discovered reflective surfaces… and so ended my brief encounter with denim vests.

God bless us everyone. Merry Christmas!

Special Christmas Post From Sister Zoe!

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."

Geral Ford Decapitated; Clinton, Obama Unmoved

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?"

KIDDING.

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

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

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.

The Bringing of The Wings

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.

TGI...WTF? Special Pants Edition

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.

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

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.

Say It With Pasties This Christmas

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.

A Real Doll

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!

Trojan Horseshit

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.

It's The Little Things

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.

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

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…”

Explosion.

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.

Curmudgeon of the Week Kev D Wishes You A Happy Tuesday

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.

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

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.

But!

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. 

PB Loves J

TGI...WTF? Unlucky Ch'Arms

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

Kathy Najimy
HSN
Spanx for your arms
Ch'Arms
(No really, that is what they're called.)
(I KNOW.)

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!

TGI...WTF? Unlucky Ch'Arms

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.

Lou.

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.

Skip To My Lou

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.

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