All right, now I have to gush publicly.

As I've gotten older, I've gotten more picky about what I take in in the way of entertainment.  Stuff that never used to bother me in my younger days (casual sexism, fatphobia, etc. etc. and so forth) - rather, stuff that I could "get over" or "set aside" (ahhh, privilege) - now instantly puts my teeth on edge.  Stuff I never would have noticed or that I would have accepted as simply being a part of life, a part of existing in society as we know it, has become glaring, blaring sirens of "here comes some fucked up shit that's going to make you feel bad, feel uncomfortable, feel angry, feel ostracized".

As a result, my consumption of movies, television, and entertainment in general has decreased considerably.  I listen to podcasts mostly, which can be minefields but thankfully the ones I choose to listen to rarely blow up in my face.  It's through podcasts that I discovered that Paul F. Tompkins is just ridiculously amazing.  I knew who Paul was, though I'm not quite 100 percent sure how - I would wager it was through VH1's assorted "I Love a Decade" shows or "Best Week Ever" with a hint of his brief appearances on "Mr. Show".  But that's not important right now.

What IS important is that when I listen to or watch something involving Paul, I don't have to worry that he's going to suddenly crap out some sort of sexist, racist, homophobic, fatphobic bullshit when he opens his yap.  He's a walking, dapper (seriously, this cat loves him a suit and coordinating clothing and cufflinks) safe space.  And he's not afraid to discuss issues like sexism or homophobia in public and how shitty it is on the eight billion and counting guest spots he's done on assorted podcasts.  I know it probably seems like a "duh" sort of thing, but remember - this is a white guy in entertainment.  You just don't hear 95 percent of white male performers kicking back and having a serious discussion about how women are being shat upon from a great height in public.  He's a white guy who obviously LISTENED TO THINGS PEOPLE WHO WEREN'T WHITE GUYS HAVE TO SAY and THOUGHT ABOUT IT TO BOOT.  And that's fucking amazing.

The other thing that makes my greasy little heart go squish even more is that he is a fellow that loudly and proudly adores his wife, Janie Haddad Tompkins.  I mean, LOOK AT THIIIIIIIIIIIS:

http://paulftompkins.tumblr.com/post/21738202925/and-i-aint-goin-back-to-live-that-old-life-no-more

When you listen or watch his stand-up or listen to him on a podcast, he's not doing 10 minutes on "the ole ball-n-chain" or what a gutwrenching nightmare being married is or AUGH WOMEN RIGHT?!?.  He makes no secret about how cool and awesome his wife is and how much he appreciates her and that is so fucking heartening, particularly in our current climate where on some days it feels like being a woman is the worst thing in the world; where it seems like almost every male comedian would rather spend his stage time bitching about what bitches us bitches are and that they only reason they're married is they don't want to get screwed over paying alimony; where I feel compelled to write a gushy, dorky blog post about a comedian being a decent human male person because holy shit, it feels SO RARE SOME DAYS.

Anyway.  Paul F. Tompkins is a fellow you should not just know, but buy his items of entertainment!  Such as...

His shiny new DVD, "Laboring Under Delusions"!  http://goo.gl/mVXMi (the physical); http://goo.gl/oXRco (digital)

He does a kickass podcast, the Pod F. Tompkast, and that is FREE, readers - go to iTunes and subscribe!

He appears on, like, loads of other podcasts too, from Comedy Bang Bang to Superego and you should look at trackpft.com to find out what ones he's been on.

He's on Twitter and you should follow his stylish self at @pftompkins !  As is his wife Janie, who is a delightfully funny, smart actor-woman in her own right - @janiehaddad !

And now, I'll return to behaving like the mature 40-year old woman I am that doesn't write Tiger Beat-esque gushfests about men I don't know.



omg squeeeeeeeeee!

I love...

...when you shut the hell up.

You do realize that all of you screeching about Valentine's Day being a Hallmark holiday from hell are just as annoying as the lovey-dovey Cupidlickers, right?

Your relationship is not my relationship.

Soon, I will be joining a club that I hadn't thought I would ever join. In a couple days, I'm getting married and to some people's chagrin, I'm very laid-back about it. Don't confuse “laid-back” with “not being excited” - I'm excited that I'm marrying someone that I think is very amazing and my best friend and all those good things. But I've never been much of a “jump up and down and squeal” sort of gal, and I'm marrying a fellow who isn't much of a “jump up and down and squeal” sort of guy. I suppose if we were getting in a more traditional fashion, with the big-ass ceremony and big-ass reception and bouquet-whipping and chicken dancing, I imagine I'd be more traditionally “excited” - and wishing I'd fucking eloped. So knowing myself as well as I do, it's for the best that he and I are rollin' to the courthouse, dropping a ten-spot, and making it legal in less time it takes to get an oil change.

We kept our relationship quiet for quite a while, only letting those who needed to know know about what was happening on our personal planet. Now, of course, thanks to those handy Facebook buttons, it's no secret and, at my workplace (the Evil Empire), it is no secret either. Which has resulted in my experiencing a strange phenomenon – people expressing their own loathing for their relationships in that weird, uncomfortable “joking” fashion. I was trapped on an elevator today with a co-worker, a co-worker who has in the past given me other pieces of “advice” which included never letting my future husband anywhere near the finances and to NEVER NOT KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON WITH THE FINANCES. I'll let you connect the dots as to what causes her asshole to pucker in her marriage. Today's precious moment began with her laying out a fresh chafing dish on her bad news buffet, with the expectation that I would happily step up and hold out my dish to hear about what new fuckery her husband was up to. I wisely stepped back from the sneeze guard. But that didn't stop her from saying, “are you sure you want to get married”, capped with a laugh I can only describe as the kind of laugh that can be heard in space and causes astronauts on the ISS to wish for puppies to punch. I replied, “I want to marry Futuregroom”, to which she stated, “get back to me in 20 years” (cue cackle from Satan's crotch). Another co-worker let me know that I would be officially relieved of my freedom the second the ring hits my finger, then did that weird uncomfortable laughing thing to assure me that...I'm not quite sure. That whatever shit she dealt with on a daily basis in her marriage was destined to be visited unto mine? That all men are infantile morons who are incapable of functioning without a woman at the helm to steer them into the appropriate ports (or icebergs)? That I would morph into a squalling harpy barking orders at my hapless spouse?

Look, I'm 40 fucking years old and I've spent a LOT of time ensuring that a) I've checked myself before I've wrecked myself and b) I am solid with what sort of bullshit I'm willing to put up with from other people. Everyone's got bullshit that's on display and I'm well aware of my bullshit, bullshit that I work on on a consistent basis to temper and minimize. Therefore, I am really quite solid and comfortable with my determination that the man I'm going to marry ISN'T A STEAMING DOUCHEBAG and that he, in turn, is not marrying A STEAMING DOUCHEBAG. If he had glaring personality defects that would shoot up multiple red flags on every planet in the solar system, I would not be marrying the motherfucker. Honey, I'm good with myself. I figured out a while ago that I didn't need to hunt down someone in order to make me “me” and that if I wound up being single until I died in a spectacular fashion involving perhaps a tiger, pyrotechnics, and a gunfight, I would still be capable of having a really gorgeous life. So I'm not getting married to fill a void or complete me because I was done to perfection before he careened into my life.

No relationship is perfect, fucking amoebas get that concept. It's not a sweeping romantic epic from start to finish. If you can't get over your life not resembling the lies that are sold by pretty much every piece of media that exists, you run the risk of being one of those people who get all shriveled and bitter and cynical and works quite hard to shit upon other people's contentedness because you haven't summoned up the spine to do what needs to be done in order to get right with yourself and the other person involved. Marinating in a years-long stew of misery because you think that's how it's “supposed to be” is a load and you do yourself or anyone else any favors.

So if your advice (hopefully solicited, because just dropping “advice” on someone who hasn't asked for it is a dick move) to someone else is a barely-disguised napalm job of your own relationship peppered with creepy “jokes” about the old ball and chain, you need to step back, stop, drop, roll, and resist the urge to paint everyone else's life with your crap-laden brush because your brush is the brush you own, and perhaps it's time to clean it.

Christ riding a chimney sweep, that was one of the more belabored metaphors I've constructed in quite a while. Must be that old ball and chain dragging me down.

Growing up is not giving up.

I'm about to turn an age I couldn't comprehend turning back in my 20s. The year 2000 seemed like a science fiction dream, for Christ's sake, let alone turning 40 YEARS OLD. Back then, 40 was a wretchedly old age. It SOUNDED old. And I certainly wasn't going to be OLD, I was 21 and getting loaded every weekend and just barely managing to attend my part time job and living in the SUPER-COOL CITY. Shit, I even wrote a comic song called “I Hope I Die Before I Hit 30” (I was going to be what I now recognize to be one of the more evil things in the world – A STAND-UP WHO PLAYED NUTTY SONGS DURING HER SET – AUGH).

Of course, time rolled on and I stopped getting shitfaced every weekend and I started working full-time at that part-time gig and suddenly, I hit 30 (I did not die)...then 35...and now I'm staring down the barrel at 40. I have a car payment, I manage my debt wisely (mercy, that took a long time to do), I've worked at the same place for 21 years (!), and an exciting evening for me is lounging about my lair in the company of my futuregroom. I am solidly and firmly what would be described by most as an “adult”.

However, I feel like behaving like an adult is frowned upon more and more – that not having the desire to go out and do endless shots and puke in doorways (been there) means that I am a no-fun Francine. There's this very, very strange cult of personality that has sprung up around “party” people – people who happily brag about the assorted substances they ingest at any given time, how little they've slept, and how late they rolled into work (if they actually HAVE a job). And that it's somehow bad if those of us who aren't doing lines out of a Brooklyn hipster's hole look somewhat askance at those who don't appear to be interested in anything other than having some new, “edgy” story to bust out on the internet. Drinking a carafe and a half of Snakejuice and passing out in a dank corner of a club every other night is not “edgy”, sailors and sailorettes. Waltzing into work at the crack of noon and putting the nose to the grindstone for a grand total of four hours isn't “edgy”, fair dames and sirs. It's asshole behavior. It's the kind of bullshit you get to pull when you're in your early 20s and still convinced you're invincible and everyone above age 30 is stodgy, imperialist swine who have no idea what it's LIKE TO BE YOOOOOOU, YOU SPECIAL SNOWFLAKE YOU and then you have that moment of clarity where you realize that having a freezer filled with nothing but assorted flavors of vodka is not that cool because eating food that isn't three-day-old pizza is good and being current with your bills is a nice feeling and getting a good night's sleep is delicious.

When you have that moment of clarity, you may have an additional moment where you think “oh man, I'm so BORING and my life is OVER”, but unless you are a dope, you don't stop having fun simply because you're not belly-flopping on a Slip-n-Slide soaked with beer in the back room of a crap bar four nights a week. Fun is not ruled out because you have a 401K and you're not making lists of the shit you own that you'd be okay selling because otherwise, you're not going to be able to pay the electric bill. You are not a faceless drone like all the other squares, MAN, because you're not vomiting loudly into your trash can at work. You are, most likely, just an ordinary person like most people in the universe, and THAT IS OKAY.

I think the culture has evolved into this odd beast that gives the stink-eye to the regular Joe and JoeBobette – and not even so much to the regular Joe or JoeBobette, but to those of us who don't have that crazed need to be constantly looked at, constantly paid attention to, constantly ringing that bell and screaming “BUT WHAT ABOUT ME BUT WHAT ABOUT ME BUT WHAT ABOUT ME HERE'S WHAT I THINK AND HERE IS AN ANECDOTE ABOUT THAT THING ONE TIME THAT INVOLVED PYROTECHNICS AND A LEMUR AND SARAN WRAP AND LOOK AT MEEEEEEEEE HERE'S A PICTURE OF ME AND A WHATNOT AND LOOOOOK”. It's almost like everyone is compelled to trump the next fellow's story and the more places on the internet it gets posted, the better. And then there's the odd crew that applauds and fawns and giggles over the tales of getting popped for public urination or snorting chopped up cough drops or drinking lighter fluid out of a blockhead's crotch. I mean, if you're able to drink lighter fluid out of a blockhead's crotch AND make that eight am meeting AND complete your presentation on the debits, the credits, and the people we exploit? I guess I give you kudos, even if you do probably smell like lighter fluid. If your need to be a jackass doesn't fuck with my day, I reckon I can't complain. But just as an FYI – you're no more special or unique than the cat that's up at 4 am to take the train and the bus and another bus to put in her/his 10 hours so he/she can kick back on the couch at night after a delish dish of Hamburger Helper and fall asleep to “Hoarders”. You just lack the ability to not be the center of attention every single goddamned minute.

Now, as something resembling a writer, I am required to do a little LOOK AT ME so that people will read the claptrap I cough out on the internet whenever I can be arsed to do so and be entertained by it. As you can see from the amount of entries I have, however, my need to feed the beast is a fairly occasional scratch that requires itching. Back in the day, the beast demanded I learn how to eat fire, weasel my way onstage to be a part of a Penn and Teller performance, and do a one-woman show in a comedy festival. These days, the beast is content if a couple of my friends share my shit on Facebook. But Universe help us if I ever rediscover the Look at Me Beast and decide to write that book I've always threatened to write, because hoo lawsy, my beast is loud and has a lot of fucking time on her hands and is involved in a LOT of social media.

Blockhead = a performer in a sideshow who specializes in hammering nails or other implements into one's nasal passages

It's Christmas...all over...again.

Strap in, because Christmas is comin' atcha!

Look, I'm not a big Christmas fan. At best, it's tolerable. Though I am entertained by lights. The area I live in buts up against a neighboring suburb where the mayor (whose childhood nickname was “Bimbo” - no, really) clearly fucking LOVES CHRISTMAS and he charges his minions to deck the halls like a muhfucker. You know those grassy areas near entrance/exit ramps and such for the expressway that might have trees and whatnot on them? Bimbo decorates that shit, too. When I've been driving to work at silly o'clock, my eyes feast on a Christmas disco from Planet Santa. So that's okay.

The rest of it, though? Oh, no thank you. So I'm not going to wax poetic about the wonderfulosity of the season and blah blah blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah – I'm going to post a picture of a baby sloth eating a carrot and then discuss other things.

As we approach 2012, our final year on earth, I would like to state that the one thing I'd love to see in the final year is for the chronic woe-is-me'ers to sit back, check themselves, and proceed not to wreck themselves. Oh SHIT time for a baby orangutan disclaimer:

People, let's get it straight – if you think I'm talking about you, most likely I'm not. You KNOW who I'm talking about. There are people in this world who DO have grounds to woe-is-me it up in this joint. And they probably would if all the space wasn't taken up by the folks I'm about to narrow my eyes at. So, dial it back before you get all fretty-betty and whatever. Though, you know, if you do think it's about you? You might want to do some checking of self as well. DISCLAIMER CONCLUDED!

No, luscious readers, I am talking once again (because I'm almost certain I've covered this in a previous entry...oh, shitwiches, I have. SIGH. All right, I need to have a moment to myself and ponder where the hell this is going to go now. WAIT. I've GOT IT.

But first, let's seriously, seriously talk about baby sloths. Because my god, they are so adorable. I think it's their little faces that crack me up the most because they look perpetually bemused. They are so cool. If I could hold a baby sloth in one arm and a baby orangutan in the other, I'm 99 percent sure I could drop dead from absolute bliss.

Now, let's have another serious discussion about the trailer for “The Hobbit”. I read “The Hobbit” for the first time fairly recently and, well, it was not my bag...gins HA OH I KILL ME. I wasn't sure what the hell the finished product of the movie version was going to look like, but after seeing the trailer, I'm feeling like it's going to look like AWESOME. Martin Freeman looks awesome, there's Ian McKellen being all awesome in his Gandalfery, and so, it made me all happy inside. And awesome.  

While I'm thinking about it, I'm planning on writing a little something prior to the New Year so...uh, mark your calendars, I guess?  It will probably be about how resolutions are bullshit and don't get sucked into meeting expectations you can't possibly reach along with my yapping about, like, the year gone by and stuff.  There may be maudlin content, I can't be sure.  Of course, I have to remember to actually do it.  And carve out some time to do it since I will be getting a new roomie next weekend in the form of my New Zealander futuregroom.  Fret not, my sugarcoated candy canes, you'll hear from me again soon.

Finally, let me tell you a Christmas tale. It has settled into Nolan family legend and, since it is epic in scope, it must be told to others. Mainly because I think it's funny.

Some years ago, we decided that our Christmas Eve celebration (since that's when we do our family thing) needed to have a special cocktail to go along with our sugarplums and fine fatted goose. Emeril Lagasse created a little zinger of a thing called a “Poinsettia”. The Poinsettia contains champagne, vodka, and cranberry juice.  Take a moment and read that again.  Champagne.  Vodka.  Cranberry juice.  

We also have special hors d'oeuvres that are only trotted out for Christmas Eve. One is marinated flank steak, wrapped around water chestnuts; the other, baked won tons filled with sausage, red peppers, and cheese mixed with ranch dressing. The flank steak is downright beloved.  It is prized and there are never leftovers.

We enjoyed our Poinsettias quite enthusiastically, but none more so than my sister.  We will call her...Auntie Sister.  Auntie Sister found herself very full of Christmas joy – so full that she wound up sitting on the couch after dinner, a stewpot on her lap, and vomiting vigorously into it as the evening wore on. My nephew, perhaps five or six at the time, ran circles around the kitchen island declaring, “Call 911! Call 911! Auntie Sister is spitting up!” Auntie Sister retreated upstairs to the guest room and a silence fell over the house – well, a silence in as much as there were no heaving sounds. After a while, I was charged with finding out what Auntie Sister's status was. I crept into the guest room and Auntie Sister was laying on the floor (as you do), a corona of hurl around her head. She was alive and well (as well as you can be after your body hits the reverse on itself) and I found by going up to see how she was I'd also drawn the short straw on clean-up duty, so there I was...mopping up her leavings. Once she was snug in her bed (passed out), I came downstairs to family members questioning Auntie Sister's status. I replied, “Well, at least there's more flank steak now.”

RIMSHOT, BITCHES

*DROPS THE MIC*

Norman Rockwell ain't got shit on us.

Until next time, you gorgeous specimens of humankind, stay frosty and remember to always nuke the site from orbit, it's the only way to be sure.  

“Prometheus” looks HOT. Ridely Scotch*, go on with your bad self.

*h/t Superego

Survival of the holidayest.

Hey kids, it's that time of the year again!  You know, the one that can really blow.  Here are some helpful hints, tips, tricks, suggestions, advisings, suggadvices, and hinttipricks that might help you make it through.

In th'cold Novembah rain.

Well hey there, friends, foes, and otherwise.  I swear, it's like I wind up having moments where I'm suddenly reminded that I have a goddamned blog - like tripping over a pair of shoes that have been left in my path by a careless housemate or something.

We're ramping up into the holiday season which, for a goodly many people, isn't the most wonderful time of the year.  It's a season fraught with peril, whether it's having less-than-ideal relationships with family or having expectations ratcheted up so high there's no possible way you'll escape without disappointment.  There's a lot of control involved, control you CAN exert but we're all so trained to believe we have to put on our happy faces and endure all sorts of fuckery in the name of the SEASON.  The easiest and quickest thing I think you can do is to lower those expectations immediately, because nothing kicks your ass faster than having an expectation of Person A, who nine times out of ten can't meet that expectation because that is how Person A simply is.  And you know deep down that's how Person A is but you get hornswaggled and hypnotized by the SEASON and this year, maybe THIS IS THE YEAR Person A isn't going to be a disappointment.  Don't bank on it.  That magical moment is most likely never going to come and the sooner you drop those expectations to "well, Person A didn't get lit and try to carve the turkey with a corncob holder", the better you will feel and better equipped to handle the holiday hoo-hah.

MEMO

TO: Those people inclined to tell others "blood is thicker than water/but they're FAMILY/you'll regret it one day"
FROM: Jane C. Nolan
RE: Holiday events

Hello, well-meaning but terminally busybodied people!  If you feel yourself inching towards opening up your own personal Lecture Loft to instruct others how they should do whatever it takes to patch up frayed relations with assorted family members or friends, my suggestion would be to CRAM IT.  Chances are you don't know the full details as to why your target isn't on speaking terms with whomever, so it's best to take hold of the nearest spoonful of mashed potato and place it right in your yapper when you feel the urge to elucidate on the SEASON.

This would also include you opining about how people should lose weight, gain weight, wear different clothing, have children, or live their lives in a fashion you approve of.

Yours sincerely,

Jane C. Nolan
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In other fairly exciting news, I actually had something I wroted appear on a website that isn't Blogger or my own violently neglected, outdated website intellectualbabe.com!  Since I yammered about it on pretty much every social network site I'm on (the facebook, the twitters, and a couple of message boardses), it probably won't come as a surprise to you, all two of you who read this blog on any given day, but link to it I shall!

It happened to me! I made an effort!

So that was neat.
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Finally, I have to spend a paragraph or so just delighting in he who is Paul F. Tompkins - comedian, podcast host (The Pod F. Tompkast), all-around cute-as-a-button motherfucker.  He's funny, he's insightful, and I must admit one of the things I enjoy about him best is how he is always so publicly goony for his wife, actress Janie Haddad Tompkins.  More often than not, it's the married man's role to bitch about how his wife is a harpy, how she tells him what to do, how being married is a nightmare, loss of freedom blah blah blah.  (Christ knows publicly expressing affection for one's partner is SUCH a loser move.)  But I've yet to hear such cliched claptrap come out of Tompkins, and it's so refreshing to hear a guy who thinks his wife/partner is awesome instead of bitching about how she's somehow made him "less of a man" or some such shit.  He's available on Twitter under @PFTompkins, and you should follow him and delight in his delightedness.  Plus, he's on, like, every podcast under the sun on an almost weekly basis.  Which is awesome.  And you should listen.

Well, other than that, not much is going on in this neck of the woods.  There very well may be an end in sight for the immigration festival I've been on for the last eight months or so with my partnerperson, so I may very well blog about it...in 2012?  Stay tuned and find out!