A brief return...for a thinkpiece. UGH.

When I read the summary of what Louis CK’s episode, “So Did the Fat Lady” was about before it aired, I was quite curious to see just what he’d wind up doing.  I have a very, very sadly small pantheon of white male comedians who actually seem to “get it”, or at least, appear to make an effort to “get it” when it comes to issues of sexism, racism, misogyny, and the like.  Louis CK is a member, along with Paul F. Tompkins, and…well, there’s plenty room for more.  So come on, fellas, the snacks are top-notch.

I am a fat lady, the kind of fat that makes people really angry.  It’s my body type that’s more likely to be used in one of those “headless fatty” montages used on the news when they decide it’s time for the quarterly report about how awful fat people are.  I did my due diligence in my younger days of dieting, losing some weight, gaining it (and more) back, dieting, losing some weight, gaining it (and more) back.  I removed myself completely from the world when it came to romance and dating.  I believed 100 percent that a woman that looked like me had absolutely no shot at finding a fellow that would love me unconditionally, that wouldn’t see me as a make-skinny project, that wouldn’t keep my existence a secret because he wouldn’t want the world to know he stooped so low as to fuck a fat woman.  A part of my pain-in-the-ass brain understood that I actually did deserve love and was someone who was entertaining and festive and decent, but as long as I had an ass the size of Madagascar, it was simply pointless to make an effort.  So I didn’t.  Well, I wouldn’t until I’d reached some sort of “acceptable” size.

In my earlyish 30s, I discovered fat acceptance and began a lengthy re-acquaintance with feminism and figured out “holy fucking shit, I have wasted SO MUCH TIME hating myself”.  I got my head right and even though I still wasn’t terribly keen on venturing into romantic waters, I wound up the happiest, the most confident, the most comfortable and content I had been in a long time.  I finally understood that a goodly amount of the noise my head was filled with regarding the pursuit of the opposite sex was self-generated – maybe the reason why I never had a boyfriend wasn’t because I was fat, but because I’d bought the shit that was being sold to me and it turned into one of those handy self-fulfilling prophecies.  However, since I’d never actually participated in the rigmarole of dating, I couldn’t speak to whether or not my fat was truly an impediment.  I’d certainly had my stomach-churning crushes and felt like I had “loved” someone (though he didn’t love me back), and all the experiences had all ended with me feeling humiliated and worthless because the affection wasn’t returned.  But these were experiences I had had between the ages of, say, 14 and 20.  The one blind date I went on thanks to the personals section in the Chicago Reader went from gross (he interrupted me while I was talking and said “let’s cut the small talk and get to the sex”) to hilariously cataclysmic (he presented me with photographs of himself posing on a rug, wearing just a Speedo, then followed his disturbing presentation with a story about getting a handjob from a lesbian on a gay bar dance floor – oh, and he was wearing a wrestling singlet, as you do).  So I was a bit at sea as to how to go about pursuing a potential suitor…if I even wanted one at that point.

Long story short, the internet – the blessed, infuriating, bullshitty, wondrous internet – would eventually deliver a stone fox to me, and we’ve been friends for almost seven years, together for almost five, and married for just a smidge over two.  I never “dated” until I met my husband.  Oh, I made a halfhearted attempt at online dating and quickly realized it just wasn’t for me despite my having done a goodly amount of socializing online since the late 90s.  I had two things that were important to me, things I wasn’t willing to compromise on – I wasn’t interested in dating someone who was religious, and I wasn’t interested in dating someone who had children.  It would also be helpful if someone was feminist or feminist-friendly.  The suggestions provided to me by the service I used inevitably consisted of men with children, and those who didn’t have children were quite keen to have women with “weight proportionate to height” which I definitely am not.  I checked out free sites, pay sites, and at the end of it all, I couldn’t conjure up the energy or interest that was required to “date”.  Then I was resolute – if I was going to be single until my dying day, then for fuck’s sake I was going to make my life as entertaining as possible.  That resolution has had some revisions since then.

So I couldn’t necessarily identify with what Vanessa said during her speech about dating and flirting since I didn’t endure years of fruitless dating and I suspect I’ve flirted over the years, but I really can’t be sure.  But mercy, mercy me, I felt it, I completely understood when she said, “You know, if you were standing over there looking at us, you know what you'd see? That we totally match. We're actually a great couple together.”  I felt it when she presented Louie with those fucking hockey tickets that she insisted wasn’t some sort of demand for reciprocity in the form of a date or just a kind word or some affectionate attention, because God almighty, how often did I do that over the years.   There’s a certain hustle that goes into being a fat girl – my hustle consisted of having a sense of humor that was beyond, a personality that was funny and loud and funnyloud, doing whatever I had to do in order to make the life of the object of my affection wonderful and joyous and oh he’s asking out someone else and now they’re getting married and oh.  My hustle should have taken me into comedy or performing or acting, but good ole insecurity/my being chickenshit took me out, and if there’s a regret I cling to to this day, it’s that I didn’t take the best compliment I ever received from a teacher of mine – “You have a knack for making an unfunny scene funny again” – and run the shit out of it.  

I’ve read a few thinkpieces (let’s have that word destroyed, shall we?) about “So Did the Fat Lady” and they interpret Louie grabbing Vanessa’s hand as a sign that he just wanted her to stop talking and be quiet, or to end the awkwardness, or any number of things that would point to him not having had a moment of clarity.  To me, it was a moment – and maybe it wouldn’t stick with him, maybe that moment of courage would only be just that, a moment – where Louie decided to flout conventions, give the middle finger to all the guys who would give him shit for being seen with a fat girl in a romantic way, and hold the hand of this woman who was “very really beautiful”.  

Maybe I’m being optimistic.  I probably am – shit, I’m in the midst of writing a novel about a fat girl in her late 30s getting her shit together and finding love for the first time in her life which, if you know me personally, IS BASICALLY MY FUCKING STORY.  But it’s not hard for me to see it being dismissed as fantasy, wish fulfillment, complete bunk – once again, EVEN THOUGH IT ACTUALLY SERIOUSLY HAPPENED TO ME.  And fucking forget it ever being made into a movie, since romcoms are only allowed to feature thin women who have a tendency to be a wee bit clumsy because isn’t that just ADORABLE.  I couldn’t bear seeing someone who wasn’t me, frankly, playing the lead role.  After all, I spent so much time as a supporting player in my own life – I’m not giving up the spotlight ever again.

Be true to your drool.

Warning: capitalization (and swearing) will be used excessively in this segment because SQUEEEEE!!! OMG

I should preface all of this by saying I never stalked anyone, I never did anything illegal, and I certainly didn't do or see certain things because I thought Famous Guy wouldn't approve of it or something. My brain simply needed something of an escape from complicated shit. Today, I feel compelled to discuss…the Imaginary Celebrity Boyfriend (ICB).

I am officially taking credit for that turn of phrase and too bad if you don’t believe me. Eye hemorrhage-inducing perusal of the Livejournal I kept between 2003 and 2010 suggests that I seem to have first used it in an entry dated February 15, 2004.  MEANWHILE, I collected and cultivated ICBs like one might tend to a bonsai tree – with care and endless dedication. My first true pretend love was John Taylor of Duran Duran, of COURSE. There was no man my 13-year old self wanted to jump on more (as if I truly understood what that really meant at that point in my life) than good old J.T., who was (and, frankly, REMAINS) almost terrifyingly good-looking, all slender and angular. I started reading Isabel Allende because of John Taylor. I learned to play the bass because of John Taylor. And if you think for one red hot second that John is all looks and no licks (holy SHIT I NEED TO COPYRIGHT THAT SHIT NOW), think again – the cat can fucking play. I…well, I can play…to a certain level. I cannot play at a John Taylor level. I can sort of play at a Sting level, depending on what song, I am mostly competent when it comes to a Simon Gallup of the Cure level and I could most likely jam out with my clam out if I suddenly had to play bass in the live version of Nine Inch Nails. BUT ANYWAY

My childhood bedroom was an absolute museum to the glory of John and Duran Duran as a whole. I had to share this room with one of my sisters, so there was a significant line of demarcation between my area and hers. Her walls sported a couple of tasteful Don Johnson and Clark Gable pictures. Mine was an out of control, massive collage of rapturous celebration of Duran Duran in both fivesome and threesome status with a decided concentration in John Christing Taylor. If there was bare wallspace, I was slapping up a carefully snipped picture from Tiger Beat, Bop, or Star Hits (the US version of UK mag Smash Hits) of John looking happy, pensive, moody, sad, thoughtful while walking, posing, running, jumping, fencing. This genial lunacy continued up until my brain really decided to short out a few more synapses and the Duran collage gave way to a more generic collage of actors and musicians I found intriguing – none more so than...

THE CURE. Ohhhhh, no one spoke to my shriveled little teen soul more than Robert Smith. When “Disintegration” was released, I embarked on a mission to BUY AS MUCH SHIT AS I COULD THAT WAS CURE-RELATED. Posters, magazines, imports – weekly trips to the Turntable, a local record store that specialized in imports and rarities as well as merch, merch, merch were made. The back catalog was purchased in a flash. Seeing the Cure for the first time in August, 1989 came shortly after I had my first kiss with a guy that I was convinced I was deeply in love with and couldn’t imagine my life without. Of course, he didn’t love me back. So when the lights went down and the massive fogbanks rolled out and those first quiet windchimes started to play from “Disintegration”’s opening track, “Plainsong”, I had what can best be described as a psychobilly hissy fit. I sobbed so hysterically that people were looking at me with concern. I didn’t heave those kinds of tears when I saw Duran Duran for the first time in 1987 and again in January, 1989. Those dandy motherfuckers had been the center of my universe. However, Robert Smith had a direct line to the baffled, fucked up battle for survival that was happening in my brain, he was singing exactly what I felt as a 17-year old girl who couldn’t understand why she wasn’t worthy of a boy’s love and why the fuck it was so awful and painful. (I assure you that once “Plainsong” concluded, I wiped away my tears and returned to earth to enjoy the rest of the show.)

I discovered another ally in my internal war not that long after in the form of a deliciously angry fellow named Trent Reznor and his band Nine Inch Nails. A cursory search of Wikipedia tells me “Pretty Hate Machine” was released in October, 1989 and “Head Like a Hole” came out in March, 1990, so I would wager that “Pretty Hate Machine” served as my soundtrack for high school graduation and beyond. If you’re a NIN fan, I’m sure it’s easy for you to guess what became my signature song as my fruitless pursuit of the guy I wanted to love me back continued. Go on, guess.

OF COURSE IT WAS “SOMETHING I CAN NEVER HAVE”. OF COURSE.

I mean, come on. The fucking lyric sheet in the cassette should have had “This one’s for you, Jane!*thumbs up*” (If you’re not familiar with the song, Google it and then you shall have insight into my tear-stained teenage heart). I damn near wore that cassette out. Of course, in retrospect (and in light of Trent’s later, mind-blowing work) “Pretty Hate Machine” sounds terribly dated and very much of the late 80s/early 90s. But mercy, that was my jam and, though it sounds cliché, the anger and “fuck you” that that record stirred up in me helped me to get through some mighty shit times that resulted from the abortive attempt at love I experienced. It helped me to get through a serious brush with suicidal ideation – though having a massive ego that refused to die also helped in that regard. As a result of such hardcore imprinting, I remain just so in love with Nine Inch Nails and Trent Reznor in general. Trent has had a strange way of making records that supply soundtracks to exactly what sort of fuckuppery/discombobulation I might be experiencing at any given time. Going to a Nine Inch Nails show was the ultimate release of rage and anger and frustration. I found that out almost too late, since I never made it to a NIN show until 2006 (being agonizingly broke got in the way before then). Great, now I just want to sit in a window and sigh while rain falls.

In 1994, I found another object of affection – one that would help to trigger a massive outpouring of creativity that…went…nowhere, but still, being creative is good, it’s a good thing. I stayed loyal (in that batshit crazy way) to this ICB until he decided to marry someone that wasn’t me. That Unidentified Foxy Object (GET IT) was…David “Red Speedo” Duchovny and, by extension, “The X-Files”.

Recently, I convinced my husband to travel down the “X-Files” rewatch path with me and I felt a little sad that the mountains of useless trivia I used to know about the show and David Duchovny had finally exited my brain. Because let me tell you, if you wanted some minutiae science dropped on you back when “The X-Files” was in full swing, I was your woman. I had to know absolutely everything and I had to know it immediately when I figured out it was a show right up my alley (it didn’t quite take in my brain until the second season). The internet was starting to come to the fore, but I didn’t have a computer at the time. However, my father did. So on Friday nights, I would trek out to the suburbs (I was living on the north side of Chicago at the time), watch and tape the show, then proceed to sit in the AOL X-Files chat room for six or seven hours discussing the show and bullshitting with folks. It was a good time, a strange time, trying to navigate this “internet” and finding one bonding with other people in other parts of the country (or even the world!) over a freaking TV show. My first internet-inspired transaction was a bootleg VHS tape of gag reels from the first three seasons. I couldn’t tell you what her screenname or even her location was now, but I can remember thinking just how neat the internet was.

My methods of “collecting” changed with the internet as well. Instead of plastering Duchovny pictures cut out of magazines all over my walls, I accumulated massive files of jpegs and gifs and BMPs (yes, even BMPs) of him. I could read interviews from magazines published in faraway lands like England and learn every single factoid under the sun that was available. I began to write spec scripts as well. I had started writing screenplays towards the end of my abortive attempt at going to college (three and out, WHOO), and when I wasn’t writing Mrs. Jane Duchovny on my trapper keeper, I was writing. In the beginning, my screenplays were crap. Lord love a duck, they were crap. But as I kept doing it, I kept getting better (I don’t toot my own very often with any semblance of seriousness, but bitch can write a screenplay), and when I was in full “X-Files” thrall, I began to crank out spec scripts. And then, I started sending them to the production office of executive producer Chris Carter in Los Angeles. I received some very nice notes from the office’s assistant and one of the scripts got to the point where network readers actually looked at it (I had to sign a release). Sadly, I can’t say that I had a “50 Shades of Grey” moment, but at least I have some cool souvenirs of…stationery.

In 1998, I caught wind of a comedy festival and competition taking place at a local theater and, even though I hadn’t performed on a stage since high school (despite attending a fine arts school with theater and improvisation training under my belt) I decided to enter it. I had a title before I had the text:

David Duchovny (Or the Socio-Economic Implications of a Celebrity-Hungry Society)

Rather amusing, I thought. I’ve always been a fan of ridiculous titles for things. But the title turned out to be just the spark I needed to put my years’ long fandom of celebrity men and things in general into something resembling perspective. A goofy title turned into 45 minutes that started as a generic autobiography and then morphed into a poke at fame and the sort of strangeness it breeds in those of us who are decidedly not famous. I was reviewed in the Chicago Reader, where it was tagged “ingenious” and I figured I would wind up winning the theater’s grand prize, which was a two-week run of one’s show at the theater. And then I was finally going to be heading down that road to fame and fortune and all the things I had dreamed of for so long!

I totally didn’t win. The show that did win was pretty anemically reviewed. I was “INGENIOUS”. The winning show…wasn’t. But at least I got up on stage and…did…I…did stuff…right? Right? Well, back to the apartment and my coterie of musicians and actors who will make me feel less failurey!

Having ICBs helped me cope, to be honest. I spent my 20s and a portion of my early 30s a genial mess. I isolated myself much of the time – when I wasn’t at work, I was either around family or alone at home, writing away and dreaming of a life that would never exist for me. My ICBs were like pets – non-judgmental, no conflicts, ever adoring. Yes, even though the CBs were I. I’d lost my touch for interaction with actual humans, and it wasn’t until a wander around the internet brought me to a website for (get ready) JOHN TAYLOR that I started to re-learn that being around people people was pretty all right.

I don’t have any ICBs to speak of anymore, not really. My husband and I have mutual ones, like Paul F. Tompkins, Patton Oswalt, and Jason Mantzoukas. He is sad, though, because he’s going to miss out on something monumental: my seeing John Taylor as part of his publicity tour for his autobiography, “Into the Pleasure Groove”. There’s a slender chance I might actually get to meet John Taylor (I’m sort of in love with writing “John Taylor” instead of just “John” right now) which makes my 40-year old heart pitter patter just a smidge because OH MY GOD JOHN TAYLOR IN AN INTIMATE SPACE (not my intimate space whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat). There’s a Q and A and I don’t know that I could manage to Q him because I would be too busy just gazing lovingly at him like a precious china doll. I’d like to think I will be suave, clever, charming – but the 13-year old is itching to emerge and let out one last eardrum-piercing shriek.

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