Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Years Later, She Still Wondered Why She Never Had a Boyfriend in High School

My sister and I spent Hurricane Sandy scanning old photos to make albums for our parents. The payoff was big--both of them shed tears upon opening our gifts (crying is #2 on my list of hoped-for reactions, immediately following this). But the downside was having to come face to face with things like...

Yeah. The laugh you are having right now is my gift to you. Warmest wishes for a Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Better Haircuts, Access to Tweezers, Invisalign Braces, Clothing Not Made Out of Old Bandanas, and Three-Dimensional Breasts.

XO,
Una
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Thursday, December 20, 2012

It's The End of the World as We Know It

A lot of people think the world is going to end tomorrow. You know, the Mayan calendar, the alignment of the planets, John Cusack, aliens, etc.

The joke's on us, though, because the world ended last week. Last Friday. At least, the world ended for 27 families in Connecticut. And the ripple effect has knocked the wind out of me.

I don't know what to say about the Sandy Hook shooting, except that it is unthinkably awful and unbearably sad. As a self-labeled curmudgeon, I can be kind of a misanthrope. I don't believe that all people are inherently good. I expect them to lie, cheat, and steal; to make offensive jokes; to merge lanes without signaling; to clip their nails on the subway. But this... this makes the world seem unlivable. This makes me want to defect from the human race. I've been feeling extra pessimistic this past week. Part of me wonders how I could have possibly brought a child into this kind of world, which is not only warming itself to death but also driving its citizens to murder each other in increasingly horrific ways, at increasingly young ages.

But there's no reset button.  John Cusack does not (spoiler alert!) swoop in at the end to save us... and even if he did, kickboxing--sport of the future!--isn't enough to protect us from the rising oceans, the melting ice caps, the deranged gunmen. The only choice is to cling to the hope that things can and will get better. That hearts--and laws--will change, and that we'll all start taking better care of ourselves, each other, and our earth.

To that end, I'm trying.

I hope you are, too.

Wow, is this the most depressing way to wish you happy holidays, or what? I'm like Eeyore with a UTI. I'll be back next week with more Christmas cheer.


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Thursday, December 13, 2012

Let's Talk About Book, Baby. Let's Talk About You and Me. Let's Talk About All the Good Things and the Bad Things That May Be. Let's Talk Aboooooout Book. Let's Talk About Book.

So let's talk about this book. (Spinderella cut it up one time! OK, I'll stop.)

First of all, thank you--each and every one of you--for your comments and tweets and Facebook messages. I am so overwhelmed by my amazing luck, not only to have this surreal experience, but also to have such a fantastic and funny and supportive group of readers.

And because I love you so much, I want to make you a promise:

I will NOT become one of those bloggers who writes a book and then can't talk about a single other goddamn thing.

You can hold me to that.

I mean, of course I'm going to mention it from time to time, especially leading up to its release in May. But I hate it when bloggers get a break and then turn into self-promotion robots. Or disappear completely. But luckily I've been slacking off for like a year now, so you guys are used to it. Remember this prescient post?


Anyway, what I'm going to do is get all of my self-promotion ya-yas out right now, so that we can go back to our regularly scheduled Tyra Mail.

Here are some things you can do if you want to help me publicize the book over the next few months:
  1. Tell your friends. Especially friends who have adolescent or teen girls. For maximum effect, go to a middle school and stage-whisper the following in the middle of a large crowd of students: "Have you read FIVE SUMMERS? It's supposed to be like Twilight times a billion, except instead of vampires there are camp counselors. And then there's this game of Capture the Flag that's basically The Hunger Games only no one dies. Also I heard Justin Bieber licked every single book jacket personally."

  2. Become a fan of Five Summers on Facebook. (I created the fan page, and it's run entirely by me.)

  3. If you have a blog, share this button in your sidebar (email me if you need instructions):

  4. The Sassy Curmudgeon

  5. "Like" or pre-order Five Summers on Amazon. I totally get it if you don't have $12 to spend right now on something you won't get until May 16. But if you could just hit "like" on the page that would be amazing!

  6. If you or someone you know is in the position of reviewing YA books in print or online, please get in touch with me so that I can arrange to send a galley copy!
It would mean so much to me if you guys would help me get the word out about my book. I'm not expecting this to change the face of publishing as we know it or anything, but I figure every little bit of buzz helps.

Thank you again, and I promise to shut up about it for at least a week or two. In the meantime, if you have any questions that you'd like me to answer in a future blog post about Five Summers--the process of writing it, or the plot, or who I had to sleep with to get it (spoiler alert: Jeff)--please email me. I love getting RAQs (Rarely Asked Questions) in my inbox!

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Monday, December 10, 2012

The Big Reveal... That I Basically Already Spoiled With Hints Because I Am Incapable of Keeping Secrets

Please listen to this song while reading the post. Yes, I am being overly dramatic. So what? I never have big news.

 

It happened kind of suddenly, last spring.

Sam was only eight months old. I thought, how am I possibly going to do this?

I thought, I have no idea what I'm doing.

But I also thought, this is what I've always wanted.

And I was happy. So deliriously happy.

And then I totally and completely got my ass kicked. But in the end it was worth it.

And now I can finally share the news.

Like J.D. Salinger, David Sedaris, and Tyra Banks before me...

I have written a book.


Now, I know what you're thinking. This is not my oft-promised autobiography Unabrow: Confessions of a Hirsute High Schooler, nor is it my oft-dreamed of Billy-Allison Melrose Place fan fiction bodice-ripper, 50 Shues of Hay (it takes place in a barn).

No, Five Summers is a good, old-fashioned young adult coming-of-age novel about four best friends from summer camp. I like to think it's the kind of thing Judy Blume might have written if she subscribed to UsWeekly and used the phrase "douchebag." It's (hopefully) funny and (definitely) angsty and ON AMAZON ALREADY, which means it's real. Oh my God it's real. I wrote a book*. Jesus fuck.

And I guess I can't say things like "Jesus fuck!" when twelve year-olds start reading my writing. But I don't care. Shit, you guys. Fuck. I'm gonna get it all out now.

*Longtime readers might recall that this is technically my second book. But When Cathy Learned Sign Language had a very limited print run. So this is big for me.

I have a lot to say about it, but pretty soon you'll be sick of hearing about it, so I'm going to save any more gushing/expletives for later.

In the meantime, if you have ever truly loved me (or even just kind of liked me), please spread the word. And if and only if you are so moved, please like or pre-order it on Amazon so that the Amazons (not the all-female warriors of Greek myth, just, you know, Internet people) think I'm the next J.K. Rowling, trapped in the body of a woman who sometimes, after a few glasses of wine, looks disturbingly like Vinnie from Doogie Howser.

I'm sure I'll do a give-away on the blog, too, and obviously I'll be buying up hundreds of copies of the book myself, so that I can shoot them out of a tee-shirt cannon in Times Square like a modern-day Mary Tyler Moore.

Maybe, just maybe... I'm gonna make it after all?

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Wednesday, December 5, 2012

The Sassy Curmudgeon's Cheap and Easy (Not Like That) Holiday Gift Guide

December is a magical time of year. In New York, the air is crisp; the rats go underground or freeze to death; and the tourist clusterfuck shifts slightly to the northeast, from Times Square to Rockefeller Center. You may even find yourself so filled with good cheer that you actually consider buying a bag of hot roasted nuts from a street vendor, despite your husband’s giggling. But there are downsides, too--black ice on subway stairs, that Paul McCartney Christmas song that Duane Reade has on Satanic, stab-yourself-in-the-eye-with-a-shard-of-peppermint-bark repeat, and, of course, the stress of calculating appropriate gifts for a list of what suddenly seems like everyone that you have ever met.

Well, I'm going to make it easy for you.

Without knowing anything about your loved ones, like a ninja I'm going to find something that will delight everyone on your list... for less than $10 (not including tax or shipping, which doesn't count, especially if you just keep clicking "complete order" while looking away from the screen and sipping your wine). Because--I'm about to lay down some realness, and please note, this is coming from an unabashed materialist--spending more money does not make Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanzaa/the winter solstice better. That said, online shopping--even for cheap shit--does. So, onward! Who brought the eggnog?

Your Mom

Your mom needs another Crabtree & Evelyn soap basket like Kate Middleton needs another telephoto lens pointing at her FUPA.

So here is what you get... this is your mom's secret wish (unless you have two moms, but even then I bet you they want to see this movie anyway, just for the laughs) ... she will act weird when you give it to her, but trust me, you will be the favorite child after you lay this double whammy on her:

Magic Mike iTunes rental (not HD, we are not Trumps): $3.99
+

PLUS!!!

+

Trader Joe's Coastal Syrah, $5 at Trader Joe's (image credit)

Your Dad

Here is what dads like according to the universe: 1) golf; 2) beer; 3) propane grills; 4) their own humidor (in truth I do not know what this is); 5) golf again. But it turns out not all dads are geriatric frat boys. Who knew? Get him this. It's literally miscellaneous. And genuinely interesting. Plus it looks classy. This all equals a WIN for you.

$4.49 on Buy.com (plus $4 for shipping = $9)
Your Brother

If he's older than six, I guarantee your brother likes Louis C.K. If he's younger than six, he's got to learn sometime.

$9.99 on Amazon
(Pssst! You could win this for free. Scroll to end of post for details!)

Your Sister

This is a cheap play on words, I know, but check it:
  • It is a biological fact that NO HUMAN FEMALE can resist a double feature DVD sale.
  • Kathy Najimy! BAM. You did not see that coming.
  • At the risk of sounding like Winona Ryder in Reality Bites (kidding; I take pains to sound that way at all times), you guys... Sister Act is a really good movie.
$9.99 on Amazon
Your Husband

It's not often that one product manages to wed fine art, dick jokes, and home decor. So snap this up pronto.

$9.99 at Switchplate Superstore
Your Wife

It is also not often that one product combines jewelry and Ryan Gosling. This is a goddamn shame.

$8.25 by CalamityJayneDesigns on easy

(If you have daughters, sons, or other more specialized relatives, please tell them I got too lazy to pick gifts for them, and just select from the above items.)

And now for some more tricky types--

The Person Who Makes a Lot More Money Than You and Who Can Buy Themselves Pretty Much Anything

I bet they don't have a novelty mustache pillow! (Unless they are Tom Selleck, then you're on your own).

$10 at LoraliDesigns on etsy
The Person With Whom You Are Not Close, But Whom Your Office Secret Santa Pool Mandates You Shop For

Ugh, this type of giftee is the worst. You can't be personal but you also can't bribe them with something expensive. I remember when we did a Secret Santa in my second grade class, I gave someone some lame-o books, and I ended up with two huge bags of candy: Whoppers and Starburst. Maybe just go with that, actually. Candy in a paper sack is actually what one of the wise men brought to Jerusalem, I think. The myrrh was just a cover.

$10 will buy you at least 5 candy bars, even in New York.

The Mayan Apocalypse Conspiracy Theorist

Um. If s/he expects a gift on December 25, they are doing it wrong. Just wave at them while you eat the $8.71 worth of candy you bought for yourself and play R.E.M.'s "It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" ($1.29 on iTunes)

The New Parent Who Still Needs To Feel Cool

The other day, while walking home, I found this on the street:


Yes, that's right. Who gets to listen to "Fat Bottomed Girls" on the glockenspiel? THIS COOL MOM RIGHT HERE.

The Queen one is actually $16 (unless, like me, you like picking through other people's trash), but the company makes a lot of other CDs, some of which (AC/DC; U2) you can score for less than $9 on eBay. You have never heard a harp rock harder in your life, I swear.

__

I hope this helps to make your holiday fast and easy, as Jesus intended.

OH. And. I'm making a big announcement on the blog next week. There's some news I've been waiting to share for months and now I finally get to! And I would tell you right now if I could (I've already written the blog post with the announcement, that's how excited I am), but I have to wait until I get the go-ahead from some other people. So sit back, relax, and enjoy a viewing of Magic Mike with a nice cheap syrah while you wait.

__


UPDATE!: I found a brand-new Season One Louie DVD/Blu-Ray double disc set under my TV stand. Wrapper in tact and everything.

If you want it, leave me a comment with your favorite under-$10 gift and I'll pick a winner at random by Monday (and will ship to you next week in plenty of time for Xmas--although the plastic wrap is dusty, I'm not gonna lie. When I found it I felt just like those people on Hoarders who find dead cats under mountains of empty Lean Cuisine boxes--only much more joyful).

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Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Getting Carded



I don't know why I even bother with Christmas cards, I mean really. [Gulps wine.]

To paraphrase that MasterCard commercial:

40 fairly twee (but really it was the less...est? of 5 million evils that involved lots of candy cane graphics and fonts that might be best described as "Tinsel Ejaculation") holiday cards featuring a single photo of my adorable spawn that I designed on the internet: $80

40 special square envelopes in red because, apparently, plain ol' free white is not festive enough for Christmas Una: $2

40 85-cent (!) stamps because square envelopes require extra (!) postage (!!), which is something I only learned after I already bought the 40 twee, perfectly square holiday cards (!!!!!): $34

Mailing little pockets of goodwill to 40 of my closest family and friends: Priceless No, actually, $116! And that's not counting labor, i.e. all of the time I have to spend looking up people's zip codes.

I know, I know. You're wondering why I would shell out that much cash for actual mail when I could just slap up another Fresh Prince of Bel Air gif and call it a day.

Here's why: My grandma doesn't have email.

So I have to send her a card, because at the risk of sounding ageist, old people are weird about holiday cards. Not sending one is basically like telling them to eat a shit sandwich and die.

I have to send a card to my grandma. Which means that I also have to send a card to every other relative in the small town where my grandma and all of my dad's other relatives live. And they're gossipy Catholics so that's 20 right there.

And then if my dad's family all get cards, I have to send them to my mom's family, too, because otherwise I'm playing favorites (and also, I am someone who thought her Cheerios had feelings, so when it comes to actual humans I am hopeless).

And then I have to print some extras just in case I misspell (I just typed mispell, btw, so this is clearly a problem) someone's last name or accidentally get deodorant on the envelope (I DON'T KNOW HOW IT HAPPENS, IT JUST DOES SOMETIMES), because with exactly 40 envelopes for the freakish atypical square cards that require postage made from gold leaf and foie gras, there is no room for error.

(This also explains why I don't just get a box of blank cards and write heartfelt greetings. Nothing doing. I need that shit pre-printed.)

Oh, and disclaimer to anyone reading this who gets a Christmas card from me this year: It is because I am filled with the joy of the season and wish to spread it to you and yours, not for any of the aforementioned, more selfish and paranoid, reasons. Good tidings unto you, o blessed--

Eh, fuck it.

[More wine.]

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Thursday, November 22, 2012

30 Days of Thanks in 30 Seconds

On Facebook this month, my news feed has been full of people doing 30 Days of Thanks, where they express gratitude for something different approximately every 24 hours. Naturally I do not have time for this, as I am too busy trying to entertain a toddler with a shoebox, or listening to Jeff make inappropriate Elmo jokes--thanks to the recent controversy, it's really his moment to shine--and other extremely important things.

But being that today is Thanksgiving, I wanted to jump on the bandwagon in a half-assed way, as is my general wont. And instead of 30, I'm doing 13. Not because of that Jennifer Garner movie. Because 30 is a lot and I tire easily.

(And, side note, I hope it goes without saying that there are a lot more serious things that I'm thankful for. Like, if I had to choose between Hurricane Sandy relief efforts and gifs of Will Smith doing the Running Man, I would OF COURSE pick the first one. However, no matter what the New York Times says, I don't generally buy into the importance of being earnest, at least not on a blog that's mostly about watching Bravo and eating Girl Scout cookies out of the trash.)

So here's what I'm irreverently thankful for this year:

1. That human hands make turkeys so easy to draw.

I cannot take credit for this. I stole some kid's drawing off the internet. I picked this one because it looks like jazz hands AND testicles simultaneously.

2. That I finally learned how to save gif files and can therefore gift your eyeballs with these moveable feasts:





3. Children's toys on Amazon that sound, on paper, like S&M gear: Double Pounding Bench; Ring and Trap Combo; Deluxe Monkey Bouncer; Hammer Balls; Whipslammer;  Glow-in-the-dark Gimp.

4. The increasing ubiquity of places you can use a debit card, and for the kind vendors who refrain from judging me, at least to my face, for charging a bottle of water.

5. That my BFF Beth's husband Michael came up with the perfect way to describe Honey Boo Boo's mother, June: "She looks like a thumb."

Mean, but true.
6. Honest Toddler (which I suspect is written by Sam*).

*I know his name. You know his name. You know I know you know his name. I'm tired of worrying I'll forget and slip up with the initial. And writing "S." always makes me think about S. Epatha Merkerson. Not that she's not lovely; I'm sure she is. But she's not my baby--not in the biological sense, anyway. Not in the romantic way, either, I should clarify. Although I'm sure she'd be a wonderful partner. 

7. Digressions. Also, incomplete sentences.

8. Ira Glass, whose sweet, reedy voice on my This American Life podcast gets me through protracted bedtime sessions.

9. Louis C.K., Chris Messina, and (DO NOT JUDGE ME) Luis from 1980s-era Sesame Street, who are my current celebrity crushes.

10. Speaking of which, everything about 1980s-era Sesame Street. (But especially Luis... in tight bell bottoms and a muscle tee... singing about the letter U. Side note, he's 72 years old now, and I am gross.)

11. Banh Mi. I know I'm late to the party, but damn.

12. Fran Lebowitz, Nora Ephron, Tina Fey, Lena Dunham, and all of the other funny and brilliant women writers who inspire me on a daily basis. See? I can be kind of earnest.

13. Okay, fine, I'm too lucky to finish this list without gushing like George Bailey at the end of It's a Wonderful Life. I'm thankful for my husband, who is endlessly patient and even-tempered and silly and wise and warm and talented and devastatingly handsome, and who loves me for who I am, even when who I am is a histrionic Muppet who can't get a grip and see her life for the charmed wonder that it is. I'm thankful for my baby boy, who is sweet and hilarious and deliciously adorable, and who fills me with a joy that more than makes up for the (continued) sleep deprivation. I am thankful for all of my families, whose support and love I could not live without, and whose mild dysfunctions I would not trade for all the wine in Spain. I am thankful for my friends, whose support and love I also could not live without, and who help me to support the Spanish wine industry as we blame our families for our mild dysfunctions. I'm thankful that I get to do something I love for money, and that the next year will bring exciting new career milestones. And I'm so, so thankful for you guys, who take the time to read my writing here even though I don't have time to blog much anymore, and for encouraging me and boosting my ego with your kind, thoughtful, and funny comments--even though, like an asshole, I don't often respond.

Shit. "Like an asshole" isn't a very good way to end a surprisingly heartwarming ending to my Thanksgiving post.


There, that's better. Now go get your stuffing on.
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Monday, November 12, 2012

How to Be the Object of Chris de Burgh's and/or a Bloodhound's Unbridled Lust

Today I saw this link online:


Psssssht, I don't need to click that. What do you think I am, stupid? Common sense steps to achieve this look:
  1. Go to a farm or a ranch somewhere, or to the Arctic if you want a musk ox and not just a regular ox. I don't know if their blood is different. Maybe ask Dr. Oz?
  2. Slaughter ox. Strap to roof of car. (Maybe cover it with an old blanket or something to avoid suspicion/permanent stains.)
  3. Shrink-wrap your whole apartment, Dexter-style.
  4. Drain blood from ox. I don't know how to do this. Maybe ask Sarah Palin/Survivor Man?
  5. Dispose of ox (if it won't fit through your window, you will have to taxidermy and incorporate into your existing home decor.) 
  6. Drench self in ox blood.
  7. Mingle.
Shit, I forgot the most important step: Make sure it is fall.
"Oh no. It's May. I am so embarrassed."
Otherwise you'll look like an asshole.

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Friday, November 9, 2012

An Open Letter to Racists

Hello, racists*.

*Disclaimer to any Republican readers who did not disown me during my Epic Political Rantfest of '08: I do not assume that you are racist simply because of your party affiliation. This post is directed not at Republicans in general, but at awful fucking racists. 

I know that you're more comfortable communicating via misspelled, hand-lettered sign, but if you're reading this, I'm glad you stumbled upon my blog while searching for "Rush Limbaugh penis" or "Obama is Muslin."

I'm glad you're here even though I'm a lefty Jewess with body hair patterns that suggest my DNA probably doesn't trace back to the Mayflower. Because we need to talk.

Look, I understand that you're upset that President Obama got re-elected. But being extra racist about it will not undo the election results. In fact, maybe since there's a black president in the White House (and please shut up about how it's called the White House for a reason... by that logic, you're not allowed to own a BlackBerry, use a blackboard, play blackjack, or listen to Black Sabbath), you should actually try to be less racist.

Bear with me. The first step is to figure out what kind of racist you are. Tell me which of these sentences best describes you:

1. You Are Really Super Fucking Racist and Don't Even Try To Hide It

Nay, it is, in fact, HENCE WHY you are a racist.
Um, congratulations, I guess, on your honesty? I realize that there is no arguing with someone who doesn't think using the most famous racial slur in history is racist, so instead I'll just say: sucks for you, dude.

It sucks for you because--and I want you to appreciate the sweet irony here, you miserable douchebags--you are now in the minority. By no means do we live in a "post-racial" society, but I'm pretty sure at least 51% of Americans are not awful racists anymore. And if polling has taught us anything, it's that the younger the voter is, the more liberal they are likely to be. So, racists, you may not be willing to change, but the rest of the country is on its way. And with every passing year, society will become less and less tolerant of your relentless hate-spewing. Then someday, you will die, and your gay, biracial grandchildren won't even come to your funeral because they'll be too busy interning for the Jewish-Mexican transgendered lesbian who will by then be president. Boo ya.

2. You're Totally Not Racist, You Just Think Maybe Possibly Obama Really Was Born in Kenya

Pop quiz, hotshot:

Have you ever demanded to see the birth certificate of any other U.S. president?

No. But Obama's father was from Africa. Everyone else is Ameri--

Andrew Jackson's parents were BOTH Irish immigrants, fool. Woodrow Wilson's mother was from England. Herbert Hoover's mother was born in Canada. Don't you think we should look up their shit?

But England, Ireland, and Canada aren't the same as Africa, because--

Hold that thought, racist. Maybe instead of telling the President of the United States that he should go back to Kenya, YOU should go back to the 1820s. They didn't have flush toilets then, but that shouldn't be a problem for you since you're used to dumping all over everything, including other human beings' civil rights.

3. You're Not Racist At All And Believe Obama is American But Still Love That Firecracker Bill O'Reilly/Rush Limbaugh/Donald Trump/Karl Rove/Ann Coulter

Sorry, but the first rule of not being a racist is not consorting with other racists. STEP AWAY FROM THE CRAZY RACISTS.

Okay, now that you know what kind of racist you are, let's begin the healing.

Repeat after me:

I do not like President Obama.

That is my right under the constitution. In America we have freedom of speech, which is usually the excuse I use to say racist shit and get away with it.

But I can dislike the president for his political actions and personal beliefs without being a fucking racist about it.

Skin color has nothing to do with intelligence, judgment, morality, character, the ability to run a country, or the worth of a human life.

If it did, I would be a brilliant billionaire scientist and not someone who makes jokes about slavery on social media sites without even thinking to set them to private, because my frontal lobe is more empty and cobwebbed than Ann Coulter's chest cavity.

Now lock yourself in a room and look at this Obama Zoolander gif for 36 hours while listening to Wham!.... or the sound of your lonely, wracking sobs.


Later, haterz. FOUR MORE YEARS.

Love,
Una
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Monday, November 5, 2012

Free To Be... You and Me: Still Kind of Creepy After All These Years


This month marks the 40th anniversary of Marlo Thomas' charmingly oddball hippie propaganda album, Free To Be... You and Me, and since I'm trying to ignore my election-related diarrhea, I decided that today would be a good day to write an ode to FTB...YAM's delightfully unintentional creepiness.

To those of you who are all, Free to Be... You and Me was my jam and you shall NOT disparage it! take a look at Original Flavor® Michael Jackson™ pretending to be a little boy alongside a pigtailed Roberta Flack and then talk to me.


Mostly, I kid. FTB...YAM includes a lot of great messages, like telling kids they can be anything they want to be no matter what society considers normal, and that they shouldn't judge other people or subscribe to traditional gender roles. But there are a few tracks that stand out as kind of... freaky. And not in the '70s disco way:

Song: "Boy Meets Girl" (spoken word)
Intended Message: Making assumptions based on gender is wrong.
Hidden Message: Newborn infants are pushy and sound like Mel Brooks.
Creepiest Lyric/Line: Boy: You just shaved, right? Girl: Wrong.
Creepiness Rating, With 1 Being 1969 Motown Michael Jackson and 10 Being 2003 Molestation Trial Michael Jackson: 2 (It's pretty cute, actually. Except for the whole talking adult babies thing.)

Song: "Ladies First" (spoken word)
Intended Message: Don't be a selfish bitch.
Hidden Message: Animals might kidnap and eat you.
Creepiest Lyric/Line: And if it's all the same to you, Tiger, I wish you'd stop licking me. And untie me this instant! My dress is getting mussed.
Creepiness Rating, With 1 Being 1969 Motown Michael Jackson and 10 Being 2003 Molestation Trial Michael Jackson: 5

Song: "William's Doll"
Intended Message: Boys should be allowed to play with dolls if they want to.
Hidden Message: They will still get mercilessly mocked, though. Also, Alan Alda can sing--who knew?
Creepiest Lyric/Line: A doll, a doll, William wants a doll!/A doll, a doll, William wants a doll! (Packs of children singing a refrain is never not creepy. See also: M)
Creepiness Rating, With 1 Being 1969 Motown Michael Jackson and 10 Being 2003 Molestation Trial Michael Jackson: 3

Song: "Dudley Pipping and the Principal" (spoken word)
Intended Message: It's alright to cry, especially when you're falsely accused of sand table sabotage.
Hidden Message: Bureaucrats are assholes.
Creepiest Lyric/Line: Dudley ran into the principal. He had a long nose and fierce eyes. "Hello, Dudley. People are saying you tipped over the sand table at school today... you look like you're about to cry." (Paging Joe McCarthy!)
Creepiness Rating, With 1 Being 1969 Motown Michael Jackson and 10 Being 2003 Molestation Trial Michael Jackson: 3 (Because the actual song "It's Alright to Cry" is boss.)

Song: "Girl Land"
Intended Message: Girls no longer have to be subservient housewives, isn't that great?
Hidden Message: AAHHHH THERE'S A CREEPY CARNIVAL BARKER WHO'S PROBABLY GOING TO SELL YOU INTO SEX SLAVERY! RUN FOR YOUR LIIIIIIIFE!!!!
Creepiest Lyric/Line: Wonderful Girl Land, the island of joys, Where good little girls pick up after the boys! So come on in. Look about. You go in a girl ... and you never get out! (I mean, seriously, Marlo?)
Creepiness Rating, With 1 Being 1969 Motown Michael Jackson and 10 Being 2003 Molestation Trial Michael Jackson: 10.5

Girl Land... shudder. That still gives me flashbacks of bladder-empting terror.

I'd still take FTB...YAM over The Wiggles, though. Any day of the week. And I'd rather be strapped down and forced to listen to "Girl Land" on repeat for a week straight than entertain the reality of a Romney presidency.

Sorry, election paranoia sneaking in. So much for distracting myself. Here are the creepy babies. Sleep tight, America!


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Monday, October 29, 2012

Storm's A-Comin': A Story in 140-Character, Two-Glasses-of-Wine Panicky Pop Culture Non Sequiturs









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Friday, October 19, 2012

I Wood Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)

Today is the fifth anniversary of the day Jeff and I got married.

Jeff made that face pretty much the whole time
The traditional fifth anniversary gift is... wood.

When I told Jeff this, he giggled like an 8th grader, which is why I married him.

Here are some additional reasons:


He makes me feel like this all the time.

Also like this:


Except if you pulled back the camera, you'd see fifteen empty wine bottles, a precarious tower of un-broken-down Amazon boxes, and a Hoarders-level pile of laundry with a baby buried somewhere inside, happily eating toilet paper straight off the roll.

If you want to read the ultra-romantic story of how we got together, which involves tango (but not Cash), a bridge, a wife beater, a daffodil, and some late-night cheeseburgers, it's here.

If you want to see us pretend to be Arnold Schwarzenegger and Tia Carere in True Lies during our first dance as married people, it's here.

If you want to see some truly amazing photo outtakes, in which I resemble Lucille Bluth having a rage stroke and which I made into a Christmas present for Jeff, they're here.

If you want to read about our 1,000th day of marriage, and how it made us fight (despite the edited version of our lives that appears on the blog, yes, we do fight, and sometimes we're total dickheads to each other. Remind me to tell you about, oh, basically the entire first year of S.'s life later on when hindsight makes it funny...), but then I figured out a Super Touching Life Lesson that references Milli Vanilli, it's here.

In the meantime, here are five things made of wood that express my deep and abiding love for Jeff:

He loves meat, but doesn't get enough fiber.
TRUE. Also, you can buy this for $11.
Jeff loves ties. He might divorce me if I got him this one, though. Fucking hipsters.
We are always on the lookout for comfortable seating options for our living room.
Get it? GET IT? It's Elijah WOOD.  (Jeff is shaking his head in shame right now. I love you, too, honey. High five*.)
*That's also a pun. You love me. Don't fight it.
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Monday, October 15, 2012

Tooth or Dare


S. has been teething hardcore lately (KILL ME NOW--whose great idea was it to have sharp pieces of bone stab a baby's mouth from the inside?), which has gotten me thinking about my own pearly yellows.

A lot of people are weird (read: responsible) about teeth, but I am not one of them. Like, my best friend Anna from high school has crazy dental hygiene. She never misses a flossing, and even drinks coffee and wine through straws. It's intense. She probably has really fresh breath though, whereas mine in all likelihood smells like Thai food and rich frosted mini donuts that have been soaking in a wine barrel for months unattended.

My theory, which is probably unwise seeing as I currently have no dental insurance, is that teeth can be replaced, so what's the big deal if you ruin them? (My mom is audibly gasping right now, and shaking her head sadly.) I'm kind of kidding, but not completely. I mean, I know you're fucked if you screw up your heart or liver, but teeth are pretty cheap as new body parts go. I speak from experience. In college, for reasons still unknown to me but probably having to do with grain alcohol, ramen noodles, and general vitamin deficiencies, one of my molars basically broke off. Then, for reasons I have repressed but which definitely had to do with laziness and questionable $20 bags of powdery schwag weed, I decided to put off going to the dentist for 8 months, at which point I needed a root canal and a new tooth.

Since then, I haven't had more than the odd cavity--which is really amazing considering my lifestyle--but I'm starting to worry again because I haven't been to the dentist since the September before I got pregnant, which for those of you who are awesome at math is more than TWO YEARS. In my defense, A) I was pregnant, B) I am lazy, and C) My dentist died.

I KNOW.

I'd been going to him since I was 8 years old, too, so as far as I'm concerned he was the only dentist in my life. I'm going to compare all other dentists to him, and when I keep picking the wrong dentist, people are going to whisper, "Oh, yeah, Una? She has major dentist issues."Knowing me, when push comes to all of my teeth falling out of my gums, I'll probably just pick a new one based on the name. So good news, Dr. Glasscock, you've got a new patient coming. Probably sometime around 2017. Break out the nitrous.
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Friday, October 5, 2012

10 Ways to Make Presidential Debates More Awesome. You Are Welcome, America.

  1. Instead of buzzkill themes like "domestic issues" and "foreign policy," let's try something prommy, like "Enchantment Under the Sea," or "Masquerade Memories."
  2. No red or blue ties allowed. In fact, no ties at all. New debate dress code is "casual antagonism." Bust out the mom jeans, Mittens!
  3. Instead of stodgy lecterns, debaters should lie facing each other on a king-sized canopy bed, in the intimate style of an 8th grade sleepover.
  4. Moderator must dress and speak in manner of historical reenactor portraying village drunk from colonial times.
  5. As in a game of Taboo, no one is allowed to say any of the following words: "fact," "plan," "middle-income," "percent," "government." GO. (Upon utterance of any forbidden terms, bucket o' slime a la You Can't Do That on Television descends from rafters.)
  6. Two words: Dana Carvey.
  7. Two more words: Lie detectors.
  8. Two more words that form a compound word: Paintball.
  9. Adopt The Voice format, in which audience members (and also Cee-Lo, just for fun), sit in giant La-Z-Boys with their backs to the candidates and refuse to turn around until they say something awesome. Also, Cee-Lo will be wearing something feathered.
  10. Tee-shirt cannon.

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Tuesday, October 2, 2012

One!

Momma C. was like, "I'M TIRED OF SEEING CHRIS BROWN AT THE TOP OF YOUR BLOG, YOUR SON JUST TURNED ONE, POST SOME GD PHOTOS!!!!"

Except she said it more nicely. I just translated it into caps lock.

Anyway, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU, MOM.

That off-camera sight he's terrified by isn't ten people singing loudly at him, it's my untweezed-for-two-weeks eyebrows. He sees his future, and woe! For it is bleak and Nair-y.
The requisite Abandoning of the Nutritional Standards. He never had a bris or a christening, but frosting is pretty much my family's religion.
Like his mother, he loves chocolate. Only in a less adorably racist way.
My sister got S. a collapsible tunnel, presumably so that he could perform a dramatic re-enactment of his entrance into the world on his birthday. My cervix is in fact made of rainbow sherbet, so this is very true to life!
I've never been able to keep fish, plants or yogurt cultures alive, so this one-year milestone is a very big deal for me. So what comes next, Ye Of Parental Experience That Extends Beyond The Average Warranty For A Kindle?
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