THAT TIME YOU GET HOME FROM THE GYM TO FIND THAT YOUR WEDDING DRESS HAS ARRIVED AND IS JUST SITTING THERE IN A BIG BOX AND WELL, THERE IT IS, IT’S REAL
I REPEAT, LISA FRANK HAS RELEASED A CLOTHING LINE
I CAN FINALLY WEAR MY LEOPARD BABY TRAPPER KEEPER AS PANTS
Why must wedding invitations be addressed like the guest is being summoned to a 1943 boat or fairy or garden party? I shall address mine myself, with own handwriting, which is just as nice but just a touch more ‘middle schooler decides to become serial killer / sends threatening murder notes / but is also kind of in a hurry and is probably drinking coffee and or wine while writing it so just except one of those liquids to make it onto the envelope,’ but mildly legible.
There are two kinds of people in the world: people who can make a nice cheese plate, and people who cannot. The people who CAN make a cheese plate always seem to have quince paste and fig hanging out in their kitchen, and also tend to know what quince paste is. I have always felt that having a bowl on your kitchen counter full of produce indicates a level of self awareness, forward thinking, organization and preparedness that basically means you are better at being alive than basically everyone else. Now that I have finally remembered that I feel this way, and started filling a bowl with such items, I would like to announce that I feel basically the same, and ready for only moderately pre-meditated kitchen activities, which is to say, guacamole.
When I start to want something, I start to see it everywhere, note its qualities. First it was boys and whether or not they were wearing wedding rings, then it was cars and whether or not they had leather interiors. Now that I have hit the jackpot in both Boy and Car, I WOULD PLEASE LIKE A HOUSE. And so I leer at them everywhere I go. I note their qualities. Whether or not there is a porch or front yard, whether there is garage space, what its down payment might be, if I could ever in a million years afford it, its window panes, its columns, its french doors and its trees. I dream about its kitchen. Does it have an island for cooking? IS THERE A FARMER’S SINK? IS THERE A WALK IN CLOSET THAT YOU CAN WALK INTO? IS IT SINGLE? WILL IT EVER BE MINE?
I’ve been using this workout machine thing, Jacob’s Ladder, in which you strap yourself in and mountain goat yourself til you basically die.
It’s pretty awesome, especially if you spend the whole time pretending like you’re on an epic vision quest to the top of the Holy Mountain at which point you will receive the Sword that will save the Kingdom from the Darkness. If anything, it’s a swell fantasy-generator. I can’t tell if it’s actually working, exercise-wise, but here’s a picture of me from five minutes ago casually hanging on some suspended hoops after I climbed a fantasy ladder for half an hour.
IS IT WORKING?
After making a fairly solid commitment to at least a solid effort to consume less sugar, Jeni’s had to go and announce THIS:
And I quote: “Our Savannah Buttermint is sweet and sophisticated, like Southern ladies donning white gloves at a garden tea party. It’s buttery peppermint ice cream with a touch of sea salt and crunchy white chocolate.” JENI WHY WOULD YOU. JENI, WHY.
Late January each year, twenty percent of all theater and TV and film people disappear to Sundance, which is still a thing that I don’t fully understand. It’s a film festival, but everyone goes, regardless of whether or not you actually have a film there. In my mind, everybody mills about in their grandmother’s fur coats, standing in lines, shaking hands, or standing in lines shaking hands. It’s impossible to get tickets to the screenings and the famous people parties, but if you go, you can find a way into either, if you know the right person, and if you don’t, I think you just kind of walk around in your baller winter fairy clothes you never get to wear. It seems at once the most fun and and most horrible thing in the world BY WHICH I MEAN I REALLY WANT TO GO SO THAT I CAN FINALLY SAY I CAN’T COME TO THE (EVENT) I WILL BE AT SUNDANCE, BUT THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH FOR ASKING.
I definitely don’t want or need to talk about how much time I just spent in a dressing room while I was supposed to be shopping for OTHER PEOPLE staring at myself in a Navy Blazer, wondering if I was finally the sort of woman who needs a Blazer, and wait am I finally a woman now? and I guess I am now a woman, and so maybe I need a Blazer for Meetings but I don’t really have that many Meetings, WHY DO I NOT HAVE MORE MEETINGS? I should have more of those, maybe I would if I had a Blazer, but no wait Blazers are a sign of togetherness and a writer must have a certain sort of aloof torture, an edge, hair in her eyes and something that might be paint or blood beneath one of her nails, a writer with a soul and things to say does not wear BLAZERS, am I too together, do I have nothing to say? What is that beneath my nail? Is it cookie dough? It’s cookie dough, so I should probably not get this Blazer, but instead just wear an apron around as pants. Distinctive, memorable. THAT MAKES SENSE, RIGHT?
It’s Giving Tuesday, y’all! Nice and snug between the absurd shopping days in which people are actually willing to die for toys, and the Holidays, in which we give cute things to loved ones that usually, technically, they do not need. It’s hard to decide where to give to. Need is overwhelming and I feel so small inside of it. There are theater companies which are important and there are a myriad of non-profits working on social issues which are equally important. But more important? Which creates more change? Which is most effective? And how do you really know where your money is going if you’re not placing it in a hand? Remember after the last NYC hurricane, the hurricane essentially Registered on Amazon, like it was a couple getting hitched but instead it was a Hurricane? You could go online and purchase and ship blankets, water, food, etc, straight to victims. Yesterday, I read a beautiful blog post by a stranger about all of the terrible things going on in the world, that we now have to worry most to all seconds that we’re going to be shot or that somebody vehemently opposed to our way of life is going to blow themselves up next to us, bring down our plane. What are we to do? She suggested ten simple things that remind us that we’re human beings and that everything is okay — one being: go online, buy a pack of socks, send them to a homeless shelter. I spent eight Winters in NYC and its cold that STABS. So I’m sending a bunch of cuddle socks to the Bowery Mission. Maybe they will be instantly sweat or worn through, maybe they will be traded for cigarettes. Or maybe they will be worn as gloves. Maybe this will make a kid laugh. Maybe one will be a puppet. Maybe a happy thought that makes everything just 10% fine. WORKS FOR ME.