Sunday, February 27, 2011

Oscars Live Blog: It's On Like Black Swan!

I'm live-blogging the Oscars for HuffPo tonight! I'm boob-deep in Seacrest right now! Come join me, won't you?

Friday, February 25, 2011

TGI...WTF? Mint Madness

Call me evil, but one of my favorite varieties of news stories is People Getting Into (Non-Fatal*) Physical Fights Over Trivial Things.

*See? I have a heart.

My favorite sub category of that oeuvre is People Getting Into (Non-Fatal) Physical Fights Over Food.

And if I had to choose a favorite sub-sub category, it would have to be People Getting Into (Non-Fatal) Physical Fights Over Food That Costs Less Than $4.

Lucky for me, there have been not one, but two news items about this phenomenon in this month alone! They should rename February Don't Touch My Food, Bitch month. I'm sure Black History will understand.

First, in Staten Island (of course) last week, a 16 year-old kidnapped her boyfriend's daughter after he smacked her... for eating the last Hot Pocket.

And then, earlier this week, a Floridian woman threatened her roommate with scissors, hit her with a board, and then knocked her to the ground and beat her because the roommate had given a box of her Thin Mints... to the assailant's own hungry children.

Now, the Hot Pocket incident just seems silly to me, since that dude could easily have just gone to the nearest 7-Eleven. But Girl Scout cookies... those are precious. In the off-season, you'd have an easier time buying crack than getting your hands on a box of Samoas. Hersha Howard, the Thin Mint Thrasher, looks like she knows what I'm talking about:

I feel you, girl.
I've thought long and hard about this over the past ten minutes, and I can't think of a food item that would reduce me to violence. My sister brought over some Cadbury Creme Eggs last week--a four-pack--and after eating one I left the other three in the kitchen. The other day at work, I started fantasizing about eating another one, but when I got home I saw the empty box in the garbage. I'm not going to lie and say that I didn't stare wistfully at the trash for a second or two. But instead of storming into Jeff's office and assaulting him with a table lamp, I just rooted around in the fridge until I found something else that looked good.

I guess I passed the sociopath test, food-based rage variety!

Do not step to my Sassy magazines, though. Then you will know pain.

UPDATE: Already, readers have sent in more recent reasons to celebrate Don't Touch My Food, Bitch month. A woman was arrested in Dorchester, Mass. last Friday for threatening to kill an employee of a party store during an argument about the difference between fondant and fondue (to clarify: fondant is that thick, pasty Play-Doh-looking stuff they slap on wedding cakes to make them look perfect and smooth; fondue is delicious melted cheese or chocolate into which you dip chunks of bread or fruit, but which necessitates a special fondue set and those little toxic-looking blue hockey puck things that you set on fire to keep your melty concoction from turning into unappetizing glue). ALSO! A man in Latvia was shot dead for eating popcorn too loudly during a screening of Black Swan. That, of course, is a fatal cheap food-related incident, which technically does not fall into the category of my--or Oprah's--Favorite Things. But seriously, that's messed up. I can kind of understand Filipinos getting upset about bad karaoke renditions of "My Way," because that song is not easy to sit through even when done well. But chewing a food product with the word "pop" in its name is going to make some noise. And Black Swan isn't worth it. There, I said it. Passionate chewing would only have improved the screening I went to. But then, I always like to hear crunching while watching overblown, hallucinatory lesbian sex scenes. I'm weird like that.

P.S. I'm live-blogging the Oscars for The Huffington Post this Sunday from 6-12 pm EST. Check back here on Sunday for a link, or become a fan of TSC on Facebook to get updates.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Pimps and Woes

As a teenager, I had pretty bad acne. It wasn't the horrible cystic kind, but it was the red, splotchy, noticeable kind that didn't seem to have any qualms about taking up residence on any free space between my hairline to the north, my jaw to the south, and my ears to the east and west. I didn't have a T-zone, I had a T-face. For those of you long-term readers who have been keeping score, yes, this means that I endured the unholy trifecta of acne, braces, and unibrow, a hellish genetic jackpot that was only exacerbated by my penchant for wearing earrings featuring miniature Troll dolls dressed like Santas.


I figured that since I spent more time applying salicylic acid than socializing during my formative years (I didn't so much as make it to second base until college, but I did find time to memorize the them song to Oxy's Resi-DON'T facial cleanser, a ditty I still remember to this day!), I would enjoy a zit-free adulthood as some kind of karmic door prize.

But no.

It's baaaaa-aaaaaaaack!

WTF? I've got lines around my eyes and whiteheads on my chin? Pick a side, nature! It's hard to feel like a grown-up playing paint-by numbers on your face. Should I use my concealer for my under-eye bags, my broken capillaries, or my adult acne? SO MANY CHOICES! Maybe I'm born with it, maybe it's Maybelline, maybe I need a fucking Bloody Mary and a hockey mask.

In an attempt at making light of the situation, I've taken to referring to my blemishes as "my pimps," but out of context it can confuse people.

I'd love to meet you for lunch, but I can't go outside today. My pimp won't let me.

Jeff, I can't fall asleep. My pimps are hurting me.

I guess I should count my blessings, though. At least my actual pimples aren't wearing gold chains and platform shoes, because that would really draw attention to them. You can't cover that shit with True Match.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Texts From My Sister: Coitus Animatus

“There are definitely some cartoon characters I would have sex with,” my sister texted me late Sunday night.

Immediately my brain set itself to the task, trying to picture Goofy by candlelight, and maybe without pants. It seemed so... wrong. Two legs or four, orange turtleneck or no, bestiality is still bestiality in 2-D.

Then I received a follow-up text. “Like Sterling Archer. You should watch Archer.”

Ohhhhh, human cartoons, I thought, relieved. And then, less relieved--why did I assume she meant animals? What is wrong with me?

Anyway, after some admittedly brief but animated (HA!) deliberation, here is my list of Drawn People I Would Totally Do, If Transported, Cool World-like, To Toon Town:

1. Trent from Daria


2. Aladdin

Now, ordinarily, a fez and harem pants would be a deal-breaker, ladies--as would a pet monkey and a fatwa. But he's just so... dreamy. He can give me a magic carpet ride any day.

3. Boomhauer from King of The Hill  

Strong, leathery, silent (or unintelligible), with a kind of middle-aged neo-McConaughey vibe, Boomhauer is a man of mystery, and understated smolder.

4. Ned Flanders from The Simpsons as Stanely Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire

My specificity here is admittedly creepy, but look at those pecs!

5. Stan's Dad from South Park

Didn't think it could worse than Flanders, didja? I can't really explain this one. Suffice to say the file name of the above image is "Guitar Queer-o."

6. Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast

Not human on the outside*, granted, but the most sophisticated and seductive of the bunch. ("And he's the right shape!" says Jeff. Gross, honey. Gross.)

*I would not, for the record, have sex with the human Lumiere, who is pasty and balding.

As I was finishing this post, my sister texted me her complete list:

1. Sterling Archer
2. Trent from Daria
3. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Even though Donatello was kind of a dork. And also, they were turtles. But they were so buff. Haha
4. Tie between Prince Eric and Aladdin

OMG, we are so related.

Oh, now Jeff wants to play!

1. Jessica Rabbit
2. Betty Boop, "although I never thought of her that way."
3. Jane Jetson
4. "Uhhhh....mmmmm....the Bewitched cartoon, in the opening credits of Bewitched, but not the actual actress, just the cartoon version."
5. Maid Marion (Me: "Wait, the fox version?" Jeff: "Yes." [pause] "You would totally sleep with Robin Hood. You would." [pause] "And you'd say oo-de-lally." Touché.)

I don't think I even need to ask you to chime in in the comments. Just don't get too graphic. This is a family blog. By which I mean, my mom reads it. And then sits back, staring at the screen grab of a topless Ned Flanders, wondering where she went wrong.

Monday, February 21, 2011

The Sassy Street Urchin

On Saturday, my dear friend Owen held a ten-year reunion for the cast of a musical I was in during the winter of my junior year of college.

The musical was Runaways. You probably don’t know it, because after a well-received eight-month run on Broadway in 1978, it never returned. A good way to describe it would be like A Chorus Line, but with emotionally disturbed, racially diverse, drug-abusing homeless children instead of dancers (and not the cute emotionally disturbed homeless children of Annie. Runaways makes Pepper and Duffy look like the Bloomberg daughters). The orchestra for Runaways included a toy piano and a triangle. It wasn’t what you might call an easy sell.

When I told my friend Kerry about the reunion, she looked confused.

“Is that the one where you played a lesbian?” she asked.

“No, this is the one where I played a sexually ambiguous street urchin,” I corrected her. In my college career, my three biggest theatrical roles were as a lesbian, a wall (yes, really--a tale for another post), and my Runaways character, “A.J.”

“A.J.” was not identified as having any specific type of genitalia. To that end, I stuffed my hair beneath a knit cap, dirtied my face with eyeshadow, and wore an outfit that might have looked appropriate on a slightly effeminate male child of the 1970s: flared jeans, neon green sneakers, a vintage New York Civil Liberties Union tee shirt, and a hoodie with a multicolored horizontal stripe across my non-breasts.

Emoting, y'all: Watch and learn.
Runaways didn't really have a plot. It was more like a series of weird, depressing monologues about abuse mixed in with suspiciously up-tempo songs about child prostitution. Owen, bless his heart, choreographed most of it himself, which resulted in a combination of moves culled from Bob Fosse numbers, Britney Spears videos, and, when all else failed, running around in a circle. We ran in a circle so often that on Saturday we considered making it part of a drinking game, ultimately deciding against it for fear of alcohol poisoning.

Now, I consider myself a pretty competent dancer, but upon watching the tape, it became clear this was not always the case. Whatever I had in terms of coordination, I lost through the unmistakable look of abject terror and/or constipation I wore in every dance-heavy sequence. (I've pointed it out in the first screen grab... see if you can spot the rest!!!)

In my defense, riding any type of horse, even an imaginary one, does not come naturally to LaMarches.
Ditto to performing tricks with basketballs, especially when it's near the vaginal area.
This is a hip-hop number. The flailing arms helped with bladder control.
Forced to jump rope onstage, this image was captured mere seconds before the projectile vomit began.
Most of the time, when I wasn't busy making a poop face mid-choreography, I was adjusting my hat...

One of these people won a Tony. Sadly, it was not for Most Dramatic Head Grip.
There were other people in the production besides me, of course, and I'm not excluding them solely for the purpose of navel-gazing. It's just that I feel that it would be unfair to mock the others, especially when I provide so much material all by myself. But there was the aforementioned Tony winner, Lin, who sported a studded choker and at one point mooned the audience; my former boyfriend, who I seduced Mrs. Robinson-style (he was a freshman) at the cast party later that night and who played a Hispanic heroin dealer named Manny despite looking like a blond Disney prince; and my friend Aileen, who, although she is Filipina, played a Latina who looked like she could have starred in a telenovela version of Canadian teen drama Fifteen:

Everyone seemed to enjoy the humiliation, however, and good spirits (including the drinkable variety) abounded.

The best part of the Runaways reunion, aside from the memories and free sushi, was realizing that I look much better now than I did at age 20.

Do your eyebrows not like each other, former self? Or are they just making a hasty retreat from your self-cut bangs?
"How was I so skinny with such a puffy face?" I later asked my friend Charlie in horror. Then I remembered my diet of Rice Krispies Treats and grain alcohol.

Ah, college.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Witch Nipples! (A Shameless Title For An Empty Post)

Today's TGI...WTF? is not a fart-muffler or couture do-rag or even anything having to do with Precious and Red Vines.

It's that I have no ideas.

That vagina chart exhausted me, and, combined with the diabetic coma brought on by eating three boxes of Tagalongs in one day, seems to have completely sapped my will to blog.

Also, it's a freakishly nice day here in NYC--the Ice Age seems to have been temporarily suspended--and even though it's a little unnerving, like the Day After Tomorrow-esque calm before the giant tsunami, it's also doing wonders for my well-being. I just want to walk around, feeling the air that is, for the first time in months, not as cold as a witch's teat,* and remember that there's a season called spring, and that it's coming. Maybe not in the next six weeks (seriously, Punxatawney Phil, you are tripping balls), but soon.

*My dad's saying, which as far as I know, is not based on first-hand experience.

Don't worry, though. I'll come back inside before you know it. After all, that's where the Tagalongs are.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Troubleshooting Your Vagina

Last week, I received an email from one of the women’s health (read: obsessive fitness and starvation) magazines I subscribe to. The title of this email was: Troubleshooting Your Vagina.

I didn’t read said email, because I decided I would rather imagine what it said. My mind immediately cartwheeled into a magical world in which genitals, like computers, required technical support...

Vagina specialist: Hello, Vagina Solutions.
Man: Hello. Uh, I’m calling because... my wife’s... well, my wife’s vagina doesn’t seem to be working.
Vagina specialist: I see, sir. Have you checked to make sure it’s turned on?
Man: What?
Vagina specialist: I know it seems simple, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fielded calls like this. Can you tell me if it’s turned on?
Man: Uh... I think so. How can I tell?
Vagina specialist: There’s a button.
Man: Where?
Vagina specialist: On most current models it's located near the anterior junction of the labia minora.
Man: Listen, pal, I’m not a real technical guy.
Vagina specialist: Sorry. It’s near the top.
Man: I... hmm. I’m gonna need more direction.
Vagina specialist: Certainly, sir. Let me transfer you to our clitoral location department.

Or, maybe, all women would receive owner's manuals at the onset of puberty, complete with helpful flow-charts!

 Click to enlarge. I made it myself*, using Photoshop... and science.

*Except for the beaver cartoon, which I borrowed from Beaver 96.7 FM

Come on, Geek Squad... are you ready to put down the laptops and pick up some ladyparts? Vagina Solutions needs YOU.


Tuesday, February 15, 2011

In Which I Respond Sarcastically To Spam Because I Have Nothing Better To Do

Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2011 2:43 PM
Subject: URGENT.

My Dear Friend,

My name is jennifer moore, who is diagnosed with oesophageal cancer. To cut the long story short, I have few hours left to live, depending on my surgery which will take place soon. Although I am rich, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
I want God to be merciful to me and accept my soul and so with that reason I decided to give what I have to charity and I never had children. I want this to be one of the last good deed on earth. I now give you the authority to dispatch my last funds to any charity of your choice.
I have Six million dollars in a financial institution. I want you to keep fifty percent of this amount for yourself and time, while you keep the other fifty percent to any charity of your choice. May God be with you as you carry out this task.I believe with this,
I can now be free to depart peacefully. You can then contact my lawyer who will assist you in getting the funds to you when I pass. He would give you more details. His name is Richard Wetton, and his email address ( ) He would guide you through receiving the funds.
Lot of Love
jennifer moore

My dear Jennifer,

You poor thing! I can't believe you're using your last hour to live writing emails to strangers. And call me nitpicky, but you could have at least entered paragraph breaks, since this is the last correspondence you'll ever write. Also, I'm concerned that you capitalize My Dear Friend but leave your own name in lower case. This indicates poor self-esteem. Oh, Jennifer, don't be sad that you never had children. If you had, you would have spent most of your riches on dolls that wet themselves. Be happy that you were able to spend all that money on yourself--even if it doesn't appear you used it for any books on basic sentence structure. But there I go again, judging you, when I should just be thankful that you have chosen ME, a complete stranger, as the beneficiary of your wealth.

Speaking of which, are you sure you want to trust a lawyer who still uses AOL? I know it's charmingly retro now, like taking old-timey photos with an iPhone, but six million dollars is a lot of money to entrust to someone who still relies on dial-up internet. Nevertheless I will email this Mr. Wetton tout de suite and instruct him to funnel that three mil over to a group I know who are providing smart phones to all surviving Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz. As for the rest, I plan to invest it entirely in pluots. They're having a moment.

Kisses, and good luck with the surgery!


Monday, February 14, 2011

I'm With Cupid

Well, it's Valentine's Day.

In 2006, I was incredibly earnest about it.
In 2007, I was succinct.
In 2008, I let Jeff do the talking.
In 2009, I farted at an inopportune moment.
In 2010, we celebrated with photobooths and Tater Tots.

I think I've run out of angles, you guys.

Also, part of me feels like, why even bother with a Valentine's Day post? If you're single you don't need another reminder that today is the day that Cupid shits little hearts over everything, causing lovers to swoon, doves to coo, and restaurants to jack up their prices by 50% just for adding a glass of mediocre champagne to their prix fixe. If you're in a happy relationship, you've probably already gotten laid today (or at least eaten your weight in chocolate, which is almost the same thing, at least to your brain), and if you're in an unhappy relationship you're dreading whatever forced attempt at canned romance awaits you tonight, and wondering how many cocktails you can imbibe without getting drunk enough to loudly accuse your mate of not wanting children in front of the entire T.G.I. Friday's staff.

Besides, everyone knows that romance doesn't happen on command, just because some Roman priest got martyred over 1700 years ago, Chaucer took some creative liberties in a poem about birds, and Hallmark got so excited it had to hold its books over its pants.

Yesterday, for instance, on February 13, I spent most of the day in bed, blowing snot into paper towels, getting crumbs in our sheets and avoiding dealing with the recycling, and when I finally dressed myself in a sexy ensemble consisting of a boys' size M sweatshirt and white leggings, Jeff serenaded me with a song, "My Little Camel-Toe," sung to the tune of "My Little Buttercup" from The Three Amigos.

Like that Kodak commercial sang so soulfully, these are the moments, y'all.

Friday, February 11, 2011

TGI...WTF? Apantylypse Now, Part Deux

So it has come to this.

After hooded thongs, after Subtle Butt, it has come to this:

This, friends, is the C-String (thank you to Sara for the email tip). Is it a headband, you ask naively? One of those artsy paperweights they sell at the MoMA store? Jeff Koons' interpretation of a lacrosse stick?

No, children. It is underpants (site NSFW).

This, to me, begs the question: wherefore art thou, butt floss? I mean, really, what is the point of the thong in this situation? Let's just slap on a merkin and a tampon and be done with it, am I right, ladies? The C-String claims to free women of "uncomfortable straps," but really, is that a fair trade-off for wearing what looks like nothing more than a candy-colored sanitary napkin and a Twizzler clenched between your cheeks?

On the plus side, of course, no tan lines. Make sure to tell that to your arresting officer should you decide to unveil the C-String at a public beach.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

D2: Not The Mighty Ducks

Over the weekend, Jeff and I went to a discount home store in our neighborhood. We had never been to this store before because A) it is kind of far, and B) it is called "D II," which makes no sense to me unless it is followed by a colon and the words "The Mighty Ducks."


It was kind of amazing.

It was one of those stores that sells everything that doesn't cost more than 50 cents to produce. So you can buy synthetic house slippers or, you know, a crate of ramen noodles. Or both, if you're planning a really crazy night.

The best section was the foodstuffs, because there was absolutely nothing you might find in a normal supermarket. About half of the products were bizarre cookies that seemed to have been imported from Turkey, and the other half were just... slightly off. Like these Tootsie Rolls:

Since when are Tootsies patriotic? And in February? (If anything, they should be brown now. I mean, it's Black History month!) Methinks someone had his Tootsies confused...

Then there were these:

No, that's not the Milton Bradley game of your youth. That was Operation, and it scared the bejeesus out of me, because the last thing anyone needs during delicate knee surgery with tweezers is an electric shock. (No wonder I never became a doctor.) No, these are Operation fruit snacks. Because who doesn't want to eat organs that have just been lifted out of a pudgy, naked body on a gurney?  It's almost as appetizing as Cooter Pie! (Actually, in fairness, they are not shaped like organs, but like birds, bells, dogs, and smiley faces. I really don't want to know what kind of Richard Gere stuff this guy was into.)

In the end we didn't buy any food, only velvet hangers so that my closet can be more like Elvis in his later years. I did linger over some Precious Moments shampoo, but only because one of the figurines had been beheaded:

For $1.99, you can't buy a more precious moment.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Time Capsule Tuesday

Yesterday my sister emailed me a scan of a long-lost treatise (peep the fat dot-matrix font!) from a family meeting just before New Year's in 1992*.

*Otherwise known as The Year Of My Excessive Enthusiasm For Troll Dolls.

Click to enlarge the nostalgia!
My parents both vowed to be home more often (they weren't negligent in the slightest, but Zoe and I did used to sit by the window singing a song we made up titled "Daddy Come Home." For real. It was like "Somewhere Out There" but with more facial hair and less of Fievel's awesome hat.) Zoe, hilariously, had to resolve to "try to stop hitting," and also to laugh less at inappropriate times, such as, for instance, when her almost 13 year-old sister confessed to wanting desperately to go to Disney*.

(*You may recall that at age 7 my father tricked me into forgoing the Magic Kingdom in favor of Tom Selleck. In the words of Stephanie Tanner, How Rude!)

My mother's list is totally reasonable, but Zoe interprets it thusly: "Uh, I'll try not to flip a shit, but it's not even my fault, fuck the kids."


I'm just defensive because I clearly never had enough time to do what I wanted, like sing Bel Biv Devoe songs into my tape recorder, or write obscenities on my Jem doll. Obviously.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Super Ball Sunday

Jeff and I weren't invited to any Super Bowl (I just typed "Super Bowel," btw--ha!--which is what I'm sure many Americans are enjoying today after a few too many beers and nachos supreme) parties this year--I wonder why.

Instead we were forced to go outside and spend time in the fresh air. I guess all that oxygen got to my brain, because I suddenly had the Best. Idea. Ever.

What if the Super Bowl was played with Super Balls?

The entire game would stay the same--same giant guys in full protective gear, same number of players, same size field...except for the tiniest ball in sports--even tinier than A-Rods'!

Hear me out: They are super fast. They bounce really high. They have that delicious, slick rubbery smell that always compelled me to try to chew on them as a child. (What? Like you didn't.) They even make ones that light up inside--perfect for night games!

Sure, there would be some visibility issues, but that's what HD-TV is for. And really, the Princess and the Pea-like pileups would be well worth any trouble following which team had possession. Not to mention the field goal attempts.

And here's the kicker: The Super Bowl was named after the Super Ball. It's kismet. C'mon, NFL. Time to put your tiny balls where your mouth is.

OK, that came out wrong, but you know what I mean.

Make me proud.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Scenes From a Marriage: Ain't Nuthin But An Oral-B Thang

Scene: The bathroom. I am flossing, wearing a fetching get-up of giant fuzzy sweatpants that attract every single stray hair and dust bunny in the house like a pants pied piper of filth, a sports bra, and a wifebeater. I am also wearing my glasses. 

Jeff comes in and sits on the (closed) toilet, gazing up at me. I inspect the products of my floss.

Jeff: Oh, yeah. I feel like I'm in a rap video.

(It's totally business time.)

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Little Things That Restore My Faith in Humanity, Part 1

Some guy decided to make a portrait of Mo'Nique out of Red Vines.

Delicious, based on the novel NOM! by Twizzler
Of course, taking into account the violence in Egypt, floods in Sri Lanka, and that sex tape of Screech from Saved By The Bell, I guess this doesn't really make up that much ground.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

My Week In Acrostic Poetry

About faltering
Y membership.

End of week
Seems so

End this
Need a reason to soldier on.
Enter the
Szechuan Palace
Delivery man.

Today I
Restful weekend
So close and yet--
And it's getting harder to think of words that start with

Fucking A.
Running out at lunch
In jeans to
A bottle of

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

An Open Letter To Uma Thurman

Dear Una,

Do you see what I did there? Welcome to my life. Every single email I receive that is not from a blood relative or person I’ve gotten to at least third base with begins with your name.

Sure, it’s just one letter. One little consonant. ‘M’ and ‘N’ are even alphabet neighbors, you might say. They’re like Tim “the Tool Man” Taylor and that Wilson guy who couldn’t move beyond his fence, or show his face (probably due to an ankle monitoring device, or a chemical burn). To that I say, Au contraire, mon frere. While the letters occasionally work together to form essential words like damn and mnemonic, they are not interchangeable. If you try to put an ‘M’ where an ‘N’ should be on Wheel of Fortune, would Vanna White flash you her Vaseline grin and turn the tiles? No. That bitch would shut you down.

Anyway, if people got my name wrong because of simple consonant confusion, or perhaps a Singapore Sling-induced slur, I could handle it. But no, they get it wrong because of you. You, the only non-Indian person in the world named Uma. You, with the body of a supermodel.

Do you know that my freshman year of college, some guy wandered into my room after a keg party and called me your name, and when I pointed out his mistake and ushered him towards the door so that I could put my night guard back in and return to dozing off to my Garrison Keillor tapes, he tried to get me to make out with him by saying, “You’re prettier than Uma Thurman anyway.”

It was such an obvious lie that I burst out laughing. Anyway, my point is, you ruin my life on a regular basis.

I sat through The Truth About Cats & Dogs. What have you ever done for me?

The thing that bothers me the most is that Una is, objectively, far superior to Uma. If anything, people should be calling you by my name. Ever heard of Oona O’Neill, or Una Merkel, or the fairy from the kick-ass movie Legend, starring Tom Cruise, Tim Curry, and Sloane from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? Ever heard it used as an article in, um, every single romance language? Una means “one,” or “lamb,” or “unity.” Uma means “do not; flax or turmeric.” Oh, snaaaaaaaaaaaap! I win.

But seriously, Um--can I call you Um?--I know it’s not your fault. You don’t get to choose your name. I just got a little angry and overreacted. It’s your parents I blame. According to Wikipedia, your mother’s name is Nena von Schlebrügge, so clearly she has her own issues (after all, who would be able to stand living in the shadow of the 80s New Wave pop sensation who gave the world “99 Luftballons”?) Your dad, Robert, however, is the Je Tsongkhapa Professor of Indo-Tibetan Buddhist Studies at Columbia, and if that doesn’t say wannabe Hindu hippie to you, then I don’t know what does. Look, my mom teaches childbirth classes, but she didn’t name me Placenta LaMarche. There’s work, and then there’s the name your kid has to live with for the rest of their life... or until they take you to court. Actually, come to think of it, I’d be grateful if you’d pass this letter along to your dad for me. I would have written it to him in the first place, but I really liked my “Dear Una” opening line, which wouldn’t have worked on him, unless maybe he was high, which, let’s face it, he probably is.

OK, Miss Mia Wallace, this has been real, but it's time I got back to trying to finding my old retainer and Lake Wobegon cassettes.

Remember not to flax or turmeric.

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