humans are funny

Category: hmmm

  • Your momma is so famous, she’s on a stage in NY (which is where Broadway is)

    There’s something weird about mother-daughter relationships. Daughters often say they don’t want to be like their mothers. Mothers often cultivate an obsession with buying their daughters clothing from Kohl’s.

    There are usually fights. Sometimes eye rolls. Plenty of complaining.
    My theory is that both moms and daughters live on the fence: Daughters want their moms to both leave them alone and take care of them. Mothers want their daughters to be both autonomous and do what they say.

    It usually ends up in some outburst on a major holiday.

    My mom and I have been through that.
    In high school, I convinced myself that the main problem in our relationship was that my mom had low self-esteem. So, I did what you should always do to a person with low-self-esteem: I told her every day how embarrassed she should be about having low self-esteem. I hadn’t yet learned about projections, which is when you see in others what you really feel about yourself (Thanks, psych school). I guess I had low self-esteem. I’m not sure how I didn’t realize that as I stuffed my bras and gave away my lunch money to popular kids (Nick Pope, you owe me at least twenty-three dollars in quarters).

    It’s been a ride, this whole relationship thing. But we magically got to a place where I’m not judging her anymore. And she no longer answers the phone, “Didn’t I already talk to you this week?”
    It took a while though! Junior high and high school weren’t the best, as my self-esteem got lower and my judgments of my mother got more abundant. That’s why it was a big deal that I wrote her an ode last year for Father’s Day. It’s RIGHT HERE! You know how you do something one day and you like it, but you look back at it another day and you think it could be so much better? That’s how I feel about that ode. There are so many other things to say about my mom besides that she taught me to think farts are funny. Still… out of this entire blog (which is pretty damn huge since I started it in 2008 [first post ever here, which mentions my mom. AH! Am I the kind of person that always talks about my mom?]), the live theater show, Blogologues, chose that entry to perform ON STAGE in NY right now. They’re doing a run IN NYC from now until May 5th. An ode to my momma ON STAGE! How cool is that? Mom, does this make up for that self-esteem thing?

    Who wants to come see it with me?!!! I’ll be there April 28th at 8pm. Tickets and info are here: Blogologues! YAY!!!!!! Happy early Mothers Day.

  • Auntie Bev

    My great aunt died last week.

    Beverly Jean Gedda Harper.

    She was an observer. A quiet smiler. A believer. I didn’t see her too often, but I wish I had. She was a peaceful keeper of so many answers I didn’t even know I wanted.
    Her husband and her brother died in a camping accident. Her daughter had polio. Her son died before coming home from the hospital. What was all that like? I wish I’d asked.
    She never gave a hint that she lived in that past. Life! She still laughed. She still lived on surrounded by family. Every time I saw her, she’d smile this wondrous smile, as if to say, ‘Can you believe this shit?’

    It’s in my genes that smile.

    My grandma, Beverly’s sister, was a notorious trickster. There was always a fake puke somewhere in our house when she lived there. Or a fake fly in a fake ice cube in someone’s drink. And, of course, the Whoopie cushion. Always a Whoopie cushion.

    My family is my family. And they’re the best family I’ve ever had.
    And the weirdest part: Lots of them are dead.
    Yeah.
    My dad. All my grandparents. Dead! Dead! Dead!

    Some people have gone through their lives without experiencing death. They have young parents who last forever. I’ve understood death since fourth grade when I saw that funny grandma who looked funnier than usual as she lie in a box wearing the dress she only used for special occasions. I personally thought she looked better in housecoats. I STILL miss sitting on her lap.

    And then my grandpa died. And my father. And my other grandma. And then a friend. And then more friends. At least ten people from my high school class have all left the earth. Most by drugs. Some by car accidents. A few suicides.

    All these people I used to know.

    So many deaths! They are a vivid reminder that, SHIT, we are all going to die! AH! I mean, in a hundred years, you guys won’t be reading this. There won’t even be computers. Hopefully not blogs. Probably no more outside. Definitely no more laughing. And we’re all gonna be dead. ALL OF US! Sorry. I don’t mean to be a spoiler, but WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE. Sometimes, usually when I’m taking a bath, I think about my one-day heyday as a vibrant senior citizen. Or my legacy as the World’s Oldest Person Who Writes about Vaginas. And then how I will one day no longer exist. AT ALL! It’s so weird. Yet feels good to know I’ll be leaving such an imprint on society with my vagina.
    But I try not to think about that stuff. Because it’s better to just live. And not take baths.

    You had a good heyday, Auntie Bev! I’ll ask you those questions one day.

  • A red carpet body

    I don’t know how a writer knows when she’s reached the pinnacle of her career, but I’m pretty sure I have. I have written what some might call an opus, what others might call an embarrassment, and what most might call…

    an infomercial.

    Yeah.
    I have.

    At my current place of freelance work, I was tasked with the assignment to sell a workout plan. They disguised it as an “informational promo video,” but I knew what they meant. We all knew what they meant as we stared at the floor and twiddled our pens. Some people nodded and pretended to think of a creative way to sell a workout plan. I started thinking of what phrases I could use. “Real results,” “Melt off the weight,” “Menu options.” I’m proud to admit the client bought MY script. You guys, I sold a script in Hollywood. It happens to be an infomercial script, but STILL. It includes some women talking about how they’ve lost 25 pounds. AND… a new term that nobody has ever heard before that I totally made up: red carpet body.

    Have the women in my video lost twenty-five pounds? I don’t know. I don’t even know if any women have ever tried such a workout plan. But there they are in my script wearing tank tops and showing off their red carpet bodies.

    Am I going to hell? Maybe.

    Am I simply on the path to ‘real writer’ and taking any assignment necessary so that I don’t feel like a liar when I say I’m a writer even though an infomercial script is hardly considered ‘writing?’ Yes.

    In other news, there’s a show in NY called Blogologues, and it brings ‘stuff from the interwebs’ to the stage. They chose THIS HERE BLOG to be showcased on their stage! IN NEW YORK (where Broadway is!)! Two talented actresses acted out this entry of my blog in New York. I’d like to point out that there are no menu plans or red carpets in that entry. That kind of makes me a real writer, right? Write? (Am I a real writer if I use ‘write’ instead of ‘right’ for dramatic effect?)

    In more other news, I have a BOOK COMING OUT. Kinda. Not really a book of my own, but a book that my words are in! It’s an anthology called Dancing at the Shame Prom, and it’s a collection of stories from women who’ve learned that talking about our issues releases them. The back of the book says, “Shame is a powerful thing. It can weigh on your heart and mind, diminish your sense of self-worth, and impact the way you live in the world. But what happens when you share that secret burden?”

    You can pre-order it on Amazon and everything! They don’t list me as a writer on Amazon because I don’t have a big enough ‘name.’ But STILL. That kinda means I’m a real writer. RIGHT? WRITE?

    In even OTHER news, I went to a writers’ conference where I met with a bunch of agents and editors. I shook hands powerfully, made eye contact, and tried hard to make self-deprecating jokes that made me seem humble yet full of self-worth. Some very important people read my words and told me how to get published in a way that Amazon might credit me for my words. I did not tell them about my “promotional video.” At the end of the conference, I won the editor’s choice award from an agent at Simon and Schuster. She called my writing ‘gorgeous and poignant.’ Huzzah.

    I saw her afterward and gave her a hug. She said something like, “You won because the quality of writing at this year’s conference was pretty low.”

    But STILL! I will take it. I will take it because it makes writing about red carpet bodies seem irrelevant.

    In even OTHER news, I wrote a Taboo Tale with some girls. I’m pretty proud of it:


     

    Writing is what I most love to do. I can sometimes only think with my hands. Trying to get someone to believe that I’m a good writer is the pits though. It shouldn’t matter what others think, but if I ever want to stop writing about red carpet bodies, it’s a necessity. Dangit.

    People ask me why I’m busy all the time. It’s because I’m over here TRYING! Man alive. I am trying and trying and trying. And sometimes not sleeping. And many times forgetting where I am or to change my clothes or to breathe. And in the meantime, I’m grasping onto the patience that is only slightly balanced atop the dream of giving up, moving to the suburbs, and popping out a kid in a station wagon (I’m a fan of alternative births). All while I’m writing about weight loss. But I am sure the day will come. That’s what happens when you don’t give up. Right? WRITE?

    You better not change the channel when you see my information promo video!
    See you in hell.

  • Come on, Luke Perry. Give me a Shorange.

    Do cops get frustrated because we’re always driving really slowly in front of them?

    Am I pathetic for feeling really sorry for MySpace, pay phones and Luke Perry?

    Why hasn’t someone invented a word that rhymes with orange? I REALLY WANT TO WRITE A POEM ABOUT ORANGES.

    Would anyone actually read a poem I wrote about oranges?

    Why do some bald guys look so hot and others like eggs?

    Aren’t parrots just gay pigeons?

    What is non-dairy creamer, why doesn’t it need to be refrigerated, and will it give me cancer?

    Why are Grapenuts called Grapenuts when they aren’t grapes or nuts?

    Did everyone else’s mom eat those in the 90s?

    Along with Melba toasts?

    Do certain foods remind you of certain times?

    What ever happened to Chef Boyardee?

    I cannot believe I ate that shit.

    Real chefs don’t really wear hats like that, right?

    What’s the point of those hats?

    Why the poofy part?

    Where do aborted baby fetuses go?

    Do trees feel naked without leaves?

    If you trade something for the world, isn’t that thing also part of the world anyway? It’s kinda cheating.

    Is yogurt really alive? How alive?

    Does yogurt talk shit about me to other yogurt in my stomach?

    Or not that alive?

    What does it mean when people say they can tell I’m an only child?

    Can they tell that I like to sit alone in my apartment and ask myself questions while nodding to myself about laser hair removal and almonds?

    Or is it something else?

    If it’s an insult, fuck you guys.

    If it’s a compliment: Hey, thanks!

    Why are you reading this when you could be defining the word ‘glorange?’

    Did you know I started asking questions about TWO years ago HERE? And  HERE?

  • I got in a fight on Facebook and realized I’m one of those people who gets in fights on Facebook.

    I have an unhealthy relationship with Facebook. Sometimes I think, “Wow. A chick from high school algebra ran a marathon!” And other times, I’m like, “Who are these people?”

    I don’t mean to brag, but… I have a lot of friends on Facebook. Yep. I’m THAT cool. I happen to have lived in lots of cities, and I don’t say ‘no’ to someone who wants to be my friend. I’m too codependent to hurt someone’s feelings, and that’s just mean: No, I don’t want to be your friend even though it only entails NEVER seeing you ever. There are the comedians I meet after shows who hear me talk about my vagina on stage. There are the people in advertising who post ads they’ve made. There are my spiritual friends who post about chakras and moon cycles. And then there are my high school friends. Lots of them post about their kids, going clubbing in Chicago, or Farmville. My feed is schizophrenic.

    The moon is in its seventh ray.

    I just bought an imaginary cow!

    This casting sesh is, like, so boring.

    My root chakra is singing.

    Look at my kids!

    Look at my wedding!

    I’m depressed. Come to my comedy show.

    Sometimes, late at night, I find myself checking in on people from my high school. I get all Sliding Doors and wonder what I would be like had I never left Addison (dubbed the blandest suburb of Chicago by ‘The Onion.’). I love seeing the arcs of the lives I didn’t live.

    A post came up the other day from a guy I used to think was ‘the cutest.’ He was, like, totally popular. A direct quote:

    Why is it every time I go to walmart there is a fucking bomb tosser in the parking lot that can’t walk an extra 17 feet and has to wait for the closest spot. Not to mention the fact that it takes 47 seconds for them to actually get into the spot once it’s open! (no offense to my bomb tossing fb friends)

    This post caught my attention because popular people in my school would never have admitted to a trip to Walmart back in the day. We had Zayre back then and those were NOT cool. I chuckled at how far we have come, at how we no longer care about what we cared SO MUCH about in high school. I exhaled at the calming thought that we’ve all sort of realized there’s no such thing as social hierarchies except in India, Hollywood and on any Real Housewives show. Phew.

    The only thing I didn’t get was the bomb tosser reference.

    “What’s a bomb tosser?” I replied in the comments with a gust of comment verve that I never usually have. I figured he was in the sporting goods aisle at Walmart by then, so I Googled it.

    Oh. According to Urban Dictionary, a Bomb Tosser is “a person of middle eastern decent.”

    This blog is the place to learn all about racial slurs. I also went over the term ‘mulanyan’ once HERE (also learned from people in the blandest suburb.).

    Then I felt sad. And so much anger. First of all, my town’s population has more Indians than Middle Easterners, so they aren’t even using the correct derogatory terms. HELLO! GET YOUR RACISM RIGHT, jerks.

    And then other people commented:

    -bomb tosser lol.

    -That’s why you should just go to Meijer instead.

    GROSS. In that town, it’s acceptable to assume anyone other than Italians are inferior. I’ve already shared about the time when a guy at the town bar asked, ‘What are you?’ and then said ‘sorry’ when I replied ‘Spanish.’

    A barrage of rage filled the sausagy links of my brain. I let the memories flood back in. The times when people yelled at me for having ‘jungle fever’ or tore down the wrinkled up ‘Racism Sucks’ poster I kept putting right back up on my wall.

    I wanted to cry because people hadn’t changed. Yeah, they were no longer ashamed about getting a discount on dish rags, but they still think it’s okay to call people bomb tossers. How can you make fun of other people when YOU are at WALMART?!

    These people make the worst racists.

    I couldn’t take it. And I let my fingers type in a comment that I thought was least mean but still made my point:

    Oh. Just googled it. So, you’re still racist? I thought people stopped being racist in the 60s. Apparently, not people in Addison. Thank goodness I moved as far away as I could. 

    I felt triumphant. There. I showed them. They would all see the error of their thinking RIGHT after they read my comment.

    And then someone commented:

    Why is it better to get a Muslim sex doll? Because they blow themselves up. 

    WHAT?! They hadn’t changed after reading my comment?! I was shocked. They would surely realize how small-minded they were any minute now?

    After a few more comments directed at me, I suddenly felt horrible. Not because a set of people were turning their hatred toward me, but because I was being just like them. I was on my own high horse. If they were thinking themselves higher than people who share skin color with a few guys who may have thrown a bomb, then wasn’t I JUST THE SAME for thinking I was better because I’m not racist? Or because I moved away? My own comment even sounded generalizing. I could have even written: no offense to my Addison fb friends.

    I AM ONE OF THEM!
    I guess we’re all human.

    That guy wanted some specific people to change, and I was doing the same. And, guess what? No large group is going to change just because I happen to deem them wrong. How annoying is that?

    My rage and my comments weren’t going to change or ‘fix’ anything because those people don’t think they’re broken. And getting mad about it is only causing ME anxiety. I heard that it’s around 30 when people realize they can no longer change the world. Maybe that’s where I’m at. I can only be a good example and that’s it. Getting mad about it doesn’t help. And judging it helps worse. Bah.

    So, I leave the Facebook commenting to others. And I’m dropping the judgements of those people. Whatever. Go be racists. Fine. That’s just who you are. To make up for it, I’m going to go have sex with bunch of bomb tossers. I told you I care about others’ feelings. See you on Facebook.