It’s me, Melissa Lion, and I want to say that my comments are being spammed here at Miss Crissy’s and while I have the power to post, I don’t have the power to despam myself. So, I’m responding to comments in my heart.

I’m the Girl Friday ’round here and that’s a little intimidating. My post comes up last after a week of very funny people. And I’ve been reading the posts and laughing out loud and then closing the page, drawing my blinds and putting my head under the covers because, dear god, can I hold my own? Am I funny enough? Don’t anyone answer that in comments, kay? Unless the answer is yes. My ego is fragile.

So this week, I’ve been thinking about topics to blog about. Things I think are funny. And I’ve thought of five things. But, when it came down to it, I couldn’t decide which was the best. So I thought I’d collect them here. And you can decide. But I’d rather you decide that they’re all funny because blog posts are like my babies. And when people don’t hand me awards and vibrators and chocolate for my blogging, well, it’s like hurting babies.

You wouldn’t do that, would you?

Of course not.

Here are the topics.

1) Doctor’s Scrubs on People Who Are Not Doctors

To all the nurses and medical assistants out there — holy fucking hell. Those pants always, always pull around your ass. You might try to disguise the ass pulling problem by wearing scrubby pants with tie-dyed teddy bears, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help at all. Because then I see you and think, that Grateful Dead looking mother fucker is the one who lost my co-payment and now I’m in collection because I’m trusting my medical history to people can’t get it together to put on regular office clothes, but rather, feel a self-important pair of pajamas will make them appear professional. And doctory. And like they have a PhD, but they do not. I do not. Only people who have the cojones to cut up cadavers get to be excused from pants that pull around their asses. They’re doctors! They save people! And office assistants don’t. I’m sorry. I’m a writer, which is like below medical assistant on the list of people who are useful to society. So if you’re a medical assistant and you’re pissed now, just consider the source. And take off those fucking pants.

2) I Really Missed Out on Being a Stripper in My Twenties.

I might be short and have a big ass and ordinary tits and I’m a brunette and I can’t walk in heels, and cheap perfume and/or anything melon scented gives me a headache, but I get this nagging sense that I missed out on something in my youth. I mean, being a stripper would have meant that I was in shape, had a lot of cash, and maybe I would have done blow at some point in my life, instead of how I am now — a 32 year old woman whose greatest drug story is about the time no one would sell her pot in Big Sur, California, which is a little like no one selling you Bain de Soleil in St. Tropez. And, if I were a stripper, then I bet someone, at some point, would have hit on me in a bar. Because, on the serious, I’ve never been hit on in a bar. And no, there is nothing wrong with my face.

3) Greenpeace

Hi, Greenpeace? Yeah, when you stand in front of the market and say things like, “Can you spare a minute of your time to save a baby seal?” or “You love the environment, right?” or “Whales are dying and unless you talk to me, they will rot on beaches all over the world,” I want to stop, pull the bloody carcass of a cormorant from my handbag and smother you with it. And that’s saying a lot, because for the past few weeks, I’ve been carrying my Dooney purse and that shit’s like gold, so for me to sully it with the blood of a bird just to make a point is a real commitment. But I will do it. Okay, maybe not with my Dooney, but perhaps with my Kate Spade.

4) 69

I need to most respectfully, and carefully and with the most amount of humility, totally disagree with Miss Rachael. 69 is one of my favorite things to do. I love the tension of it. I love the balance and the inherent confusion. It makes me feel like I’m back in high school. Wait, no. I didn’t have sex in high school. No. Not me. In college either. I only had sex when I got married. In fact, the only reason I got married was to 69. And rub it in all of those homosexuals’ faces that (HA!) I could get married and you can’t! Look at me! And then I got divorced for the same reason.

5) Magic Johnson Does Not Want to Hear About Your HIV

So I went to a breakfast a few days ago and Magic Johnson was there. And he was signing autographs and normally I don’t go in for autographs because I am a famous author and I just get so disgusted when people approach me and ask me to sign things and say things like, I love your work, and you’re my hero and here’s the Nobel prize for literature. And…god…the paparazzi. Enough already, you know?!? But I was at this breakfast, and Magic was talking about being an entrepreneur and how small business people need to something something I don’t know because I was checking out Andre Dubus III who was also up there and very cute.

And I decided that I should meet Magic Johnson and give him my business card. Because I’m zany. And I waited and waited and finally it was my turn and this old lady elbowed me and told Magic about how her daughter “has the HIV and she got it from a guy she only slept with once. ONCE, can you believe it? He’s a real loser. Now she has it. I thought maybe you could recommend some treatments.” And I was standing there, looking away, looking anywhere because oh my god, this woman is talking about her daughter’s HIV and holy shit, it’s Magic Johnson who has HIV. All this time, I thought it was Kareem Abdul-Jabar. I mean, all of those basketball players look the same, right? And I can’t treat him different just because I realized he has HIV. But I’m sort of mad at him a little because he spends all this time talking about how his businesses help black people but all he opens are chains like Starbucks that are not owned by black people, but rather rich white men. And tall former basketball players with HIV. Sheesh Magic, you could really help your community a little more.

And then it was my turn to speak with Magic and I wanted to come up with some STD he could advise me on because, right, he’s an STD guru or something. But I don’t have any STD’s, but I do have the ongoing desire to have a sty on my eye and for one split second, I thought maybe he’d know how I could get a sty on my eye and then subsequent treatments for sty removal. Because sties are cool.

Instead I handed him my business card and he high fived me (oh dear) and that was that.

Okay, so that was my blog post. I hope you enjoyed it. Crissy and Ken will return at some point in the future. And Crissy will be glad to see you all and Ken will download you some porn because he’s a porn agent, if you didn’t know.

I love those two.

Now, remember when you hear them coming, look busy!

MY COMMENT RESPONSES:
Rachael: Thanks for understanding. I think I’ll get a shirt that says something like I heart 69, please pick up on me. It will confuse men, but maybe one will be able to sort through the info.

Saratogajean: That’s an excellent requirement for scrubs!

Marie: Excellent question. He was sitting and I was standing.

KK: I’m 5′6″. I used to think I was tall, but then I was at a show in San Francisco and I realized that I couldn’t see a thing and that I was staring at people’s shoulders and that I was the shortest person there. So maybe in San Francisco I’m short, but elsewhere, I’m tall.

Joe: Thank you!

Rachael: Nummy. And confusing. Like 69.

HI! Oh Hiiiiii!!! It’s me - Kiala from Face of the Cookie!!!!

I am so excited to be here! Just, oh! SO EXCITED.

What? It’s what time where you are? Noon?

Well, okay, yes, I’m a little late yes. Ahem. Er. Ha.

Okay.

Look, I don’t know if you know but I have to be Crissy today and I am just not used to getting up so early and doing yoga and eating Fiber One cereal (that one task alone took up a good 45 minutes of my morning if you know what I mean). After that was over, I couldn’t wait to take my Crissy shower, HOWEVER, in the middle of putting on the blonde wig and getting undressed, Dane came in and well…um…let’s just say the idea of getting clean with a hot blonde librarian took that 10 minute shower to a whole new level.

To an ELEVEN minute shower..if you know what I mean.

Soooo, anyhooters, when that was over we went down to the basement to set up our photoshoot. Our apartment building doesn’t really have a basement, per se, so we had to use the lobby area. It has a fireplace. And coffee. And a concierge.

It was a little awkward.

Also, Dane was a bit flummoxed by my calling him Ken and asking him questions every five minutes like, “Ken, does this thong make my butt look awesome?” and “Ken, can you be a dear and skip down to the Starbucks? Crissy needs her green tea something terrible”.

Also, we had problems with some of the props.

The Barbies kept breaking. Probably because I was stepping on them with my bare feet and let me tell you, that shit hurts like a motherfucker.

Am I allowed to swear here?

(EVERYTHING IS SO ORANGE RIGHT NOW)

Anyway, the concierge was a dream and helped with the lighting and bra strap adjustment and wig placement and everything was turning out just really, really swell and then suddenly one of the geriatric residents of our building came swooping in on her motorized scooter and knocked my green tea over and the film was ruined.

I cried.

(SERIOUSLY, WHY IS EVERYTHING SO ORANGE? IS IT JUST ME?)

And Dane/Ken held me and said soothing things in my ear about klonopin and vodka and short shorts and babies and I knew everything was going to be ok but I was still all swollen in the eye and nose area and my thong was all wet with green tea.

So I called in sick to the Library Place. (I’ve never been to one but it sounds magical).

I think we may be fired.

Sorry Crissy! Enjoy your vacation!

Love,
Kiala

Further proof that I’m an 80 year old woman trapped in a 33 year old body.

I just came across a giant picture book about Tony Bennett.

Not for nothing, but Mista is lookin’ good. Super good.

I’d consider it kind of good.

I’m just sayin’.

No. 

I  did not watch the Superbowl last night because I do not care. 

Instead of tuning in for the big event and pigging out on yummy snacks, I opted for a far more relaxing octogenarian style evening.

First I had a nice shot of Tylenol Cold for Nighttime followed by a diet ginger ale with ice and a bendy straw instead of the traditional Superbowl Sunday Bud Light in a can.  

Rather than indulging in nachos and bacon wrapped cocktail weeines, I had a Hoodsie cup. Can you believe they don’t come with wooden spoons anymore? It’s an outrage!

And instead of watching the Patriots get their asses handed to them, I watched Antiques Roadshow.  A woman scored a touchdown when she found out that an old tiger maple desk she had in her attic was worth $34,000.  And you people missed it.

That is what excites me.   Ginger ale and Antiques Roadshow.

It’s true. 

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.

Nay, nay.

I’m dying.

Remember me fondly…