A few weeks ago, I watched a hilarious skit on Inside Amy Schumer. The skit centered on a four-women panel, speaking at an innovation conference. They were smiling, sitting confidently, waiting for the questions to begin. There was a sense of importance, pride in each of their faces. The moderator, who was a man, began with quick introductions down the line. When introducing Amy, he mispronounces her last name. Amy sheepishly smiles, mumbles, “Sorry!” and rushes into an apology for his error. The moderator continues, barely acknowledging her, then continues to the next woman. The introductions progress with more mispronounced names, or inaccurate credits of accomplishments. The apologies become more frequent and frenzied; they’re sorry for asking questions, asking for a glass of water (but got coffee instead). The skit ends with a panelist losing her legs, screaming she’s sorry for ruining everything.
I was driving on the highway recently and passed a friend of mine. It was a quick exchange, no big deal. After she passed me, I felt a huge sense of relief that it happened on the highway and not in city traffic. If any of my readers drive a car, you will know what I’m talking about.
Holidays are tough. For me, Christmas is the worst. It’s not because of the presents. I don’t have any particularly memorable Christmas dinner memories. My family is small, so we didn’t have a huge party.
What I miss the most can be summed up in this picture:
My dad and this amazing outfit on Christmas morning. Everyone, take note. THAT is the look on Christmas. Bathrobe, white tee, no pants, pipe. If there was a shit to give, my father did not have one. He would make his instant coffee (Sanka, of course), get his pipe, and park it on the couch where he would unceremoniously unwrap ties and homemade ashtrays.
Then, my dad suddenly of a heart attack when I was 21 years old.
A few weeks ago, my boyfriend and I were cleaning up the house. Now, when I say “cleaning up the house”, I mean cleaning all of the pieces of garbage that his stupid dog gets everywhere. I came to the area in the bedroom where his dog bed was and stopped abruptly. “Um, babe? Could you do me a favor and just grab that stuff on the floor real quick?” I asked sweetly. Thinking there must be something heavy or gross on the floor, he came around the bed and looked down. “What? What is it?” he asked, looking very confused.
If you have read this previous post of mine, you can probably see where this is going. He, however, clearly did not read that entry. Great. I gave him the quick and dirty version of why I don’t touch foam. Normally, he is a loving and compassionate man. He’s very sweet and kind to me. So, you can just imagine my horror as he proceeded to laugh hysterically, pick up the foam, and chase me with it. I’d love to tell you all that we had a really good laugh about it, but, I’m not a liar. As I was running for dear life throughout the house, hysterical, almost on the verge of tears, he shouted “NERD!!!”
I’m not sure what it is about me, but I have this uncanny power to have complete strangers tell me the weirdest, most personal details of their lives within minutes of meeting them. I know this sounds like an exaggeration, but I promise you it’s true. There’s the time I was getting a pedicure and the woman pretty much told me that she was human trafficked here from Vietnam. Or the time that I was in TJ Maxx with a friend and a woman blocked our path and demanded our opinion on some crappy things she was buying. This small traffic stop resulted in a 15 minute conversation about how she is living with her ex husband, whom she hates, but loves his money. I don’t know what it is about me, but I just bring it out in people. It’s actually not a bad thing; it’s great for me because it gives me awesome stories. However, there is a time and place for a story, and when I’m laying on a table getting a facial, it’s not the time to talk about your bowel habits.
What’s up? N2mh. You’re probably wondering why I’m writing you a letter that’s not typed on a typewriter. I’m sorry, but mine is being repaired. And if by repaired I mean I don’t have one because I embrace technology and don’t fuck with White-Out anymore. Continue reading “An Open Letter to Hipsters”
Six minutes are nothing in the grand scheme of things. You don’t give a second thought to that small an increment of time. But, I have had six minutes stuck in my head for a month. Why? That was the amount of time I was given to try stand-up for the first time.
I have been toying with the idea of doing stand-up for years. In fact, for my 28th birthday in 2008, one of my best friends gave me an amazing gift. It was a wooden bar stool, a bottle of water, a fake microphone, and brick-style wallpaper that was glued on a pull down window shade. Essentially, it was a travelling comedy club. He had wanted me to practice at home before I went on a stage. I vowed that I would get up on that stage by the end of the year. Then, 2008 came and went. No biggie, I would just do it by the end of 2009. Then it became, “I’ll do it before I hit 30!” Then, I just gave up.
If any of you have read my initial blog post (Catharsis), then you know would know that I am in the process of a divorce. While I’m not hiding this aspect of my life, I’m certainly not making it my defining feature. That being said, I have started to wonder what the world of dating is like now. I haven’t dated anyone since 2003, and things have completely changed since then. There was no Facebook, there was no texting, people still called each other on the phone. There wasn’t even MySpace (I don’t think?). So yeah…its a lot different now.
I decided about a month ago to geeeeeeeeeeeeently ease my toe into the dating pool, just to see what was going on these days. I work 40 hours a week, and I don’t really do the bar scene. Most, if not all, of my friends are married with children, as are all of their friends. So, pickings are slim. There’s really only one other option to meet people at this point: a dating site.