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Welcome Back

So, as none of you noticed, we have been on a bit of a hiatus here at The Ironical Chronicle.  I could say it was do to a slew of momentous life milestones.  I could say it was due the obligations of living in the adult world.  I could even say it was due to a freak storm that completely wiped out electricity, and thus all possible forms of communication.  However, you all know it was due to sheer and utter laziness.  Surprise.

In all seriousness though, it has been a busy few couple of months.  In the firstly, I received an offer to become Grand Emperor of China (White Version), but I had to turn it down at the last minute because I forgot that I’m mildly racist.  So I took a desk job instead.  That being the case, I had to break the news to my parents that I was moving out of the house.  They took it pretty stoically, considering I am far and away their child, but I could have sworn I heard giggling in their room that night.  On the night I was moving, we had a big party to see who would take my room.  It was very sweet.

It was also very drunk, as usually happens when you get my entire family together in a room by ourselves.  Like the Bluth’s staged intervention with their alcoholic mother, this turned out to be one of the better Gullickson parties.  Needless to say, in the morning I was still drunk and facing the prospect of 6 hours trapped in the car with my ruthlessly cheerful talkative father.  This was probably the most hellacious experience that seemed like would never end.  And I’ve been to a Catholic wedding.

It looked something like this

It looked something like this

After about a month in Northern California, I finally found a place in the heart of the city that is 375 glorious square feet of bachelor living!  That’s right!  I am single, and ready to come home alone and struggle to make a basic dinner for myself.  Cooking is always exciting because I have a gas stovetop, and I never know if any of my meals are going to be my last.  I’ve never been so focused in my life.  But, I am extremely proud to say that I am now able to cook chicken without it being raw in the middle.  I am also extremely proud to say that my stomach has never been more resilient.  And I’ve been to Malaysia.

This looks like my living room!

This looks like my living room!

As of now, I’ve been working and living in the adult world for about 6 months, and let me tell you, I just want to retire.  Or marry rich.  Or win the lottery.  Cause it sucks.  You have to get up early, and on your own, without your mother to wake you up or anything!  It’s hard!  Also, you have to make your own food, and clean up after yourself, and be held accountable for your actions.  What kind of bullshit is that, am I right?!

Anyways, now that I’m living in a new city on my own, I will have plenty of tales about my misadventures, interesting events around San Francisco, and embarrassing stories about my interactions with other humans.  Like, for example, how I always carry spare change with me around the city to give to homeless people, who then in turn I become tight with, who then in turn tell me about all the places that have the cheapest alcohol.  Usually it’s convenience stores that sell rubbing alcohol by the jug, but I’m pretty sure I’m on to something there.  There is nothing cooler than having an army of homeless people, trust me.

To the select (read: awesomest) few who are still aware of this blogs existence, get ready for some awesome posts.  Because I’m awesome.  And you’re awesome.  Let’s be awesome together.

Ben

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A Day in the Life

Since I’ve been living in Los Angeles, I’m sure plenty of people believe that I am living a very glamorous life.  Well, I am: I live at home, I have a two hour commute, and my mother makes me dinner every day.  It’s pretty rad.  However, sometimes I like to imagine that my life is even more glamorous, so I will share with you a day in the life of my pretend glamorous life.  Then I will share with you a day in the life of my regular glamorous life, just to see how little I have to go to achieve this fantasy.  You know me: always giving minimum effort to achieve maximum result!

PRETEND GLAMOROUS LIFE

9:00 AM:   Wake up to to the sound of “Crazy In Love” playing in my hotel suite at the Downtown Ritz Carlton.

9:01 AM:    Walk out of my room to find Beyonce playing a stripped-down version of “Crazy In Love” on the white baby grand piano in the penthouse suite adjacent to mine.

9:02 AM:    Fist bump Beyonce.

Something like this...

9:05 AM:    Fist bump Blue Ivy on the way downstairs because we’re cool too.

9:30 AM:    Have a champagne breakfast with Helen Mirren.  She reads the NY Times out loud in her English accent while I pour her tea.  It’s very fancy.  We’re both wearing crowns because we can.

10:00 AM:  Get picked up by my personal chauffer, Morgan Freeman, as we drive around downtown pursued by paparazzi.  Thank god I had those built-in missiles installed.

11:00 AM:   Meet up with Julie Andrews for a rigorous hike.  We climb every mountain, ford every stream, while following every rainbow till we reached “Your Dream”, a super-secret mountain villa for super famous people only.  I flash my veneers and we go in for some truffle fries, caviar, and peanut butter M&Ms.

12:00 PM:   Catch a helicopter down to Hollywood for some really successful movie premier.  I don’t really know what one, because I go to sooooo many, but it was fun.

12:30 PM:   Go to the park with Jon Hamm where we feed breadcrumbs to Lindsay Lohan.  Then we laugh about how handsome we are and talk about doing this again.

1:00 PM:     Get lunch with Paula Deen, Ina Garten and Mario Batali.  Then we realize the elevator won’t hold all of us, so we kick Batali off cause we don’t do gingers.  We have such a great time without him that we send him pictures of us at lunch with the text, “Suck it, Ginger!”

2:00 PM:     Receive a frantic call from Yo-Yo Ma saying he has become too arrogant to perform and needs me to come down to deflate his ego.

2:15 PM:      Traverse secret tube system used by famous people to travel to brothels and strip clubs without being seen.  Wave to Tom Hanks as he heads to “Hoe’s R Us”.

2:23 PM:      Arrive at Walt Disney Concert Hall.  Shred the cello until I reduce Yo-Yo Ma to tears in awe of how he will never come close to being half as good as me.  He considers himself successfully humbled enough to perform that evening.

3:00 PM:      Meet up with Taylor Lautner to go visit his family at the Alpaca Farm.

I couldn't resist...

3:30 PM:      Play a match with Roger Federer over in Malibu.  We get some beers afterwards and throw some darts.  Rafael Nadal’s face is the bullseye, naturally.  We have a great time.

5:00 PM:      Smoke some weed with Miley Cyrus, Snoop Dogg, and Tom Cruise.  Things get weird when Tom thinks Snoop is Katie Holmes and tries to make out with him.  Miley and I politely extricate ourselves from this awkward social situation.

7:00 PM:      Go to dinner and a concert with Celine Dion and Cher.  We heckle the shit out of Barbra Streisand, with Celine piping up that her nose looked like it belonged on Mt. Rushmore.  We got thrown out of the concert, but we don’t care cause we’re divas.

8:04 PM:     Secret handshake with Celine and Cher as we part ways.

Our secret handshake may or may not involve one or both of those hand gestures/facial features...

9:00 PM:     Attend plastic surgery consultation with Kim Kardashian so they can verify that my measurements are correct so that she can get the right amount of bounce on her next round of cheek implants.

9:23 PM:      Punch Kim Kardashian in the face.

10:00 PM:   Go clubbing with Brad and Angelina

11:00 PM:    Perform a perfectly choreographed re-enactement of “Jai Ho” with Brad and Angelina.  All the brown people cheer.

12:00 AM:   Go to afterparty at Gwenyth Paltrow’s house.  You must have an Oscar statue in hand to enter, but I didn’t know which of my 27 to choose from, so I blew that joint.

1:00 AM:     Go to after-afterparty at Richard Simmon’s house.  Why? I don’t know, I just do.

2:00 AM:     Go to after-after-afterparty back at the Ritz Carlton.  Beyonce is riding a lion, and Jay-Z is riding an emu.  The theme for the party was Dr. Doolittle, so I guess it was fortunate I was already on my unicorn by the time I got there.

3:00 AM:      Close out the party and the night with a dramatic rendition of “Survivor” my Destiny’s Chilled, a Destiny’s Child cover group with Kelly Rowland, Michelle Williams, and Solange Knowles.  Beyonce falls asleep in a large-backed chair petting a white cat while the lamp shades her facial features.  Destiny’s Chilled looks terrified, but they do a great job.

REGULAR GLAMOROUS LIFE:

10:00 AM:    Wake up.

10:15 AM:     Wait around for my brother to come downstairs so he can make me scrambled eggs because I’m too lazy to do it myself.

11:00 AM:     Read the paper for a reaaaaaaally long time.

11:30 AM:      Wander around the house.

11:45  AM:      Look busy.

12:30 PM:       Go to the library  and peruse their encyclopedias, magazine, and large print sections.  Leave shortly after finding that the latest Mary Higgins Clark novel isn’t available yet.

1:30 PM:         Work out, but not to the point of sweating.  Wander around the gym a bit, using it as a time to get updated on Sports Center, as well as the latest gossip magazines.

2:00 PM:        Feeding time.  Anything in the fridge is fair game, even entire cheesecakes.

3:00 PM:         Wander around the house.

4:00 PM:         Get caught up on the 10-17 TV shows I couldn’t keep up with during the week.

5:00 PM:        Complain about being hungry, but be mysteriously absent when dinner is being prepared.

6:00 PM:        Feeding time again.  There is also an unwritten rule that if you do not finish before me, whatever is left on your plate is fair game.

7:00 PM:       Attempt to “conversate” with family unit.

8:00 PM:       Mock the stupidity of people competing on “The Amazing Race”

9:00 PM:       Decide between Game of Thrones, Mad Men, and The Good Wife based upon whichever has the most amount of nudity, witty reparte, and Jon Hamm.

10:00 PM:     Bed time.

So you see, I’m not really that far off from my pretend glamorous life.  Because at the end of the day, my life is pretty glamorous as long as Jon Hamm is a part of it.

Hey, You Never Know ®

I started a new job this week, which is made possible in part by the fact that I got let go from my old job two weeks ago. Losing that job was interesting for several reasons. First, despondent as initially I was, my friend Malka pointed out that it wasn’t really that I got fired, it was just that I didn’t get hired. She was right, because it was a temp to perm job, and they just decided not to perm me. Second, the more I think about it the better I feel about it, because my hatred for that place was only offset by it’s abundant supply of free club soda.

Still, when the temp agency called and told me I wasn’t working there anymore, I was bummed, but I think I handled it like any person with 85% of a grip on their life would.  First, I was surprised. Then, I got a little weepy, first out of disappointment, and then out of fury. I called my friend and complained. Then, I got Thai food. Then, I got drunk in my apartment. Then, I didn’t get out of bed for 18 hours. After that, I went on vacation and got a haircut. And now I have a job again. See, things have a way of working themselves out right when you really need a new pair of jeans.

The whole experience got me thinking about the differences between working and being out of work. At this stage in my career, I don’t have a career and if I’m being totally honest, I don’t find answering phones all that fulfilling. So I’m not really sacrificing anything in that capacity. But a job does allow me to buy things, and I noticed that the second I became unemployed, all I wanted to do was order take out and get manicures. Alas, those things are luxuries, and not really justifiable ones when you aren’t getting paid.

Oh thank God.

So naturally, I was THRILLED on my first day at this new office (where there is no club soda, but also no assholes who steal my club soda), when my coworkers invited me to join the office pool for New York’s Mega Millions lottery. Everybody kicked in 5 bucks, and we bought a bunch of tickets.  As I’m writing this, the NYMM website reports the pot to be at $640,000,000. So if we win, all 19 parties involved will receive $33,684,210.53.

I have been temping a lot at financial firms, so I have been around a lot of people with really severe amounts of money. I’ve had the opportunity to think about what I would do with $33 million. I have decided that I would put most of it away for at least a year or 2 so that I don’t go nutzo all at once. I’d probably come up with a system where I annuitize it for myself, but I digress. I would put MOST of it away, but the first thing I would buy would be a really killer mattress. I don’t hate the mattress I have now, but I would definitely buy like the best, most fantastic Tempurpedic mattress ever. Also, probably some sheets that cost more than $17 to put on it. Because, yes, I am currently sleeping on sheets that cost $17. Totally not fit for a multi-millionaire. Bitch, I could BUY that K-Mart.

Oh, I know I won’t win. I had better not get ahead of myself. The cable subscription is still on hold. It’s still nice to dream. And like the New York Lottery slogan goes,

Conflict Resolution

I’d like to wrap up the week by reflecting on the art of the passive aggressive note. As young people, we move from home to more socially diverse environments, and it can be tricky to try to develop the skills to appropriately handle conflicts that come up with coworkers, roommates, and cab drivers alike. I believe this can be especially tough for women, as we sometimes don’t want to appear too aggressive or bitchy even if the truth is that we have the word “DEMON” branded across our very hearts. I, myself, have participated in more door slamming, stomping, and aggressively loud music playing more times than I would like to admit. Come on ladies, we all do it. It’s a girl thing, am I right? Like our periods!

That said, my favorite tactic that some young women employ to manage conflict is the passive aggressive note. You know what I’m talking about.

Ugh, I remember I wrote the worst one ever to my freshman suitemates who never cleaned the bathroom. In hindsight, it really is no wonder that my roommate hated me so much. I was just the worst.

Still, we mature. And today, I am faced with an issue. See, in my office everybody likes club soda. What no one knows is that I love club soda more than any of them and I dare them to cross me about it. But I digress. To set the scene, you must know that I have a mini fridge below my desk where I keep water bottles for guests. Employees aren’t supposed to take the waters, but they often do. Now, the office always runs out of club soda around lunch time, so, when freshly stocked in the morning, I like to take extra cans of club soda and put them in the mini fridge. I feel as though it is my right to do this because I have a mini fridge. Agree with me, please. Dissent on this matter will not be tolerated.

You might understand, then, how I am upset when one particular coworker of mine comes back to the mini fridge, apparently goes “OOH THE LAST CLUB SODA,” and snatches it away without the slightest consideration about how why it might be in the fridge in the first place. ‘Cuz now, all the club soda is gone and I have no club soda for HOURS until they restock! Ugh.

I won’t be mad in a few hours. It will be OK. If the problem arises again, I will address it like a normal grown. But at the moment, I’m feeling like a passive aggressive note might be just the ticket. Minus the passive part.

Yeah, I poisoned the club soda.

(46) Days

Happy Mardi Gras!

To celebrate Fat Tuesday, I have snacked literally all day. I upped my usual daily intake of white cheddar popcorn from two little bags to three little bags, and let me tell you, it has been great. I’m eating a bowl of lucky charms as I write this. What kind of adult eats lucky charms at work? The kind that hopes to receive dental insurance someday soon, that’s what!

But like any perpetually-guilt-ridden-mostly-Catholic-semi-grown, I know that it would not be prudent to embrace the socially endorsed gluttony of this day without committing to a sacrifice that would counterbalance how gross I’ve been today. The issue that I come up against is deciding what to give up for Lent.

Here are some of my options at the moment, together with a concept of what this sacrifice would mean for me:

  • Thai food- This would mean no Thaiday Friday. Thaiday Friday is a holiday that I made up and celebrate with myself every week where I order tofu red curry for dinner and eat it in my bed while I watch the NBC Thursday night sitcoms online.
  • Wine- This would mean that my veins might flow with blood, for a change, instead of the Sauvignon Blanc that fills me now. It would be a trial for me, to say the least.
  • Professional manicures- I guess I don’t really get enough manicures to make this a legitimate sacrifice.  Plus, if we’re operating under that old “Sunday is a break day” rule, I probably wouldn’t be giving up anything at all.
  • Weekday drinking- This would mean me altering every single plan I have made for the next 2 weeks. Maybe I should take a critical look at myself.
  • Kardashian related media- Khloe and Lamar season 2 just started. Come on. It would be a big deal for me.
  • Carbs- This would make Thaiday Friday a little complicated too. Weekday carbs maybe? Is that a thing? Ugh, I know, I know. If it were easy, it would not be a sacrifice.

If you have any other ideas, I invite comments and suggestions. Regardless, you can bet that I’ll be drinking plenty of wine this eve. It’s always good to prepare for spiritually cleansing deprivation, no matter what.

Get a Boo in 2012!

Hey Grrrrllllssssss!

Valentine’s Day is over and we all survived! I’m not going to make some snarky comment about Valentine’s Day and how it’s so lame and only total sellouts fall into the trap of celebrating it. I’m not even going to complain about all of the annoying, happy couples. I’m buying into all of the Valentine’s Day nonsense! I’m totally getting a boyfriend before next Valentine’s Day. Girl, if I can do it SO CAN YOU!

We don’t want another year like this, do we girls?

 

The following is a step by step guide to get yourself a boo before Valentine’s Day 2013.

Step One: Get Out of Bed

If you’re like me, your loneliness is so crippling, most days getting out of bed just feels impossible. That’s NOT how to get a boyfriend. Believe me, girl! You’ve got to find a reason to get out of your bed! For example, tactically park your car in the direction of the nearest Cracker Barrel. When the sun rises on another sad day of your life, get out of bed! You can do it! You’re so close to the Cracker Barrel Country Boy Breakfast! Things are going to change for you today!

Step Two: Cry

Once you’re out of bed, get ready for the day! Put on a cute outfit and a little bit of make up BUT make sure you get out all of your tears before you put on any makeup. Admit it. You’re going to cry today. Let it happen, girl! Get it all out of your system then get ready to go out and get yo’ man!

Step Three: Eat Everything in Sight

It’s science. Men love a lady with a hearty appetite. Eat your food quickly. Scarf it down, girl! You don’t have time to savor it. You’ve got men to hunt! On your way out of Cracker Barrel, stop in the country store and pick up two pecan logs. Eat one in the car. Throw the wrapper out of the window. When you get back to your room, eat the other pecan log. Act like the first one never happened.

Step Four: Do Your Thing

This step is the “how-to” lists equivalent of the “free style” in a dance number. Go about your day normally!

Step Five: Go Home

Since you are trying to meet people, this may seem counterproductive. Trust me, girl! You’ll thank me later. Go home.

Step Six: Get on the Internet and Find True Love

Internet dating is awesome! I’m not talking about dating sites. Those aren’t going to help you. Your next move is a bold move. You can do it, girl! Get on FaceBook!

Step Seven: Choose Your Boo!

Scroll through your list of FaceBook friends. Pick out a boy who is cute but not too cute. Don’t get too crazy, girl! It’s not like you’re a model! (If you are a model feel free to alter this step.)

Step Eight: Change Your Relationship Status

Make your relationship status “In a Relationship with      Insert Name of Boy from Step  7  . I mean, he might go for it! If he gets weirded out just say it was an accident! What’s the worst thing that could happen? You’re alone forever? It seems like that’s inevitable, girl! At least you’ll have taken a risk!

We’ve got 365 more days to go through steps 1-8. If you wake up each morning and follow these instructions, I guarantee you’ll have a Valentine next year!*

Love ya girl!
Amelia

*My guarantee means very little.

The Plus Sides of Single-Hood

Valentines day is upon us, yes, so it can seem as though those of us unattached are meant to feel hideously bitter left out of the loop. But I think the whole “hag” thing is played out for me this year. Instead, I choose to be upbeat. I choose to still wear pink today. I choose to remember that there’s always a lot to celebrate even if you’re the one stuck with the responsibility of buying yourself roses and chocolates and vibrators this time of year. And so, with unbridled (and only a little bit forced) optimism, may I present, what I consider to be The Plus Sides of Single-hood:

  1. You get to wear your crest white strips at night without complaint. Who’s really trying to deal with that in the morning?
  2. You get to litter half of your bed with your computer and ipad and purse and trash from when you went shopping earlier when you go to sleep.*
  3. You get to proudly tell your gynecologist that you are not sexually active.
  4. Wanna watch 6 episodes of Say Yes to the Dress in a row on Netflix while eating an entire family sized bag of white cheddar popcorn in your bed? Go ahead! Just me? Ok!

    White cheddar popcorn has likely never touched this woman's lips. I weep for her. She's missing out.

  5. You get to gratuitously fart in bed.
  6. You get to smile sweetly while that dude you met at the bar 6 minutes ago tries everything short of physically dragging you to get you to his apartment (My advice? Marry. Him. Tonight. Then you’ll never be alone again).
  7. Wait, you bought your underwear in a 3 pack at Walmart too? The kind where the print looks like it should be on a toddler’s bedspread, but instead it’s on your thong? Oh my God, we HAVE to get drunk together coffee. We have so much in common.

    There is no bra in the world that these would compliment.

  8. Kardashians. No apologies.
  9. You get to know the real you. The you that happily eats brunch alone at restaurants. The you that buys fresh produce with the best of intentions but ends up eating delivery Thai food in bed at least twice a week. The you that weeps openly by yourself in the theater at The Muppet Movie. The you that, lets get real, is worth getting to know. Because, you know, she’s going places.

*You can also sleep dead center on your mattress, which carries it’s own redeeming value. I, however, recommend the litter avenue; helps guard against that “crater of loneliness” that will form if you sleep in the middle long enough, which is a turn off that bi-annual night you manage to land somebody there. Also, flip your mattress. Ah, but it’s kind of a two man job…

In Defense of A Small Town, or How I Learned to Wobble

Since moving home, I’ve spent a lot of time being jealous of my friends and their glamorous locations.  DC, New York, LA, even Williamsburg (the quaint college town that it is) are all meccas of culture compared to my small town.  And sometimes I get a little down about the lack of museums, cool concerts and comedy venues.  But mostly, I’ve realized I just have to be creative if I want to stay entertained.  Living in a small town as a young (not so) professional does not have to equal social suicide.  You just gotta be brave.  Being brave for me meant venturing past the one bar my high school friends and I ever went to.  It meant befriending the kids from the other high school in town.  It meant learning to Wobble…

My first journey outside the realm of my usual activity led me to Bluefox, the pool hall on the outskirts of town that I’d never been to but heard kind of sketchy things about. The first time I went to this pool hall, I was scared.  Mostly because:

  1. I’d never been to a pool hall.
  2. I didn’t really know the people I was meeting there.  Some crazy girl from work told me to go, and in general, new people and places make me a little anxious.
  3. People were doing choreographed dances to songs I didn’t know.
  4. There were lots of beards and leather.  Those things are inherently scary.
  5. I was the only person wearing a cardigan.  Also frightening.

But despite my worries, I had a good time.  And before I knew it, I met some more new people and explored some of the other social options Winchester has to offer.  And now I am not afraid when I go to the pool hall anymore!  This is because:

  1. I’m getting kind of ok at playing pool aka I’m pretty much a shark these days.
  2. The people I met are pretty great.  They’re real country and like doing things like bon fires and skinny dipping, but I like it.  Sometimes I feel like I’m in a country music video which is neat.
  3. I found out that on Tuesday nights, Jerry the Bartender (a very good dancer and very gay man) teaches the steps to these dances so you can be ready to dance on Sunday night with everyone (apparently Sunday night is a popping night at Bluefox! Who knew?!).  Because of Jerry,  I learned how to Wobble!  I now break it out at any possible occasion.  (See video if you yourself are interested in Wobbling).
  4. Beards don’t scare me anymore because I’m now dating one of those bearded men.  I have learned to embrace them (not the men, but their beards.  Although, I guess I do embrace a bearded man).  The leather I’m still a little iffy about.
  5. Ok, my friend still calls out what she describes as my “Yacht Chic” wardrobe as being a little inappropriate.  But like I said, I still can’t commit to a leather vest.

A Ham is Born

Those who love me will readily admit that I am a big ham. They will happily spend at least an hour telling you how charming and adorable my insatiable cravings for attention and affirmation are. They’ll also tell you how worth it putting up with me is because everything that comes out of my mouth is so clever and amazing that they would never want me to deny the world the joy of hearing it. Those who love me will tell you this because they know if they don’t, that I will light myself on fire and that they’ll be next.

I exaggerate (or do I?), but it is true that I love to perform. I have been known to start acting a little weird when I haven’t been on stage for a while. If I have ever done a dramatic monologue loosely based on Mufasa’s death scene from The Lion King for you, all I can say is that you really should have known what you were getting yourself into with me.

Dad! Wake up Dad! We gotta see the Savanna!

I guess I hadn’t given much thought to the roots of my hammy ways until recently, though, when my childhood best friend Kelly sent me some old home movies that her mom had transferred to DVD and put online. I spent an hour and a half watching old birthday parties, choreographed dances, and random play dates that we had insisted on filming. It was adorable, and I came away with several observations.

First, I guess have always been a camera hog. At one of Kelly’s birthday parties, everyone took turns during cake time playing camera man, giggling and filming the rest of the girls at the table. Can you guess who dodged camera duty? That’s right, this bitch. Instead, I followed the camera around, repeating, “This is Genevieve reporting for NBC live from Kelly’s dining room” for about five minutes before I began  scream-singing “Everybody Wants to be a Cat” from the movie Aristocats. Yeah, you’re welcome, everyone.

Though I tried my 9-year-old damnedest to dominate birthday footage, my love of being on camera truly reached a fever pitch one afternoon when Kelly and I filmed a movie that I had written starring my four stuffed cats, Mizzy, Pickles, Soft Classsics*, and Fluffy. The basic plot of The Mizzy Movie is that all four cats are sisters, but Fluffy, the oldest, is a total bitch-diva. Fluffy leaves the others alone one night, and they order pizza, get a little rowdy, accidentally burst a gas line in the house, then accidentally light a match and the whole house explodes. Fluffy arrives home to discover the destruction, and as punishment, locks Mizzy in a shed, ties Pickles to a tree, and traps Soft Classics with a net. When the three heroes naturally escape, they retaliate by tying Fluffy up. Cuz that’ll show her. And, scene.

Left to right: Me, Fluffy, Mizzy, Pickles, and Soft Classics

It wound up being a very rough, Blair-witchy type film. I acted as master puppeteer, narrator, and voice talent for all the characters. If there are any producers out there who think the The Mizzy Movie could be a success, I’d be happy to develop it further. My only stipulations are that it is still filmed with a hand held camera and I still get to play all the parts. Also, the gas leak is non-negotiable.

Kelly, I love you for sending this to me. Not only was it extremely cute, but it gave me some great insight into my present day personality, and allowed me to reach an important conclusion. Those who love me have no choice but to embrace the ham. It’s never going away.

*Soft Classics, or S.C. for short, is named so because the toy company had attatched a tag that looked like a collar with the brand title printed on it, and I assumed that was the cat’s name. Hammy, I was. Creative with names, not so much.

A Scorpio in January

At the start of every month, I like to do a couple of things. I like to order Thai food, get my eyebrows waxed, and read my horoscope to prepare myself for the coming 30 or so days. In my experience, horoscopes get a lot of crap for being “fake” and “a waste of time”. But come on, how can you not get excited when some lady in the internet tells you that your “weekend of January 21 is full of sparkly energy” ? I’m pulling out my best sequined gear already.

Full disclosure, I don’t actually believe in my horoscope. If every Scorpio really did have a “grand old” week from the 8th through the 14th, I’m pretty sure it would be on the news or something. Plus, I would like to think myself too special to fall under the overwhelming blanket of personality and fate prescribed by the Universe.  But this month, Astrologist Susan Miller got at least 2 things right.

The only woman I trust more than my mom

First, she said that “With your third and ninth houses of publishing emphasized this month, you may now get more involved in social media or update your blog or website.” HELLO? Spooky, right? Who even knew I had one house of publishing, let alone nine! Maybe I have more! I’m calling it now, the day my fifth and one hundred-sixteenth houses of publishing are in line with Saturn’s butthole is the day I win my Pulitzer. For this blog. Ok, moving on.
Next, she said, “on January 12 you have an outstanding day when Mars will reach out to the Sun in Capricorn. This would be a fantastic day to…have an interview.” WHICH I DID! And I think I sounded somewhat competent! I’ll hear about it next week, so stay tuned.

Susan’s eerily solid predictions about my January got me a pretty excited when I moved into the romance section of my reading. As a lonely, this is the best part of the whole Horoscope. This month, it read as follows:

“Your most romantic day of the month, lucky you, falls on a Saturday, on January 14, when Venus and Jupiter combine energies. The day will be divine, for Venus in your house of love will send a signal to Jupiter in your house of commitment and closeness. No matter if you are single or attached, this day shimmers with romantic vibrations.”

So something like this

Here’s how it really went. On my shimmering vibrator day of love hope, I woke up late, feeling kind of stuffy. I thought about going to yoga, but decided instead on brunch, promising myself I’d go to a later class. I didn’t. Instead, watched my friend play video games and then went and farted around in a yarn store for a while before deeming everything too expensive, and leaving. I stopped in a deli and picked up some jalapeño  potato chips, then I went home, got in bed, watched Netflix, and ate a shit ton of jalapeño  potato chips. Nice work, Venus and Jupiter. Thank you SO much.

Disappointed, though this left me, I have no intention of bagging the horoscope thing in general. I know it’s useless, but I really like the idea of some lady sitting on an oriental rug somewhere telling the whole world what is going to happen to them every month. Ah, to have a job like that. I love oriental rugs. And apparently, it’s not a bad gig. Susan Miller is speaking in New York at the beginning of February for a modest ticket price of $125.00. For another $65 I could have a private three-course lunch with her. Most romantic day of the month? Talk about the most romantic day of my LIFE! What do you think? Should I go?

Horoscopes aside, I am pretty excited for 2012. It’s finally the year of the dragon! How could this not be my year?