I’ve long since been wary of those “wise” men who brought incense and embalming oil to a baby. And now I’ve written about it in the Huffington Post. If God reads liberal blogging sites, I’ve just secured my place in hell. See you there.
*Photo courtesy of my talented friend Adrienne.
I cannot defend this. I can only say that my blogger friend Neil at Citizen of the Month does this yearly blogger concert where people with blogs near and far get together and sing. But they don’t really get together. They get together through the internet because people with blogs are pretty obsessed with their computers and don’t actually meet people in public very often.
This year fifty people are participating [here]. But in case you don’t want to weed through fifty caroling bloggers (no singing experience required), here is the entry I filmed with my friend, Kat. You’re not going to believe this, but we shot this ourselves. I would say ‘enjoy.’ But I’m not sure you will:
Note: If you are a hardcore rap artist and you want to collaborate with me, send me a page 911.
Why do old people wake up so early?
Why are the side effects of anti-depressants depression and suicidal thoughts?
Why can’t a man leave a bathroom without me giggling about how he was just touching his penis?
Why has society deemed smoking so glamorous, beauty so unattainable and money so important?
Why don’t we change that since we are, in fact, society?
Why can’t we just like a president for once?
Why did they ever make Mad About You?
Why did they stop making Night Court?
Why are some people mean to waitresses and taxi drivers? Aren’t they bringing you food and taking you places?
Why am I so attracted to men in V-neck shirts?
Why can’t we all collectively decide to see death as a positive thing?
Why can’t we all collectively decide to do anything?
Why does everyone feel the need to ask for a tip lately? Aren’t you already getting paid to be my sandwich artist, friend?
Why do so many mothers think their kids are so special when the majority of women have kids too?
Why are we so scared to tell strangers they have something in their teeth?
Why can’t we all just admit that we want love and validation?
Why do people continue to name their kids John and Joe? It’s getting complicated people.
Why are so many people scared to be themselves around their families?
Why are all my knives rusty?
Why do most women hate their bodies?
Why stuffed animals? After 30 years, I still don’t see the point.
Why Mazda Miatas? Really, why?
Why are you reading this when you could be on a date with a man in a V-neck who has just touched his penis in the bathroom?
There are some things I do that epitomize me. I do them as if I’m programmed to do them, without thinking. I can’t stop. But I want to.
And now, what you’ve all been waiting for…
a list of the things I do that I really don’t want to do:
Buy generic face soap from Trader Joe’s and then complain about my acne.
Eat until I can’t move.
Complain about eating until I can’t move.
Joke about becoming like my mother (old joke).
Joke about ‘what she said.’ (also old).
Judge people based on their clothes (As if I’m some fashionista who doesn’t look forward to going home to Chicago so I can buy sweaters at Wal-Mart).
Love tall men with beards. I know it’s that love-men-who-resemble-your-father thing and it grosses me out.
Set high standards for myself. At any given moment, I’m thinking I’m not doing enough. That helps a lot, I’m sure.
Worry about money. Also, not very helpful.
Press the snooze alarm so many times after convincing myself I only need ten minutes to get ready and then get to place of work looking like I got ready in ten minutes.
Tell myself I’ll email someone later and then have 100 emails to send and then feel overwhelmed and then whine about having too many friends and then feel like a self-absorbed bitch to have even said that I have too many friends and then email everybody with lackluster one-liners.
Want everything all at once. I want my family and career and bronze bust of myself in a city center for doing something spectacular. And I would like that all right now please. No need to wait or work for it. Not that I’m lazy. Just tired.
Fear germs. If someone goes next to my bed with street clothes on, I’ll cut a man. If he tries to wash a dish with a dirty sponge, I’ll cut a man twice.
Get haircuts on a whim. Every. Single. Time. And then I hate my hair. Every. Single. Day.
Try to take off my pants while I still have my shoes on. It’s not going to work this time. Even though I say it will.
Judge myself for doing these things. Because it’s okay. I’m weirdly normal even though I sometimes get stuck on the floor with my pants half off.
I wrote a post about a recent interview gone wrong, but I have decided not to post it because interview dialogue is just not funny to anyone else no matter how awkwardly great it was at the time. Even when the interviewer asks you what you might bring to the table if hired, sits in awkward silence after your pathetic answer, and then hangs up on you. Even if he pressures you to ask him a question and you can only think to ask him what he’s wearing, it’s still not really that funny.
So, here I am thinking of what else I could possibly write about. There are a million possibilities due to the endless entertaining things I’m doing in my life right now. Like, just a few hours ago, I ate a vegan corn dog. It was so fun. What are those made of and why do I eat them? I can’t answer that. But I do know what’s in ratatouille. It’s vegetables.
After that wonderful mysterious fake meat product on a stick, I procrastinated by watching Millionaire Matchmaker. I’ve never seen it before, but it was under Most Popular on Hulu, and I really wanted to not think about anything for a minute, as my brain is filled with work and work and more work. I ended up thinking about lip injections and scary women, which proved my point that TV is pointless.
Then, I researched Medieval Times because I can never really spell ‘medieval’ without trying really hard, so I think it would serve me well to go. It’s $57.50. Man, is this post informative. You’re welcome.
After the intense finding of information on Medieval Times, I decided on my Halloween costume for next year. Yes, it will be slutty because that’s how we do on H-Ween. Next year I will strap on some bombs and be a whore-ish suicide bomber. Political yet sexy = genius. Plus, I’m sure extremists would really get a kick out of seeing a promiscuous version of one of their own. Hilarious, right Jihadists?
Mostly what I’ve been doing lately is freezing. I don’t understand how California maintains this reputation for having such great weather. I might be taken out by the California Department of Tourism for letting the secret out of the bag, but I feel like I must reveal the truth: It’s fucking cold here. I’m talking winter coats, nose is frozen, hands turning blue at work, heat on all the time COLD. Really. Really. Cold.
Maybe it’s the temperature or maybe it’s the fact that I don’t really own any sweaters or winter coats. That’s because I live in Southern California, and after being here on and off for twelve years, I still can’t admit to myself that it gets cold here. I guess I should buy a sweater. Or a parka. What exactly is a parka?
I also would like to come clean about Thanksgiving. I cooked. I ate. I relaxed by the fireplace. But I totally forgot to honor or even think about the Native Americans. Shit. I feel horribly. Sorry for taking away all your land and spreading diseases and killing off your food sources and stuffing you on reservations, guys. Someone should really do something about that.
As you can see, I have a lot of fascinating things going on, so I really can’t write much more now.
There are vegan corn dogs to be had, everyone. Vegan corn dogs!