Does anyone actually know the words to the New Year’s song, what is it called, Old Anxiety or something?
I always make a bunch of goody two shoes promises for the upcoming year. I resolve to do stupid shit like “lose weight, stop drinking, become a vegetarian, be more patient, be more loving, be more grateful…blah, blah, freakin’ blah”.
Ya know what? Resolutions always end in disappointment because they make life suck. This year I’m all about the fun stuff!
I hereby resolve to do the following in 2008:
- Develop a quiet but demanding cocaine habit. I think it’ll make me a more interesting person.
- Take up smoking full time.
- Quit flossing. It’s gross and time consuming. Who needs teeth anyway?
- Quit yoga. It’s too much effort.
- Quit moving altogether. I’m just going to sit from now on. I like to sit.
- Become a functional alcoholic. Enough pussying around with the wine after dinner. I’m switching to scotch at 7Am.
- Eat whatever I want. Life is too fucking short to spend it eating cereal containing things like Millet. Isn’t that the same shit they put in birdseed and horse food?
- Have unprotected sex with hot strangers. I’ll start with Johnny Depp and work my way to Alex O’ Loughlin.
- Affix a PA system and a flame thrower to the front bumper of my car. “Get off the motherfucking phone and drive!” And then…Kaboom!!!! No more ass monkey.
We’re staying home tonight since even my 14-year-old babysitter has more of a life than we do. I invited a few people over, but no one is coming. Most of them didn’t even find the invitation interesting enough to reject. It’s funny how things change after you have a kid. No one bothers with you anymore–you’re officially lame. It’ll just be my husband and me sitting in front of the fireplace, wearing party hats and fighting to stay awake for the big ball drop.
It’ll be sort of nice actually.
Happy New Year everyone! (insert sound of party horn here)
Here’s further evidence that I’m 80.
Last night, while putting my daughter in the bath, I got a sharp pain in my right boob. I felt the spot where the pain was coming from and discovered a smallish bump deep underneath my skin. It’s a tumor, I thought. My life flashed before my eyes and I became very depressed because I won’t live to see my daughter grow up.
Today, my entire right boob hurts, but mostly in a place not even close to the place that hurt last night. This means that the tumor grew over night and spread throughout my entire body. It couldn’t possibly be because I keep pressing it to see if the bump is still in there (which it isn’t).
It couldn’t be the first month on a new birth control pill that is wreaking havoc on every other aspect of my being from out of control crying jags to monumental weight gain.
Remember me fondly…
It’s Saturday night.
After feasting on a dinner of soup and bread, I’m enjoying a nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and watching British Antiques Roadshow on PBS.
I’ll likely be in bed and off to dreamland by 8:30.
I don’t know if you knew, but I work at a library cataloging books. I see all kinds of shit, but nothing could have prepared me for this. Here I am, minding my own business, when this yoga DVD comes across my desk. It’s called Christoga and contains a 74 minute “Christian yoga” workout designed to strengthen both your abs and your faith in Christ at the same time.
I’m not even fucking kidding you.
Using biblical scripture, the instructors (described by one reviewer as “sultry, with a hint of the Lord”) give Christian names to the traditional sanskrit poses. Listen to bible verses while holding such holy positions as Christ Exalted, Mighty Disciple and, my personal favorite, Salvation Rotation. This is the perfect workout for the good Christian woman who always felt “dirty” practicing yoga. Thank Jesus we can now squeeze our buns and get a devotional all at the same time!
This is wrong on so many levels that I’m just sitting here agog. I mean, what will the Jesus freaks think of next? Pontius Pilates?
I think I’m going to write to Richard Simmons and suggest that we put out a new DVD together. It’ll be a combo of Jazzercize and Islamic scripture called Islamacize: Sweatin’ with Allah. It will of course feature Richard dressed as Muhammed, leading a group of overweight women wearing spandex and Nike cross-trainers under traditional black burkas. They’ll sweat to such Muslim favorites as It’s my Shahadah and I’ll cry if I want to and He’s a Sunnis and he’ll never be any good. The diet portion of the DVD can begin during the month of Ramadan for an ultra fat burning jump start.
I don’t know what else to say about this for now so I’ll leave room for you.
I’m a giant approval whore.
There. I said it.
Even though I’m happily married and even more happily off the dating market, I thought it would be a hoot to add the Are You Interested application to my Facebook page. For the uninitiated, Are You Interested is a disgustingly superficial way for people to meet each other–someone expresses interest in you based only on your picture by clicking on “YES” or “NO”. As the “YES” recipient, you get notification of said interest and the interested party’s picture goes into a pile of others who are also willing to fuck you.
I don’t mean to honk my own hooter or anything, but I’ve got quite the little rogues gallery going for myself.
Unfortunately, well, most of them need some help.
If you’re a guy and your picture appears on Are You Interested, let me give you a few pointers that might help you get laid since that’s what you’re really looking for. You might say you’re looking for “friendship”, but we know. It’s okay to be honest sweet pea, really.
Okay, so, the pictures, oh my God the pictures!
- Make sure your photo is a flattering one. Make sure you don’t look dumb, or fat or whatever. Also, make sure your frat brothers aren’t making bunny ears or flipping the bird behind you.
- You making devil horns at the camera. \m/ Excellent… Party on, Dude!
- A picture of you posing with your girlfriend is probably not a good choice for this venue. Your wedding photo is also the wrong answer. Are you trying to prove you’re marriage material?
- A picture of your giant, drooly Rottweiler. Of the two of you, I’m guessing you chose his picture because he’s the smart and good looking one?
- Your pimpin’ ride. You still live with your mom, don’t you sweetie?
- A picture of you doing a keg stand or drinking a beer –I don’t mean just holding the glass up saying “cheers!” but actually taking a gulp. I enjoy a nice cocktail myself, but there are moments when I come up for air. That’s when I have my picture taken.
- Old dudes. Not interested. I don’t have any Daddy issues to work through. Oh, and I don’t believe for a second that you’re only 34.
- You: shirtless in a provocative pose. Me: nauseated. You’re the prettiest princess of them all aren’t you? You probably spend more on hair products than I do. Next!
- You and another guy. One wearing some sort of Mardi Gras mask, the other smokin’ hot. I’m guessing you’re the masked man and you asked your hot friend to pose with you…you couldn’t possibly be the hot one because I only attract nerds, fuckwits, egomaniacs, workaholics and alcoholics.
- You look like a fucking Serial Killer!
- You’re in a full hockey goalie uniform. My, my, my. That is sexy. Can I sniff your cup?
- I can see up your nose. While I appreciate that you trim your nose hair and that you do all your own photography, these aren’t the first things I wanted to know about you. By the way, there’s a bat in the cave. Thought you should know.
- The giant question mark. Are you The Riddler? That’s so funny, because I’m Batgirl.
- You’re wearing George Castanza’s puffy coat. Didn’t you know there was an entire episode devoted to what a baffoon he was for wearing that coat? It’s a joke coat! Do you have the velvet fog suit too?
- You’re totally hot, but your name is “Mista Man.” You’ve got more issues than Time magazine, my friend.
- This has nothing to do with pictures, but do not automatically add me as a friend. I don’t fucking know you, and now you’ve annoyed the shit out of me. Not a good way to begin a pretend friendship. Can someone please explain this concept to me? Why are there people on Facebook with 398 friends? I have 8. All of whom I’ve actually met.
Anyway fellas, please take my humble advice and you might just get lucky. At the very least, you won’t become blog fodder.