It’s official. There have been more celebrity deaths in the last 365 days than L&L blog posts.

16 Feb

hi there, kiddos.

it’s been awhile.  how is everyone no one?  

there’s something nice about writing into an empty blogosphere.  two things that were really getting to me about this blog: (1) fame; (2) fortune.  that public eye was really exhausting.  to all my remaining readers – hi, mom – welcome back. i’m happy you’re here.

*disclaimer: the likelihood that my mother actually reads this blog is negligible at best.*

i thought about writing an organized recap – breaking this up into the  days and weeks and months since i last posted – but the thought of doing that just overwhelmed me. so allow me to overwhelm you instead:

i went to italy all by myself and it was wonderful. amy winehouse died.  i got sixteen manicures.  i made poor life choices, and a few good ones – all of which involved boys, booze, or some combination thereof.  i explored – dupont circle and u street and h street and capital hill – and remembered again (and again and again) how much i love this city.  steve jobs died, and i was sadder than i could ever have expected.  don’t ask don’t tell was repealed, and i felt better about the people in charge (for a little while).  i moved to a sweet little apartment outside the city and walking distance to the bar. as a result, i saved on cab fare and spent on whiskey.  i went to brazil for 24 hours for my grandmother’s 80th birthday.  joe paterno resigned and everyone seemed to miss the point.  i guest bartended at my favorite dive bar.  my roommate and i hosted friendsgiving (and my culinary contributions to the event were box mashed potatoes and many bottles of cheap wine.  the 99% got angry.  i learned how to make a breakfast sandwich.  i spent christmas in new york and visited old friends for the last week of 2011.  for the first time in several years, i didn’t kiss anyone on new year’s eve.  (i was strangely okay with it.)  i actually started training for that marathon (it’s in october.  and i can now run uphill, in case you were wondering.)  i decided to apply to teach for america, and realized that my shoe addiction is less pronounced than my desire to love my job.  i drank approximately 600 cups of coffee.  whitney houston died.  i had the best valentines day i’ve had in years… without a date.  we still don’t know who is going to be president come january 2013.  i ate a lot of pizza. 

instalife:

ImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImageImage

 

 

…. peace out, homesnake. 

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Mid-Year’s Dissolutions: How Vacation Makes Me A Better Person

8 Jul

First, let me say this – vacation as a concept is SPOT ON.  I’d like to take the opportunity to salute whomever it was that invented flying to foreign lands, drinking and eating too much, and neglecting work responsibilities.  Good call.  And vacation seems to have a restorative effect, too, which makes us imagine ourselves to be better people than our real lives allow us to be. I realized today, while driving down a mountain in Provence, having had more drinks with lunch than I’ve had since… the last time my boss and I had a marketing-arita luncheon (a lunch that involves the eating of taquitos and the drinking of margaritas, with only sporadic conversation about our company’s marketing strategy), that vacation always feels like a clean slate.  Every time I go on vacation, I act like it’s New Year’s Eve and burden myself with resolution after resolution.  And when I get back, I act like it’s New Year’s Day and forget each and every one.  So, in the hope that you won’t allow me to shirk these, I’m posting them here.  Complete with interior monologue (my conscience is a bitch!).  

  • Eat healthier
Iz’s Subconscious: This should be easy, you think, I haven’t craved McDonalds once since I’ve been here!  Yeah, dumbass, that’s because you’re in the French countryside where a) there is no McDonalds and b) everything other people cook you is way better than anything you could make or buy.  Nice sentiment, though – way to be completely unrealistic.
  • Train for that marathon
Iz’s Subconscious: This one is even more ridiculous.  I know I’m just your subconscious, but were you there today when you could barely run up the hill to get out of the way of that truck?  Or when you complained of boredom after walking for 45 minutes?  Do you know how long a marathon is, genius?  Let me spell it out for ya.  26.2 miles.  For you that’s… about 11 hours.
  • Take up swimming
Iz’s Subconscious: Oh, yes, it’s so calming and peaceful.  Great exercise, too.  You could stop spending money on running shoes (that, by the way, you don’t use) and just buy bikinis instead.  I would be in full support of this, except that there’s a reason you don’t swim, dumbass.  It’s because, in the real world, it does matter what your hair looks like.  And where, pray tell, are you going to find an extra 40 minutes a day to blow it out after your morning swim, hmmm?
  • Read more classics
Iz’s Subconscious: Did you think of this one between Emily Giffin books?  Or perhaps after finishing John Grisham’s latest?  Or was it when you dropped your Us Weekly in the pool and had to read that Nancy Drew book you found until your iPad could charge?  (By the way, Nancy Drew?  Not a classic.)
  • Achieve a better work-life balance
Iz’s Subconscious: Why, smarty pants, do you think you don’t have this to begin with?  Oh, right.  It’s because you are a nutjob for whom everything in life is all-or-nothing.  Exhibit A: You are signed onto your work email right now, as you type this blog post.  Are too, I see you!  But this is the first time I’ve checked it since Tuesday, you lie (to me, your subconscious – a clear manifestation, if ever there was one, of the fact that you are a nutjob.)  And even if it were true (which it isn’t, you little liar), that would only mean that the “all” in question was the proverbial “life,” while “work” represented the “nothing.”  This isn’t even vaguely sustainable.  But why not?  Because you like to eat.  And wear clothes that haven’t been donated to you.  Good going, dumbass.
  • Drink less
Iz’s Subconscious: Not sure how wine for breakfast helped you to come to this conclusion, but forget it.  This is a terrible idea.  (Editor’s note: my subconscious and I have something in common.)
So, kids, there it is.  It turns out the sun has fried my brain into believing I am capable of all of the things of which I haven’t been capable in the last… ever.  Stay tuned for next week’s sequel: The Dissolution of My Mid Year’s Dissolutions: How Being Home From Vacation Has Made Me A Cranky Old Bitch.

This is where I am.

SWC (Single White Constituent) Seeking NPP (Non-Philandering Politician)

28 Jun

So what’s with all the big ol’ sluts in congress?  And sprinkled in governors’ mansions around the country and (not occasionally) occupying the White House?  Much as I’d like to blame this one on “our society” – or my other favorite gross generalization, “my generation” – the cliché combination of power and infidelity is old as dirt (lying, cheating dirt, if we’re speaking specifically).  Don’t believe me?  Here are a few factoids that would have made Social Studies class just a little more interesting:

  • Thomas Jefferson (or possibly one of his relatives, but let’s go with the big man himself, in the spirit of supporting evidence) was confirmed in 1998 to have fathered the children of Sally Hemings, one of his slaves.  Yup, they DNA’d that shit.  Maybe we should be saving those supercool sciency resources for more… pertinent cases?  Like the 400 people currently on Death Row in Texas?  But I digress.
  • In 1920, the GOP paid Carrie Phillips (Warren Harding’s mistress) over $20,000 ($215,736.66 today, adjusted for inflation) to agree to a lifetime gag order so they could get ol’ Warren elected president.  She took it – smart girl.
  • Eleanor caught FDR red-handed during his 20-year affair with her secretary, Lucy Mercer, and actually offered to give him a divorce so the lovers could be together.  Sadly for Frankie, though, Lucy ain’t want no part o’ that baby mama drama.
  • JFK – need I say more?  His infidelity was about as subtle as a gun.
What’s the difference, you ask, between these scumbags and the men who grace today’s tabloid covers, whose illegitimate children we stalk on Myspace and whose wives we superficially pity while secretly wondering how they could have been so blind?  Well, to quote Martin Sheen as AJ in The American President (one of my desert-island movies – if you haven’t seen it, I’m giving you full permission: navigate away from this blog and over to Netflix, put that shit on Watch Instantly, and do not come back until Michael Douglas has made you swoon): They didn’t have to be president on television.  (Abridged version, since the film came out in 1995: They didn’t have to be president on the interwebz.)
This is a perfectly fair distinction, but it provokes an important question: shouldn’t our politicians be adjusting their actions accordingly?  I don’t doubt that being in the public eye is a challenge – the pressure to always be “on,” the knowledge that every move will be scrutinized, and the constant cyber-speculation can’t be easy.  But to think that in a nation of 307 million people (give or take, because people die sometimes), we can’t collectively elect a group of about 500,000 people (a number that comprises every elected official in the country) who can keep it in their pants for a period of two-to-six years?  That’s embarrassing.  Let’s review:
  • Bill Clinton (arguably my favorite president, despite his douchebaggery in this particular scenario) gave up a pretty solid public opinion track record, every last shred of personal credibility, and countless taxpayer-funded hours for a girl who – please pardon the crassness of this expression – didn’t even swallow.  And he’s not even the worst of them.
  • Arnold Schwarzenegger (who would continue to be among my least favorite human beings even if he found a cure for AIDS and invented zero-calorie Haagen-Dazs chocolate chocolate chip ice cream) did the deed with his maid – such a porn cliché that I have to wonder whether we should suspect his pizza delivery man as well.  And have you seen her?  I’m sure she has redeeming qualities – most people do – but I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you can convince me that she’s in any way more awesome than Maria Shriver.
  • Eliot Spitzer paid over 80 GRAND for sex at various points in his political career.  And Silda Spitzer is HOT.  I understand the appeal of gettin’ some strange, but really, Eliot? Did you have to go there?  Did you really think that the mysterious displacement of funds would go unnoticed?  Idiot.
  • Saving the best for last – this guy’s name is WEINER!!! – Anthony Weiner Tweeted a picture of his junk to a lovely young coed and then backtracked like it was his job to cover it up.  Weiner strikes me as even more ridiculous than any of these other clowns  – at least for the rest of them, there was sex involved.  Men like the penis-touching, and sometimes that gets in the way of logical thought.  But a picture?  Really, dude?  You couldn’t have lived without doing that?
I’m stupid.
Maybe I’m missing something here – the God complex that often comes with great responsibility, or perhaps the allure of power-horny young ladies to whom these men are not bound in holy matrimony – I don’t know.  But it seems to me that if we can be picky enough to choose a very specific group of people with a very specific skill-set to do a so-so job at running the country, we should be a little bit more careful about including self-control as a qualifier.
I’m not sure exactly how to enforce this; maybe undercover temptations?  Yes, that sounds good.  We’ll just send in pretty young things during election years and see which candidates  succumb to their wiles (and oh, they will be wily).  Yes, that sounds like a fine idea indeed.  Next election year?  Hookers for everyone!

Review of Bristol Palin’s Memoir – Don’t Worry, I Didn’t Actually Read This Book

24 Jun

In an event that may take the cake for this year’s greatest insult to literacy, Bristol Palin wrote a book.  A book people can buy if they want to.  That’s right, if you feel so inclined, you can actually pay to read this thing.  In order to save you some time and money, I’ve decided to write a makeshift review of a book I’ve never read, based solely on patronizing CNN blog posts and sympathetic Us Weekly features, sound journalistic sources if ever they existed.  So, kids, in case you were wondering, here’s why you should save your $25 (Yes, that’s the hardback list price.  Really.), go out and order yourself a few nice glasses of champagne, and toast the fact that no matter how bad things get, you will never be directly related to Sarah Palin:

1. What the hell could she possibly have to say?  She’s calling it a memoir.  She’s fucking 20 years old.  What exactly does she have to memoir-ize about?  I took issue when Rob Lowe published his autobiography, Stories I Only Tell My Friends – but that had more to do with this burning question: Who gives a flying fuck about Rob Lowe?  This also applies to Bristol, by the way.  And she’s from Alaska.  Nothing happens there.  I’m still shocked that she was able to fill 272 pages with content about an upbringing in the country’s least populous state what I thought was the country’s least populous state before googling it and finding out that it is, in fact, not.  (It’s actually 5th behind Wyoming, Vermont, North Dakota, and – ironically, given my contempt – DC.)

2. She didn’t actually write it.  Someone named Nancy French did.  Now, I don’t have hard evidence as to how much of it Ms. French (who shares the byline) actually wrote, but I have a hard time believing Bristol knows half the words she used.  Mind you, the book (or at least the one-page excerpt I read) doesn’t use particularly advanced vocabulary – but the girl doesn’t know the word “condom,” so I’ve gotta go with the odds on this one.

3. She’s an unreliable narrator.  Yes, kids, the haze of alcohol (and no other factor, mind you) impairs the credibility of what is otherwise (ALLEGEDLY, since I haven’t read the book) a narrative tour de force.  Darling Bristol was shit-canned – at the very least when she and Levi first bumped uglies, more than likely during the writing of this book, and, at worst, every minute of the day.  But that’s not the part that gives me pause.  God knows if I gave a damn about unreliable narrators, I’d stop smoking crack before posting to L&L.  (This is a joke.) What gives me pause is her chosen means of intoxication.  Because Bristol didn’t do shots of moonshine perhaps befitting the eskimo redneck we know her to be – no, she got hammered on WINE COOLERS. She writes that she doesn’t actually remember losing her virginity.  This admission of amnesia is probably a tactical move – she leaves an opening for a Tea-Party-leaked Virgin Birth theory, thereby establishing her son, Tripp, as Jesus, Jr.  and giving Sarah enough Bible Belt street cred to win the nomination in 2020 (by which point – fingers crossed! – newspapers will be obsolete and Katie Couric will be busy).  This is all well and good and perfectly believable.  Except to anyone who has ever actually ingested a wine cooler.  One of those disgusting syrupy nightmares shares roughly the alcohol content of a Stella Artois.  Far be it from me to judge, but how many of those fucking things did the girl drink?  Because I’m pretty sure the number of those babies required to induce blackout wouldn’t have fit in the kid’s camping cooler.  (Oh, that’s right.  Did I mention she was camping?  I know – it just gets better and better.)

I’m sure if I read the book, I could give you more reasons not to do so, but I think I’ve made my point.  All politics aside, my literary advice is as follows: Don’t ever buy a book by someone who wears a bumpit.

She looks like Elvis.

An Open Letter to George Clooney (Whenever He’s Ready to Take a Lover)

23 Jun

Dear Georgie,

I was so sorry to hear of your recent breakup.  Having recently been through one myself, I know exactly how hard it is.  People learned of my breakup on Facebook, but I thought it was very admirable of you to take the high road and release a statement to Entertainment Tonight.  And then to ask people to respect your privacy, and hers.  So noble.  Speaking of the media, each and every press outlet has referred to your recent split as a “failed relationship,” but I would really call it a tactical escape.  Can you believe people thought you would marry her?  Have they seen Elisabetta Canalis?  Ew.  She’s so hideous that looking at her in lingerie just makes me angry.

What a dog.

… But not in a jealous way, because I know all about the photoshop.  I’ve heard she actually weighs two hundred pounds and that when she walks the earth shakes.  And she looks tall enough to swat planes from the sky, Godzilla style.  And you know what I say about outrageously tall women: never trust a giant.  So good for you, George.  You deserve so much prettier.  Next to Godzilla up there, my ass (with its cute little bumps) and the skin on my upper arms (which sways so gracefully in the wind) are actually quite appealing.  I know my aesthetic is exactly the one you’ve been seeking.  I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses.

And you should really also be with someone a bit more accomplished.  And philanthropic.  In 2005, when that ugly skank was making a name for herself in the silver-screen classic Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo, I was making my  professional debut here:

Doesn't look like much, but their hash browns are like crack. Check it out if you're ever in Tenleytown. Osman and Joe's Steak and Egg Kitchen.

This makes me superior for a number of reasons: 1. In my capacity as a part-time burger-flipper, I fed the hungry.  2. I also helped the homeless – one night as I took out the trash, a drunk homeless man peed on my foot.  And I let him.  That’s just good hospitality.  Which brings me to my next point. 3. I was such a good hostess.  When the drunk and/or hungover would stumble into my twelve-seat diner, I would berate and ridicule them, asking whether their mothers would be proud of their early morning whereabouts.  4.  I also encouraged kids to stay in school.  Hungover American University students were my bread and butter – I changed lives.  They pretended to be angry when I barked, “Do your parents know they’re paying 50 thousand dollars a year so you can be out drinking at 3am during finals week?!” But I know they appreciated my subtle guidance.  See, George?  That Elisabetta didn’t help anyone out – but I, I changed the world. 

As if you needed any more convincing, I will present you with the zinger, the winner, the irrefutable logic that will convince you of my certain place in life as your future lover.  You mentioned in January (yes, I was listening) that you didn’t plan on getting married again.  Unlike that fat cow with the long legs and the serpentine tongue sticking out, I won’t ever ask you to.  That’s right, I am happy (deliriously so) to live with you in sin until the end of our days.  No pressure, no ultimatums, no nasty little expectations to speak of.  Just ravage me, that’s all.  Often.

So Georgie, I hope you see, my dear, that I am the clearest choice.  They say you are a cereal monogamist and, my love, I want to be your Fruit Loop.

All my love,

Iz

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby

22 Jun

Or lack thereof, wherein lies my particular area of expertise.

In recent weeks, I’ve spent an enormous number of hours with my fabulous (read: insane) friends.  This is in part because it’s summertime and school is no longer in session, thus eliminating my academic responsibilities and allowing me to shirk my professional ones (I work in education).  And it’s in part because of my recent breakup, which has left me without a constant companion but still happily enshrouded in the love of close friends.  Most of whom are men.  Which brings me to today’s lesson…

How to be friends with lots of different people and *gasp* not have sex with any of them.

Now I hate to jump right in with my high-horsey, superior “as a society” bit, but I really don’t at all, so as a society, we have been groomed to expect that male-female friendship is merely a precursor to something greater.  (Read: Fornication, and all that ensues when the glow of that particular sin wears off.)

Remember these guys?

Yup.  They were friends for about eight seconds in Season 1, when Cory thought Topanga was weird, before he realized a girl with hair like that was not to be fucked with.  She had serious hair.  Then they got married.

Okay, how about these guys?

I probably could have found a more mainstream photo, but this is my absolute FAVORITE Mark Seliger photo, so it stays.

I tried to put this baby in Photoshop and draw some arrows to denote romantic interests between friends, but two things happened:  1) I don’t know how to use Photoshop and 2) I couldn’t keep track.  Phoebe kissed Rachel, and also Joey, and even Chandler; Rachel kissed Ross, and then Joey, and then Ross again; Monica kissed Chandler – and I think at some point Joey, but not Ross because he was her brother, and so it goes.  That purple apartment in the Village might as well have been a whorehouse.  And “Friends” was right there in the title.

So back to our society.  With these horndogs as our cultural role models, it’s no great surprise that we see sex in every relationship, not just the sexy ones.  But I’m always flabbergasted at the number of people with whom the grapevine pairs me.  I’m not drop-dead sexy, I’m not a big huge slut, and under normal circumstances, I’m not even of public interest, so what gives?  Well, kids.  I’ll tell ya what gives.

We don’t like friendships that are messy.  Female friendships are things we can handle.  They make sense.  Rarely are others threatened by a platonic relationship between two women.  In theory at least, they share similar interests, similar life experiences (attributable only to the fact that both lack that pesky Y chromosome), and (again, in theory) they can likely be friends forever and ever, till death do they part.  *Note: Anyone who has ever borne witness to drunken cattiness between women might argue that the chances of being involved in a female friendship with any degree of permanence is roughly akin to that of being killed by a flying bear.  (Unlikely, but not impossible.)

But men and women do not share the basic human experience we’re so fond of referencing, and this bothers us on some psychic level.  A strange criteria for friendship, because I can count on one hand the number of occasions on which I’ve had any sort of meaningful conversation with a girlfriend on what it’s like to be a woman.  (I cannot, however, count on both hands and feet the number of cocktails it took us to get to that particular subject matter.)  In this enlightened age, it seems silly and antiquated to believe – however subconsciously – that men and women have such a limited number of shared interests that any relationship between the two will ultimately result in a manifestation of their one common interest.  (Carnal pursuits of the flesh, in case I lost you there.)

I think the other thing that bothers us about these “unconventional” relationships (if you can even call them that), is that – at least for us twenty- and thirty-somethings – they tend to come with an expiration date.  If I may generalize, I think it’s safe to say that we as a group like to think of ourselves as highly evolved human beings, far more open-minded and pioneering in our relationships than members of our parents’ generation.  And as such, we like to believe that we’re comfortable enough with our partners and our friends to maintain close and platonic male-female friendships well after the dawn of a serious relationship.  Frankly, though, that’s bullshit.  In my limited experience with marriage (i.e. spying on my friends’ wedded bliss), I’ve found that the party line usually reads something to the effect of: “We can be friends with whomever we choose, but he/she satiates my need for close male/female interaction.” Yes, people have actually said this to me.  Who’s highly evolved now, cavepeople?  Like it or not, though, this is how we think.  And I think this seeps into how we view the relationships of others.  Why, we ask ourselves, if we are all doing what we’re supposed to, evolutionarily (I know it’s not a word) speaking, and stumbling around the planet looking for suitable mates, would we start something we have no hope of finishing?  If there’s no hope for sex, love, marriage, and ultimately divorce, why bother getting it started at all?  Furthermore, if when the wedded bliss and ensuing alimony kick in, we’re giving it all up anyway (in favor of our loving partners, who then become our ambassadors to the opposite sex), what’s the point?

I’d like to share a personal experience on here, specifically because the gentleman involved asked me not to do so, and I like to push his buttons.  I have a dear friend with whom my relationship has always been strictly platonic, brother-sister style.  In recent weeks, we’ve spent a great deal of time together, nurturing the shared interests we couldn’t possibly have because I’m a woman and he’s a man.  And nothing short of everyone we’ve ever fucking met has asked if there’s something going on between us.  I recently described us to an outsider as “intellectual fuck buddies,” a phrase I’m more proud of having coined every time I say it.  People still don’t believe me, but I’m sticking to my guns in that it’s important to have people around you that turn your brain on.  Sad, though, that with all the rumored sex we’re having, neither of us is actually getting laid.

And now an example of the expiration date I was referring to.  Some months ago, I was talking (talk – v. Speak in order to give information or express ideas or feelings; converse or communicate by spoken words) to a platonic male friend in a bar.  Mind you, we were standing in a group of about six people discussing Dr. Seuss (a clear marker of infidelity, if ever there was one).  His girlfriend stormed in, pulled him aside, and proceeded to ask – none too quietly, mind you – if he and I had recently engaged in illicit activity (Copulation, et al).  He vehemently denied any relationship (a fact that didn’t bother me since, in fact, there was none), and told her she was being ridiculous.  The scandal continued into the evening and has since subsided.  But when she’s in the room, I try to steer clear of him, lest my efforts at mundane conversation about the weather should lead me to a future social casting as as Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

Because who wants to be associated with this chick?

Sadly, I totally understand where all of these opinions are coming from.  I’ve harbored supreme jealousy over my exes’ friendships, and I’ve engaged in shameless speculation over the (ultimately fictional) love lives of friends.  We all do it.  Everyone does it.  There is no relationship we don’t categorize – social navigation is just easier that way.  But wouldn’t it be nice if high school ended at graduation?

She’s Baaaaaack!

18 Jun

Hello, dear readers.  I guess I should acknowledge my prolonged absence.  I really don’t have that much to say about it except that I was fucking busy and thinking up analogies is hard work.  In my sincerest effort yet to get back into this blogging nonsense, I’ve decided to rework this space a little bit.  Mostly in the interest of making it easier for all of us.  Well, really just for me.  So I’ll still do a silly politics-cum-pop-culture post every once in awhile, but (for now at least) I’m going to try and keep the content limited to shorter, more frequent posts.  So, let’s catch up, shall we?

Things that have happened in the six months since I’ve contributed anything to cyberspace:

1.  I discovered self-help books.  After the heartrending end of a three-year romance – it happened last month, it was my decision, yes, I’m still hurting, I’ll write more on this sometime, or maybe I won’t – I decided to seek advice from those obviously more stable, mature, and generally figured-out than I.  I devoured both of Greg Behrendt’s tough love chefs-d’oeuvre: It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken and He’s Just Not That Into You (preemptively, of course).  Add in a third reading day, and I covered Bethenny Frankel’s A Place of Yes.  Perhaps because of my recent love-yourself-self-helpy-I-am-woman-hear-me-roar kick, I am able to admit to you (all one of you – thanks, Mom) that I actually LOVE self-help books.  (*Stream of consciousness sidebar: Being single is lonely and sad and shitty, but it has freed me to admit – to myself and everyone else – that I am not, nor ever have been, a sports fan.  Revelations all around.)  I like to consider myself an optimist.  I think I can honestly lay claim to being a glass-half-full person, but damn! these self help people put me to shame.  They’re all There is a wonderful man out there who is not gay and loves to do laundry and cook for you! and You are a beautiful, sexy beast, and you will rule the world!.  It’s doing wonders for my confidence – both in myself and in the universe.  *Disclaimer – I still feel lame when people at the gym ask me what it is I’m reading so intently on my iPad and I have to tell them it’s something called This is Why You’re Fat (or any of the above titles, for that matter.)  No one ever asks me that when I’m reading Kerouac.  Harumph.

2.  In a delectably satisfying moment of something between poetic justice and irony, a man named Weiner resigned after Tweeting a picture of his wiener.  It’s too good.  It makes me giggle every time I think about it. Uncontrollably.  I’m not even sure there’s any valuable commentary I can add to this.  It’s that good.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, crawl out from under that fucking rock and Google it.  

3. I got all Eat Pray Love-y and decided to embrace spontaneity.  I abandoned my control-freak ways (if control freaks were messy and forgetful to begin with) and took risks!  I lived with abandon!  This is a gross exaggeration, actually.  But I did go to my first professional soccer game with the 12 people in DC who watch pro soccer (*Stream of consciousness sidebar addendum: I still love going to games.  Where else can you have beer, pizza, and cotton candy for dinner?  Maybe I’ll try a state fair next.); I went to a bar with a mini-golf course in it (highly recommend this for anyone who panics at the idea of any recreational activity that doesn’t include drinking – here’s another place you should check out); I went to my first Dubstep show (after which, I must confess, I still don’t know exactly who or what Dubstep is); and I went two whole weeks without eating a single meal at McDonalds.  And then I got extra Eat Pray Love-y and bought a ticket to go to Europe next month.  No plan or premeditation, just because.  I can’t wait.

4. Michele Bachmann decided to run for president. I’m reluctant to even say anything on the subject because this idea scares the motherfucking piss out of me.  Maybe, like the Boogeyman, if I ignore it, it won’t exist.  Oh, Conspiracy Theorist Nut Job (read: Tea) Party.  What are we going to do with you?

5.  I’m aware other, more important things have happened in the six months since I’ve published anything.  I will never forgive myself for being on hiatus when Donald Trump pretended to run for president, or when The Situation roasted him:

or when Obama picked up where Sitch (as I’m told his friends call him) left off:

But such is life.  I just hope The Donald’s ratings drop enough in the future that we’ll have the privilege of watching him fake run for president next election season as well.

Okay, I’m tired and bored with myself.  And dammit, I’m going to take a nap.

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