Sunday, November 27, 2011

Holiday Spirit

I tried to get my husband to have some Holiday Spirit with me on Thanksgiving, but he wasn't interested.

He did pick me up from the bar after my brother and I enjoyed a few rounds of Holiday Spirit together, though - so long as I agreed to let him stuff his Holiday Spirit in my chimney.

I'm sorry to inform you that's a direct quote.

I don't think Scrooge McYost and I have the same idea of Holiday Spirit.

For the first time ever, I want to decorate. I made us stockings. Now I want lights.

And a tree.

Scrooge's response? "We don't need that shit!"

"But, but...but," my rebuttal. "Let's have Holiday Spirit!"

His closing argument. "Screw Christmas."

My closing argument. "Screw you."

Scrooge: "OK, let's screw!"

My offer: "Not unless we get a tree tomorrow."

Scrooge considers seriously.  "Nah, it ain't worth it."

I can feel the Holiday Spirit calling to me. I like it on the rocks with a

I have a feeling this Christmas is going to be particularly special, our first. For those of you who've read the Five Love Languages, I'm a Quality Time/Gift Hybrid, so this time of year always feels so ripe with possibility. Generally it leaves me deflated, disappointed and debted, but that shit doesn't come until January. And I can just tell that this December with my charming husband is going to be everything a woman could dream.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Giving Thanks

I was so excited for Thanksgiving, I baked 19 baby pecan pies. In an unrelated incident, my pants finally split on Monday. At work.

I know I've been a little overboard lately with the Holly Housewife shit, but I love Thanksgiving. It's the most laid back of holidays, really - and the nerdy side of me was stoked about starting some NEW TRADITIONS with my NEW HUSBAND.

Hubs has been holding down the couch for a week. He threw out his back and is on a strict prescription of Mortal Kombat and concierge service. His back has as much history as my leg, so I can quite literally feel his pain - but the selfish part of me still knows it means I'm stuck doing everything at home for a while.

Last night I arrived home after a frantic few days at work, glowing at the thought of - finally -  an evening to just relax with my man. He looked me deeply in the eyes and suggested how we might celebrate our first Thanksgiving Eve together.

"Wanna watch midget porn on the huge TV?"

I declined.

And baked a double batch of sugar cookies.

And lay in bed last night feeling sad that Thanksgiving wouldn't be its usual rowdy self this year. My family is loud and fun, but my husband is cranky and in pain and it would be hard to please both today.

But I woke up this morning and realized how lucky we still are. We will spend this weekend in warmth and abundance. My husband likes my family and I enjoy his. It's supposed to be a balmy 50 degrees outside today.

I'll take it, and I'll say thank you.

(Not the midget porn. The rest of it.)

Monday, November 21, 2011

My Autograph Collection

I've never really been much of an autograph whore, but my collection is growing.

David Sedaris autographed a book for me with poop recently, as you may recall. I bet you think it would be hard to top that autograph story, now wouldn't you? But you'd be wrong.

Because today I got an autographed FUCK in the mail...and it was damaged in handling.

Story of my life, people, story of my life.

You see, I ordered a FUCK from my friend AJ in Philly, which sounds rather more salacious than it is. He's a writing friend and apparently while I've been busy playing the newlywed game he's been...well, writing.

His book FRESH UNCENSORED CRITICAL KNOWLEDGE FOR YOUR LIFE is on sale now, so you should buy it from him, it'll make a great Christmas gift - but not for your kids, I'm sure it's inappropriate. I haven't read my damaged copy yet, so I can't give you a much of a review other than this:

AJ's my Philly Dawg, yo.

Give his book a shot!

He's smart and funny and I'm sure his book will be as well.

And also? Let's make sure his book becomes a bestseller, so my autographed copy is worth some bucks. I'm awfully broke and I'm pretty sure nobody's going to pay a premium for my only other autographed book, with a turd drawn in it by David Sedaris.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Wife 101: Step by Step Instructions for Preparing Sunday Dinner

Insert curlers (in hair, not in pot roast).

Toast sesame seeds for marinade.

Remove roast from packaging and punch repeatedly to tenderize…and to alleviate stress.

Chop onions, mushrooms and carrots.

Soak roast in marinade before tossing in the crockpot with the veggies.

One hour later realize crockpot works better when turned on.

Do so.

Bake butternut squash.

Mash and season squash.

Feed husband bite of squash.

Realize you’ll be eating an entire squash yourself.

Check roast.

Remove curlers, wonder why you bothered.

Check roast.

Apply makeup.

Check roast.

Tear smoke alarm out of ceiling in mad effort to stop the alarm.

Realize alarm still blaring, smash smoke alarm and pull wires out of ceiling.

Realize alarm still howling, call landlord over.

Feel like giant dumbass when landlord points out the shriek is coming from carbon monoxide detector, not smoke alarm.

Open crockpot to cool roast.
Go out with girlfriend, leaving husband to put away the roast he eats dinner.

Husband forgets there is a roast and goes to Subway for dinner.

Wife and girlfriend gulp wine and vodka in anticipation of meeting David Sedaris.

Meet David Sedaris.

Girlfriend tells David Sedaris that wife is a writer.

David Sedaris draws a lucky book for wife, inside her David Sedaris book.

David Sedaris then grabs a brown marker and draws a turd on the book.

David Sedaris says “Here’s your book…covered in shit.”

Wonder if this is lucky sign or belligerent statement?

Husband comes to pick up wife and girlfriend.

Roast is left unattended.

Cat samples carrot, decides not to pursue the relationship.

Cat enjoys sirloin roast.

Wish hubby would have saved part of his Subway sandwich.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Bringing Sexy Back, Part Quit

I decided to try the curlers again today, but don't be thinking it's for David Sedaris tonight. I'm a married woman, you know. And also? He likes boys.

So here I am at home, in my curlers. And possibly leopard print jammie pants, but they are not Zubaz, I swear to God.

I got the roast going, toasted the sesame seeds, mashed the butternut squash and chopped up all the veggies to toss in the crockpot. Afterward, I celebrated with a delicious Marlboro Ultra Light - so sue me.

But did Mark need to come take my picture?


I'm fairly certain that the only way I could look trashier is if there were a car on blocks as a backdrop and a forty in my hand.

Dear Self,

Please refer back to the other day's post about bringing sexy back. It's not working. It's time to come up with Plan B.


Saturday, November 12, 2011

I Hope I Didn't Peak

A still shot of my critically
 acclaimed role in Mallrats
 Sixteen years ago in 1995, Ben Affleck and I were in Mallrats together. Last night, I watched the movie for the first time and was dismayed to see just how much of my Hollywood debut ended up on the cutting room floor. Ben's part ended up being much larger than mine - no wonder his career has been a bit more notorious since.

The good news is that if we all get fifteen minutes of fame in our lifetime, I've only used up 2.4 seconds of mine.

Can you hear the hamster wheel in my head?

My friend Leslie and I are going to see David Sedaris tomorrow.

I repeat, David Sedaris.

I wonder what sort of unspeakable things I'd have to offer to get him to read something and offer feedback?

I'll clean his bathroom or mop his floors, I have no shame. If he'd like my firstborn, it could be arranged. Shit, he can have the cat! (Do NOT tell my husband I said that.)

Because guess what, dudes?

I still have fourteen minutes left.

Friday, November 11, 2011

11-11-11 Make a Wish

I'm gonna need some help bringing sexy back, cuz I definitely lost it.

It hit me recently that any sexy I ever might have accidentally had is gone. And that realization came before I started peeing my pants.

The doctor called to tell me that the medication I take for anxiety has been linked to alarming side effects such as - oh, your heart exploding - so I'm tapering off of that. My beloved night terrors are back, which likely means I'll need to start sleeping with mittens on so I don't tear at my face while I dream.

Last weekend I decided to lighten my hair. I bought rollers and hair color and gave myself a two hour makeover. The results were astounding. I burned my scalp,  my hair color remained exactly its same mousy self and my sexy curls fell flat after six minutes.

The three pairs of pants I have that fit me are all becoming crotchless from where my thigh chub is rubbing them paper thin.

Weekends are party time. I clip coupons, scrub toilets and play Rachael Ray (but without the YUM-O exclamations...or mad kitchen skills.)

I'm? So sexy it hurts - but only when I pee. No worries, though, I carry spare skivvies in my purse now.

So for the love of all that is corny and superstitious, I'm going to make an 11-11-11 wish. I wish for divine intervention in the form of a makeover, before I slide too far down this slippery slope of frump to ever return.

Dear God,

If you are listening, please send me a gay man who needs to complete a makeover in order to graduate cosmetology school, where he majors in special effects makeup and minors in fat girl fashion.

I feel lucky today.


Saturday, November 5, 2011

The 72-Day Itch

Well, I can't judge the Kardashiass too harshly, I suppose. We're only on day 69 of being married and I've got the itch.

Actually, it's not an itch so much as a terrifically uncomfortable searing pressure on my bladder...which is infected.

Married life is HOT.

I suspected something was awry when I kept thinking I was gonna pee my pants and then couldn't perform when I sprinted to the bathroom.

The lightbulb came on, though, when I DID pee my pants...carrying in groceries on Friday.

I spent last night curled up on a blanket on the floor, wincing in pain and praying I wouldn't wet myself like a puppy if I fell asleep.

I raced to Target this morning for antibiotics, where I peed my cotton-pickin' pants again - though this time I blame it on the pharmacist for being so slow.

I waddled back to the car and squelched my way home to shower repeatedly - but shame doesn't wash off as easily as you'd think.

I don't usually go to church, but I'm gonna just ask Him anyhow. Let us hope that God throws me a bone.

Dear God, please don't let me piss myself at work on Monday. A little help, please? Feel free to give that Cipro a kick start. Many thanks.
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