Emotional Response

So I bought some new deodorant. It wasn’t until I got home that I noticed the little sticker on the cap that read, “Extra Responsive in Emotional Moments.” After several days of wear I was about to throw it out because the constant smell of Powder Fresh armpits was making me nauseous. I realized that even the slightest emotional reaction caused it to activate and flood my nostrils with a scent strong enough to taste. It felt like my deodorant was antagonizing me—with every whiff I heard it say, “Stop being such an emotional woman!” I’m not a sweaty person; however, I am a passionate (“emotional,” whatever…) person, which apparently means I need a deodorant that will turn on whenever I have a feeling that’s slightly complicated.

Why do I need a deodorant that responds to my emotions in the first place? Emotions don’t make me sweat, sitting in a 100-degree conference room to watch a PowerPoint about consumer behavior makes me sweat, attempting to run a mile with my spastic dog makes me sweat, trying on clothes at Forever 21 makes me sweat. I’m sure there’s some kind of scientific validity behind creating emotionally responsive deodorant, but when it’s positioned next to the men’s deodorant, which all have stickers on the cap that say, “Protects Men Who Take Risks,” I have to stop, throw my breasts over my shoulder and put up my feminist fighting fists. Being a woman doesn’t make me emotional. Being a person who comes from a long line of emotional people and lives a busy, sort of stressful life makes me an emotional person. But men don’t need deodorant that responds to their emotions because the only thing that makes them sweat is heavy-lifting and all the manly activities they engage in, apparently. To suggest that women are the only ones who need protection from the physical reaction her body has to emotions is to suggest that we are the only ones who feel, and if we are the only ones who feel then why in the hell haven’t we conquered the world and made men obsolete?

Fine, I'll admit that sometimes I overreact in situations and that makes me seem “emotional,” I guess. But it’s usually after someone says one of my three crazy triggers:

1. “Stop overreacting!”
2. “Calm down!”
3. “Relax!”

Now my deodorant has become my fourth crazy trigger because every time I get another heavy whiff of Powder Fresh armpits, I get defensive and emotional over the fact that it thinks I’m being emotional. I feel like screaming, “You don’t know me! You don’t know how I feel! You’re just another thing I do to disguise my real smell that maybe also gives me cancer later in life! So stop pretending to be smart because you’re NOT!”

And after typing that, all I can smell is Powder Fresh armpits...again.

Big News

I got a new job. Please, please—hold your applause until the end.

It all happened so fast. One minute I’m sitting alone in a tiny office, writing fart jokes for greeting cards and—BOOM!—the next thing I know I’m in a fancy downtown agency that has a ping pong table, beer on tap and awards lining the walls, trying to write copy for a major fast-food joint. I wasn’t looking for a new job but this just kind of fell into my lap—I know, I hate people who have that kind of luck too. But remember, it was only a mere 18 months ago when I was drowning in the despair of unemployment, thinking I would never find a writing job and then, just when I was about to give up and start cleaning rich people’s toilets, I found a great job which has since led me to another great job. I’m not going to say anything about the power of a positive attitude or about how the economy is getting better because optimism makes me feel dirty, but I will say that perseverance in the face of total shit does pay off. If it weren’t for this blog and my Twitter addiction, I wouldn’t have gotten this new job. That being said, I still can’t believe there are people out there who are willing to pay me to put words on paper.

I started my new job about six weeks ago and so far I love it. Although I wouldn’t have admitted this a few months ago, I missed the hustle and bustle of the ad world. I missed stressing out about other people’s problems. I missed having to work late because I was needed. I missed powering through a ten-hour workday on three hours of sleep. I missed being challenged and pushed to my limit. I know, I’m a total masochist.

Although I worked in advertising before my stint as a greeting card writer, I never worked in the creative department. Creative departments at advertising agencies are like beehives, we’re all responsible for our own pollinating; yet we’re all dependent on a queen. The queen bee is mostly the client, but can also be a creative director, an account manager, the economy, anything—the point is, even though we have the freedom to fly wherever we want, buzzing and stinging shit, our survival is contingent on a much larger entity, which provides us with the work to do. And if the queen bee dies, the beehive has only a short window of time to replace her before the entire hive is compromised and all of the worker bees die. So, uh...long live the queen! I guess?

Despite my uncanny ability to put people off by acting like a total ass, everyone I’ve met has been extremely nice and welcoming. I get the feeling that my coworkers are trying really hard to not seem too stressed out or pissed off around me, which is adorable and flattering. Apparently I started at a really busy time because at least once a day someone tells me, “I promise, it’s not usually like this.” I haven’t told anyone how much I enjoy being a busy bee. I just smile and nod a lot because 90 percent of the time I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, which makes everyday an exercise in not looking like a total idiot. For instance, it was my second or third day when an email came through regarding a project for a client.

“Can you do a download at 10:30 this morning?” it said.

I sat at my desk, reading and rereading the email. What download? Am I supposed to download something? Am I supposed to download myself? Can you do that now? There was no attachment to the email, no instructions, so I just replied, “Sure,” hoping more information would come to me as a result. I waited 30 minutes and there was no response. It was 10:15. I was running out of time to figure out this whole download thing, so I decided to consult a nearby coworker.

“Hey, uh, Sarah? Can you tell me what this means?” I gestured towards my computer screen as if it was full of hieroglyphics I needed to interpret.

“Sure. What’s up?” she said, rolling her chair over to my desk.

“So, I got this email and it says I need to do a download but it doesn’t say anything about what the download is, where I get it, how I get it, and I’m apparently supposed to do this by 10:30,” I said, trying to disguise the panic in my voice.

“What?” Sarah leaned in to read the email. “Oh! No, no, not like a computer download. It means they’re going to download you on a project, like, they’re going to tell you about it. It’s like a verbal creative brief." My insides turned to stone and I cringed.

“Oh, I see. Well, I feel stupid now.”

“Don’t. It’s industry lingo. You’ll get a hang of it,” she said and rolled back to her desk like it was no big deal I had just spent the last 45 minutes trying to figure out how download some mysterious file for a meeting.

“Cool. I get it, yeah…well, I’m going to go get downloaded now…I’m going to get the down-low, the DL, the—”

“It’s just download, nothing else,” she said.

“Right, I was just—yeah, cool, never mind…okay, I’m going to do that.”

Since then I’ve said and done countless other dumb things. I don’t know enough yet to know how dumb I seem, but that’s what learning is, right? You throw yourself into the unknown, try to fake your way through it until you get a hang of things and then you look back and squirm with embarrassment every time you think of what you were before you became what you are now. It’s hard. It’s tough. It’s stressful. It’s everything I ever wanted, for now.

Home Sweet Home

All right, I’m just going to skip all the usual, “Sorry I’ve been away, blah, blah, blah” bullshit and get straight to it…I BOUGHT A HOUSE! Well, we, my boyfriend Steve and I, bought a house. Together. To live in for, like, longer than a year. I KNOW! I crapped my big girl pants, too!

It all happened really fast in the slowest way possible. One day we were carefree renters and the next we were homeowners, give or take a few months. The process of searching for a house was not what I expected. It was a lot like shopping for jeans, you think it’s going to be fun because it’s shopping, but somewhere around the tenth pair of muffin top-inducing denim and the salesperson’s rude “Can I get you another size, ma’am?” questions that sound like, “Can I get you another doughnut, fatty?” you decide to boycott jeans and invest in more pants with elastic waistbands. Every house we looked at I found a problem with, whether it was location, size or the way the air inside made my skin feel weird and jumpy. People kept telling us, “Don’t worry, you’ll know it when you find it.” Know what? I wondered. “You’ll just walk in, and you’ll know that it’s the one,” they said. Once this was in my head it made things even harder. I walked into every house we looked at expecting to have an epiphany, but I never did. In the end, the house we bought was the one with the least problems, the best neighborhood, the greatest value, and the fewest weird smells.

Once we put an offer down and signed the contract, we spent two months wondering if we had made the right decision; I still didn’t have that feeling, I didn’t know if it was “the one.” We moved in on the hottest weekend in June. After a day of hauling boxes and sweating on everything we owned, Steve and I took a break and stood in the front yard, looking our new home in the face. It had been sunny all day but suddenly the sky was tornado green and the temperature felt different at my knees than it did at my shoulders. Steve grabbed my hand.

“This is our house,” he said.
“I know. It’s so…adulty,” I said.
“Yeah, but, adulty in a good way, right?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I hate it when you say “sure.” “Sure” never means sure when you say it.”
“Sure?”
“Look, we can put a beer pong table in the front yard…and Bob Marley posters on the walls…and never do the dishes…will that make it less adulty for you?”
“I don't know. I feel like the owners of this house should wear snazzy pantsuits and carry briefcases and play in the stock market and have well-trained dogs,” I said, glancing at the front window where I could see our dog Bear chewing on the curtains.
“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” he said.
“Well, don’t you kind of feel like we don’t go with this house?”
“I think it’s our job to make this house go with us,” he said. In that moment I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to smack him or kiss him, but that’s usually how I feel when I know he’s right.
“Good. I hate snazzy pantsuits,” I said.
“Me too. Let’s go inside before it rains on us.”

What followed was a week of torrential downpours. Streets were running rivers, yards were flooded pools and everyone with a basement had water or sewage coming in, everyone except us. Since the house we rented last had a lot of basement issues, we were keeping a close eye on ours, going down there every day to check for leaks, but despite the record amount of rainfall it remained dry. That’s when we heard it…drip…drop…drip, drip, drip…drop.

“I think it’s coming from the attic,” Steve said. We grabbed a flashlight and opened the secret passageway-like door that’s in the back of a closet and climbed into the attic. The dripping noises got louder, I held my breath and Steve held the flashlight.

“What. The. Hell. Is. THAT!” I said, pointing to a dark, spreading puddle where the roof meets the ground.
“Shit! Okay, no big deal, no big deal. We can handle this,” Steve said.
“By handle, you mean call someone to fix it, right?”
“Well, yeah. But for now we are going to have to fix it ourselves. Go get me some pots and pans. And some towels. And a hammer—no, a screwdriver, Phillips!”
“I hate everything about what you just said.”
“I’m not going to do anything major—I’m just going to try to keep it from leaking through ceiling,” he said.
“IT CAN LEAK THROUGH THE CEILING?!”

We’ve called roofers and contractors and they all say the same thing: we need a new ruff. I don’t know what the hell a “ruff” is, but apparently it’s going to cost us our savings. We’ve had other disasters pop up along the way, but that's all part of what makes being a homeowner "fun," according to the sarcastic assholes we call friends and family. Sometimes I think of it as getting to know a new person who has a lot of weird quirks, but sometimes I’m sober and I think of it as a monster trying to eat us. One of my friends said, “buying a house is like marrying a pickpocket,” which seems pretty accurate. Although, in our case, I think it’s more like Steve and I married a golddigger that just happens to be a 1,400-square foot Cape Cod.

It's no secret that becoming homeowners has been most gratifying for our parents, who, after years of not knowing or understanding anything, suddenly have all the answers. When something goes wrong, they are the first people we call.

Voicemail 1:
Hey, Dad! It's me...listen, when you get a chance, give me a call. We have these holes all over our yard...like, crittery rodent holes. Anyway, yeah, I don't know what they're from, but when you get a chance just call me. Okay, bye!

Voicemail 2:
Hi, Dad, it's me again. Just wondering if you got my last message. Oh, also, our kitchen sink is leaking. Should we just get down there and tighten some pipes, I mean, can you even tighten pipes? I don't get it. Okay, call me!

Voicemail 3:
Dad, it's me, where are you? I've found, like, ten spiders INSIDE today! What do I do? Exterminators are too expensive and all those sprays are toxic. So, yeah, I don't know where you are, but call your daughter back!

Voicemail 4:
DAD! We bought a desk and it won't fit through the door! Should we try to put it through the window? It looks bigger than the doorway but it's really heavy—oh, CRAP! Got to go! Call me!

Voicemail 5:
ARGHHHHHHH!

"Hello?"
"FINALLY! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? DID YOU GET MY MESSAGES? WHY HAVEN'T YOU RETURNED MY CALLS?!"
"Quinn, I was in a meeting. My phone was off for an hour, you left five messages. What's wrong?"
"Oh, an hour? Huh, well it felt like a lot longer than that. Anyway, I need your help..."

I wasn't prepared for this sudden role reversal. Now they are the ones avoiding our calls and coming up with excuses as to why they didn't call us back. Sometimes my dad even does the whole hanging up while saying goodbye thing because he can’t get me off the phone: “Yeah, okay, yep, right…okay, got to go, yeah, love you too, okay, really have to go now, uh-huh, all right…bye!” But that’s usually only after the tenth or eleventh time I've called him that day, or hour, whatever.

We’ve been living in our house for a little over a month now, and sure, sometimes it’s a monster, but everyday it becomes a little bit more our monster than it was the day before and there’s something endlessly satisfying about that. I spent eight hours working in the yard yesterday; by the end of it I was covered in scratches and bite marks, so I guess it’s debatable who worked whom, but the important point is: progress was made. At first I was trying to figure out what every plant was before I did anything but then I just decided that if I didn’t like it, I was going to pull it out, because it's my house and I can do whatever I want! Six huge bags of yard debris later, our front yard looks…clean—okay, maybe I got a little carried away and now there are some bald spots, but no big deal, I’m totally going to plant some new stuff that will look WAY better than that stupid, fancy, sharp, spiky grass that was popping out everywhere. Besides, this homeowner thing is a learning process, and sometimes I just have to figure it out as I go along. Of course, “reorganizing” $3,000 worth of landscaping the previous owner did was an expensive lesson but at least I learned something...like, that I'm still definitely allergic to poison ivy.

She take our money, well we’re in need
Yeah she's a triflin' house indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over time
That digs on me…

Emergency

"Yes, hello, I'm calling because I'd like to exchange this life for a cooler one. I have my birth certificate, will that suffice as a receipt? I know it's been used but it's just not what the description said it would be. What's that? You want to know if this is an emergency? Uh, yeah, I'm pretty sure it is...I mean, it's my life and all. Excuse me? I am not out of line! I got this life and it did not turn out the way I expected, I believe that means I either get to return it or exchange it for one that doesn't suck...Alright...You know what? I've had about enough of your rude, condescending attitude! I want to speak to your manager!"


Worst. Customer. Service. Ever.


Really.





The people at 9-1-1 are total assholes.

It's Been Too Long...

I know. I'm sorry.

What?

OHMYGODISAIDIWASSORRY!

Gah, stop yelling at me...

I've been really busy lately. I know in the past I may have used the word "busy" when I actually meant "lazy," but this time when I say "busy" I mean, I've had so little down time that my couch had to schedule an appointment with my ass in order for me to write this. If you don't believe me you can talk to my couch.

Or don't.
Whatever.
I don't care.

But I wanted to let you know that I've been busy because a lot of exciting changes (I've been abducted) and new developments (by alien zombies) have been happening in my life, which I plan to share with you (if they don't eat my brains first) as soon as I have a chance (send help).

So stay tuned for a juicy post coming to your computer soon.

In the meantime, because I know you miss me almost as much as my couch misses me, feel free to check out my Twitter feed and follow me; it's an uncensored version of Quinnterruption and a designated dumping zone for my brain. I post whatever pops into head throughout the day in 140 characters or less, but if you're easily offended by fart jokes, odd topical references and general nonsense you might not be into it, in fact, you might want to stop reading this blog altogether.

Battling The Panty Giant

I recently opened my mailbox to find something so horrific and disturbing that I dropped to my knees and screamed, “Nooooooooooooooooooooooo! Why? Why god, why?” My anguished cries alerted several nosey neighbors, who rushed over to ask if I was okay.

“Yeah, it’s just...Victoria’s Secret put me back on their mailing list. That’s all,” I said and the neighbors dispersed, whispering things about drama and queens.

I stood in front of my mailbox, staring into the vacant eyes of the swollen-mouthed “angel” who was posed on the cover wearing a nude bra and underwear set that blended with her flawlessly airbrushed skin making the absence of areolas the only real indication that she wasn’t totally naked, and I whispered, “How did you find me?” She didn’t respond, which didn’t surprise me because I’m sure it’s hard to talk with all that collagen and Botox, so I retreated inside to pour a glass of wine and revise my interrogation tactic. I reviewed the contents of my underwear drawer—nothing new. Noting this as evidence, I realized I haven't purchased anything from Victoria’s Secret since the last time I tried to go bra shopping and was bombarded by an all-too-eager saleswoman and her measuring tape, which she used to tell me I was wearing the wrong bra size without even considering for a moment that maybe it was a deliberate decision, like the size six pants I’m still stuffing myself into. After changing my address and keeping a restraining order’s distance between myself and every Victoria’s Secret store, I managed to enjoy one catalog-free year until those padded bra peddlers found me. I might still shop at Victoria’s Secret, despite the catalogs and harassment endured during my bra fitting, if they weren’t so intent on catering to the barely legal demographic while simultaneously encouraging adult women to dress like Tara Reid. Also—holy high prices! Who decided it was okay to pay $30 for a piece of floss made of lace spun by child laborers? I now make a point to shop at places that offer more sensible and affordable products, like Wal-Mart. I guess I’m just past the point of wanting to wear a bedazzled piece of string as underwear and I’m slowly coming to terms with my body’s natural attraction to granny panties.

In the last month I received four Victoria’s Secret catalogs: one for their winter sale, one for their spring clothing line, one for their bathing suit line and one for their “we’ll give you $10 off your purchase if you pretend it’s 1997 and order something from our catalog” sale. I’m not a huge environmentalist—I use disposable razors, I don’t always turn off the water as I’m brushing my teeth and I drive a gas-guzzling SUV—but I do occasionally buy green cleaning products so I feel entitled to say that based on their output of one million catalogs per day, Victoria’s Secret might as well burn Styrofoam and feed it to polar bears.

Obviously we cannot stand by and watch Victoria’s Secret destroy our world and kill our children (okay, that part might be a little dramatic) with their catalogs. We must take a stand against this lingerie overlord by going commando! Just kidding, I like not being blind.

You may recall an environmental campaign against Victoria’s Secret catalog production in 2004; since then, Victoria’s Secret claims to have cleaned up their act, leading the campaigners to find new causes to fight for and bigger trees to chain themselves to. But I, for one, am not ready to surrender to the panty giant, which is why I devised several plans of attack.

Plan A: If I receive one more Victoria’s Secret catalog this month, I am going to collect sap from every tree I can find and take it to the nearest Victoria’s Secret store where I will wipe it in the crotch of every pair of underwear I can get my hands on. Then all of the disgruntled customers with sticky vaginas will join my crusade (or beat me up, whatever) and I will have an army of haters on my side.

Plan B: Take all of the sap collected for Plan A and mail it to Victoria’s Secret headquarters with a note that says, “These are the tears of the trees you’re killing in order to send me 90 pages of half-naked women wearing heinously impractical and uncomfortable lingerie every month.”

If both Plan A and Plan B fail, Plan C is to put my name on the Do Not Mail List and resign myself to a boring, unimaginative one-woman protest.

I’m on to your secret, Victoria. I know you have zombie underwear models searching top-secret databases for the people who had to move in order to escape your catalog’s mailing list. I know you want to kill polar bears. I know you want to sell an already over-sexed generation of young women under garments with “SEXY” or “PINK” scrawled across the crotch because, how else will they gain self-esteem? I know you think you’re helping out millions of teenage boys and their fathers by sending countless catalogs to their mothers and wives every month under the guise of an obnoxious tagline like, “I Love My Body.” I know you know that real women don’t look through your catalog and think, “Wow, I really do love my body!” I know you know that real women think they might love their body if they buy a leopard print babydoll nightie and matching thong to wrap around their cellulite for $60 (plus shipping). And I know you killed Inigo Montoya’s father (okay, fine, maybe you didn’t kill Inigo Montoya’s father yourself, but I bet your people’s people had a hand in it, or something).

So prepare yourself, Vickie. You and your army of emaciated supermodels are about to get sapped by me and my granny-panty-clad posse of yet to be determined millions.



NOTE: This post is meant to be humorous.* Please do not embarrass me and yourself by taking it too seriously or I will be forced to file a fun-killer lawsuit, which will included harsh language regarding “your panties” being “in a wad.”

*Unless you are part of Victoria’s Secret corporate stratosphere, in which case, I totally mean it and you should probably give me a gift certificate for eleventy billion dollars in order to make it up to me or else…(you know, the whole sap thing).

I'm a Big Damn Deal (in my own mind)

Guess what? I was interviewed by Sue London for her blog's Fresh Voices series. I know, I can't believe someone besides an employer or my dad or the police wanted to interview me either (to be fair, I don't think Sue knew what she was getting into when she asked me). Anyway, I would really like it if you would visit her blog, read my interview and leave compliments—I mean—comments, because I will be quizzing you later (not really...well, maybe).

Here's a little teaser:

5. What most attracts you to the life of a writer?

Absolutely nothing. Do you think I’m a sadist? There’s nothing attractive about the life of a writer, unless you excel at self-loathing, lying and already hate almost everything, which I do...(To continue reading the rest of this amazing answer, just click here.)

Who Wears the Pants?

For those of you who don't know, I have a Soft-Coated Wheaten Terror, I mean, Terrier named Bear. In the eighteen months that we've lived together, Bear and I have developed an interesting relationship. Below is just a taste of our daily interactions.

(Cesar Millan, if you're reading this, we need your help - please come whisper to my dog! Also, we really want to be on TV, so...call me!)


[Scene: An angry human and incorrigible dog stand in a cramped kitchen. There is a garbage bag in the corner oozing its contents from a hole that has been gnawed into the side making the floor a sea of shredded trash.]

Me: DAMNIT BEAR!

Bear: You know, if I wasn’t so smart I would think my name was “Damnit Bear” by now.

Me: Seriously? You have to be kidding me!

Bear: What? It’s just a couple paper towels torn into a million little shreds…

Me: Look at this mess!

Bear: I was trying to teach you a lesson. You use way too many paper towels. It’s bad for the environment.

Me: You are a BAD BOY!

Bear: Relax—look, I’ll help you pick it up.

Me: NO! DROP IT! BAD!

Bear: Fine…I didn’t want to help anyway.



[A few minutes later…]

Me: We need to talk…

Bear: I know, except I can’t talk, remember?

Me: Just because you never see me wear pants, doesn't mean I don’t wear the pants in this house...do you understand?

Bear: Sure, yeah, whatever.

[Pause]

Me: Did you fart?

Bear: Uh…?

Me: No, you didn’t. Want to know why? Because I did…I’m the farter AND the pantsless pants wearer!

Bear: Well at least your title sounds convincing.

Me: Yeah…Who’s a good boy?

Bear: I am.

Me: Who’s a good boy?

Bear: Me.

Me: Yeah? Is Bear a good boy?

Bear: Do we have to do this every time? I said, me—I’m a good boy.

Me: Yes you are! Now come lay down…

Bear: But I’m not tired.

Me: Lay down, Bear.

Bear: No.

Me: LAY. DOWN.

Bear: No treat, no lay.

Me: Fine.

Bear: Hey, where are you going?

Me: No, no...stay! Apparently I need to put on some pants.

The Gift of Exercise

For Christmas I was given two yoga mats. Yes, TWO yoga mats, and both are the exact same shade of “I hate exercise” purple. I can take a hint, so I spent January going to yoga class…twice. What? It was a REALLY intense two classes and it seemed fitting, given the two yoga mats.

Since February I’ve been to yoga a few more times, but only because I now have a plethora of yoga mats and I need to determine which one is the best so that I can do something totally ridiculous with the others. After testing it out, I’ve realized that one of the new purple yoga mats is skinnier than I am and the last thing I need is my yoga mat making me feel like a doublewide on a narrow country road. The other new purple mat is quite nice, although it lacks the necessary squishiness to make me feel buoyant and light while downward dogging. And my other yoga mat is my old yoga mat, and it’s, well…it’s old. So I guess each mat has its own flaws but it doesn’t matter which one I keep, what does matter is what I decide to do with the extra two. Here are my ideas:

1. Send one to my sister, who will hate it and yell at me: “Whoa, bitch! Are you calling me fat?”
2. Use them as napping mats. Remember napping mats from kindergarten? I had one that was blue on one side and red on the other side and it folded up into a little rectangle. I miss nap time so hard. If yoga was more like nap time I would go everyday.
3. Watch Aladdin and sing “A Whole New World” while pretending the yoga mat is a magic carpet.
4. Use it as padding in the dog’s crate…for five minutes or until he chews it to shreds.
5. Pad the coffee table edges because it keeps attacking my shins in the dark.
6. Fashion them into a pair of riding chaps. Then find a horse to ride.
7. Make placemats. Then figure out why people use placemats.
8. Cut out hearts and cover them in glitter to make Valentine’s Day cards.
9. Freeze them. Whenever I don’t know what to do with something, freezing it always seems like a good way to not make a decision.
10. Donate the two extra mats to Haiti because that’s apparently what earthquake victims need. Forget about silly things like food, water, shelter and money - the people of Haiti need yoga mats!

Whatever I decide to do with the extra yoga mats I’m going to keep going to yoga, at least until my new student special runs out next week and they're all, “hey you can’t come to class unless you pay!” and I’m all, “watch me steal your yoga!” and they’re all, “we’re calling the cops!” and I’m all, “namaste, bitches!” and then I run away and find a new studio who accepts me and my napping mat.

Living With Forgotten Ideas

Like diarrhea, you never know when a good idea is going to hit you. I've found that I often get ideas as I'm drifting off to sleep because this is when my brain decides to work after a long day of faking it. For this reason I started leaving a pen and a notebook on the nightstand (I learned my lesson about not writing anything on my hand or arm after the day I walked around with "sunflower seeds forget elephants" imprinted on my cheek).

An idea that comes to me in the middle of the night or as I'm falling asleep always seems like the BEST IDEA I'VE EVER HAD. Of course, this is almost never true. Sometimes I wake up excited the next day because I remember the feeling of a brilliant idea, but that excitement generally fades when I try to make sense of what I wrote down.

For example, I have no idea what "Twins—ugly and pretty—blame each other for face parts" means but I'm sure in my half-awake state it made sense. Here are a few more things I've jotted down in the wee hours and never made sense of:

"Jealousy has big teeth."
"Like salty popsicles - life and freezer burn."
"Big crosses and fancy purses."
“Falling from Tyra’s forehead.”
"Carry-on body."
"You are everyone here – a hate pit."
"Looney Tunes t-shirts."
"Coupon cutting condescension."
"Are you smarter than a Brit?"
“Life-ing my live.”
"Hammered and nails - not drunk."
"Ovaries song - hip thrusts to techno Babies beat."
“A sandwich shop for feelings.”
"Shitting crumbs."
"Unbroken is bad, break the window."
"New area codes—I don't get one."

There’s something about getting paid to be creative that messes with your ability to judge your own ideas. So instead of playing gatekeeper, you just start writing down every half-formed idea you have and thinking, “maybe this will make sense another day,” even though you’re almost sure it never will. But there’s always the chance, the hope for inspiration and that’s why I can’t throw away anything I write, whether scribbled or typed, because maybe one day all of my orphaned ideas will come together and make babies and live happily ever after…or maybe you’ll just see me on "Hoarders."

"Booty Pop"

New inventions are happening everyday. This is something I benefited from until I woke up old one day. Now, every new invention feels like another thing to learn, another thing to spend money on and another thing that’s just a few years too late. Once you graduate from the limelight of the 18- to 24-year-old demographic and you’re no longer the apple of every retailer’s eye, you fall into the grey, ambivalent area of 25- to 34-year-olds and new products don’t really appeal to anything other than your bitterness. So when I came across Booty Pop, I assumed my reaction was like many other 25- to 34-year-olds: Seriously? WTF!



According to the commercial, Booty Pop will give you a “sexier, more desirable booty instantly,” and it’s just like a “padded bra for your butt!” Every claim made my heart sink deeper into my protruding gut. As a curvy female who is proud to have something to shake, even if it is her upper arm, I feel conflicted. Is this a sign that society has finally become accepting of women with curves, with imitation (or simulation) being the most sincere form of flattery? Or is this just another way for skinny girls to get ahead, by perpetuating an unrealistic body type? I settled on the latter because in a society where Kim Kardashian can be famous for more than 15 minutes because she has an ass big enough to have its own zip code, Booty Pop is anything butt a step in the right direction for women and body image.

As the commercial says, “Booty Pop turns a droopy derriere into a youthful looking, head turning, bootylicious booty,” it cuts to scenes of men checking out women’s asses in inappropriate settings because, how else would you know you look hot? No one seems to care about how all these newly bootyfied women are going to be wearing dirty underwear all the time, because, you know, cleanliness is a virtue second only to hotness.

At this point in my life, I see a commercial for something like Booty Pop and the 18- to 24-year-old inside of me giggles while the 25- to 34-year-old inside of me rolls her eyes, swallows a regurgitation of feminist theory, and bitterly reflects on the past. I have spent the last decade overeating in hopes of one day having an ass like JLo, so you can imagine my disappointment when – after nine years of hard work, dedication and a strict diet of doughnuts, McDonald’s, beer and cheese cubes – someone decides to go and invent padded underwear.

So, you know what Booty Pop? You owe me 20 pounds of cellulite.

(And I don't think it's a coincidence that "Booty Pop" is one dangerous typo away from being "Booty Poop.")

Without Resolution

New Year’s resolutions remind me of tired Clinton/Lewinsky jokes that aren’t good enough to leave a stain (see what I did there?).

I used to make resolutions every year until I realized it’s all a part of society’s maniacal plan to turn us into productive, focused and disciplined individuals. By maintaining a steady routine, I’m able to break and reinstate every New Year’s resolution multiple times throughout the year, which means my resolutions are green because I recycle them year after year (Al Gore says it’s good for the environment). These recycled resolutions are:

1. Quit smoking (Or only smoke when I drink. Cocktail anyone?)
2. Lose ____ pounds (This year we are in the double double digits.)
3. Stop complaining so much (But it’s so hard!)
4. Eat healthier (These cookies are organic.)
5. Write more (Why not? No one reads this crap anyway.)

Usually I start the New Year off by attacking these resolutions with gusto for at least two days before I get bored and forget about them until March, but something about 2009 left a bad taste in my mouth and I’m not ready to face another year of the same resolutions. When I thought about changing my resolutions I was put off by the thought of anything coming before these five main goals, which I’ve become attached to over the years. Still, it’s like I keep hitting the snooze button on 2010. At this point, February is looking like a much better time to start working towards having Jenny McCarthy’s body by bathing suit season. But then I thought, “I can’t start on my New Year’s resolutions while people still have their Christmas lights up!” and because I live in Kansas City, this means I won’t get started on my resolutions until mid-March, maybe April (people really like their Christmas decorations here). But if I manage to accomplish one of those five goals this year, does it really matter when I start trying? Besides, January is the coldest, most depressing, uneventful month of the year and it’s hilarious to think I’m going to accomplish anything while I wait out this misery from the comfort of my couch.

For me, resolutions are like empty boxes wrapped in beautiful paper artfully adorned with ribbons and bows—meaningless, but nice as decoration. I won't be fooled into self-improvement this year just to set unreasonable expectations for myself and wallow in the disappointment of inevitable failure. So, to media targeting my guilt and feelings of inadequacy at the start of the New Year: Stop bombarding me with your resolution suggestions, top tens, anecdotes, advice and try reporting on something relevant, like how to shovel a driveway with a fork when everyone is sold out of snow shovels.

Maybe I’ll jump on the resolution bandwagon in June when everyone has given up hope and canceled their gym memberships, but for now I plan to focus on not bettering myself until I’m ready. So goodbye to 2009, I’m off like an intern’s blue dress and onto 2010.

Notice of Eviction

Dear Mice Living in My House,

I wanted to write you this letter to see if we might be able to reach an agreement regarding your stay in my house.

We have never met, but I’m almost certain I do not like you. Based on the few occasions in which you’ve been spotted, it has come to my attention that you exhibit none of the qualities I require for mouse tenants. For example, none of you are anything like the mice in Cinderella—you don’t sing, dance, make dresses, act as my confidant or turn into ponies to pull my pumpkin carriage. Additionally, you are not cute, cuddly or brave, and, again, you cannot sing, which tells me you’re nothing like Fievel, my second favorite mouse character (the mice in Cinderella being number one). You also do not have big round ears that I want to wear as a hat or cute, high-pitched voices, and you don’t have awesome friends like Donald Duck and Goofy, which means you’ve completely failed to be anything like Mickey and Mini Mouse.

Based on the top tier of my requirements, you are all complete disappointments; however, this is not to say you wouldn’t be welcomed in my home because few people, I mean, few mice meet all of the top requirements. Let us move on to the second, far more attainable, tier and see how you measure up. We will begin by acknowledging the fact that you’re not rats. This is a positive, but your lack of secrets and someone named Mrs. Frisby is not, meaning you’re nothing like your brethren in The Secret Rats of NIMH. To further support that point, you’re all cowards, constantly scattering from sight so that I’m left tormented by your sounds and questioning my sanity. Since I’m fairly certain most of you have set up shop under the refrigerator where you are living fat, happy lives, I assume none of you are anything like the brave mice in “The Rescuers,” my next favorite group of mice characters. Lastly, I do not have a cat, I have a slow-brained dog with A.D.D., which means you can’t be like Jerry, who is cute, adorable, funny and smart.

Now that we’ve established your failure to meet the criteria in the second tier as set forth in my requirements for mouse tenants, we can move on to evaluating your performance in the third tier. Your performance in the third tier matters very little as I’ve pretty much already decided I want to kill you, so this part is really just a formality. I've already noted that you're not rats and since I'm very aware of your presence, you obviously don’t have any ninja skills, meaning you have nothing in common with Master Splinter, which tells me you would be terrible at protecting me from danger. Next, I don’t see capes, or any other superhero gear hiding in the closet and none of you can fly, so you’re clearly nothing like Mighty Mouse. And finally, judging from your blatant, taunting strolls from behind the television and into the vents, I do not believe that any of you have the "shy, pleasant manner of a mouse" such as one Stuart Little.

Since you have failed to meet all of the requirements in my three tiers of acceptable qualities found in mice tenants, it is only natural for me to assume that you also have nothing in common with the Dormouse from Alice in Wonderland, Despereaux from The Tale of Despereaux, or Chuck E. Cheese.

Based on this thorough evaluation, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that you are no longer welcome in my home, yes, that’s right, not even in the basement. Your eviction will take place immediately and you will be given one week from today, that is seven days, to evacuate. Failure to evict within the allotted time will result in your forceful removal from the premises, which may or may not be fatal. It is not the wishes of the establishment to inflict harm on you or your belongings; however, we did go to Home Depot, and, well, we’re just saying, you’re totally screwed if you don’t leave on your own because some of us didn’t see the point in providing you with a proper eviction notice before, you know, “taking care of you” (you’re lucky I believe in fair housing and equal opportunity, even for disgusting rodents).

I urge you to comply with this invitation to leave peacefully. I would also encourage you to appeal this eviction notice, but lacking all of the important anthropomorphic features noted above, I doubt it is even option. Should you have any questions, I suggest you learn to talk.

Best wishes for a bright future!

Sincerely,
The Human You’re Really Pissing Off