This Is My Journalist Hat, It Looks Just Like My Invisible Hat

Because of the aforementioned existential crisis, and because of my EXTREMELY busy schedule of being unemployed and eating chocolate, my brain is currently incapable of thinking of blog posts.

So.

I am going to interview you. Because you are interesting, and I even like some of you. (SOME of you.)

If you want to be one of my interview minions, please leave a comment or email me or text me or send me a telepathic message (so far I have shown no psychic ability, but I'm expecting it to kick in any day now).

And give me some ideas of questions to ask.

Also, be aware that even if you don't tell me you want to be interviewed, I might ask you anyway. Feel totally free to say no if you don't care that I'll despise you forever.

Stay Tuned

My existential crisis about turning 30 crept up on me over the last month, and now it has apparently decided to camp out for a while. I thought maybe it was going to bypass me completely, but I guess it was just running late.

Regular programming will resume once I've kicked this bitch to the curb.

In the meantime, a math lesson:

Just Like A Movie, Only Not Even Remotely

So, I went to San Jose, and I drove back, and I took some pictures while I was driving which is super safe, you should all try it.

California. I'm so glad I don't live in you anymore.


I googled The Rogue. No dice. But work totally does bite, so I'm on board with this. Let's all go!


This is when Jesus started coming back, but was chased away by Paul Bettany, Dennis Quaid, and the truly heinous quality of the movies they're doing these days.


And now I'm working on getting the car rental company to take off the charges for an extra day - set my alarm and got up after 17 hours of driving and 4 hours of sleep just to get that car back on time. Folks, this is kinda stressful. Perhaps Jesus could have helped me out with this one. Curse you, Paul Bettany!

Your Small Intestine Is 20 Feet Long

Always one to shy away from controversy and disagreement, I thought I'd post this video of a Mormon man bearing his testimony about gay marriage.



I wish everyone had his guts.

But not literally. Because ew.

This Post Is Rated PG-13 And Was Written By Satan

I was thinking about posting something - nothing important, or even that interesting - and then I didn't because I was like, "Oh, my family reads this blog, I can't swear."


And then I was like, "Fuck that. I'll swear if I want to."


Fair warning, family. There will be swears.


Also, I never realized how weird it looks when you stick your tongue out.

This Post Is About How You ARE NOT FAT

The other day I came across a big to-do over a picture in the September issue of Glamour magazine, which I have not read because all those makeup and hair and dating tips are overwhelming and make me feel grumpy. And also because those magazines are expensive.

The issue contains this picture. A picture of a 20-year-old girl with a poochy stomach and underwear that cuts into her hip a little, rather than laying perfectly flat. And she looks GREAT.

Now, she's still a model; she still looks better than most of us. Well, better than I do, anyway. But. It's awesome to see someone who isn't flawless. Who wants flawless? Flawless is weird. I think most of us need to be reassured that we're not abnormal if we have poochy stomachs or stretch marks or cellulite. (Those of you who don't have any of those things, I submit this quote from You've Got Mail: "It's like bragging because you're tall." Keep it in mind when dealing with the rest of us. Also, this recut of Sleepless In Seattle is even better, but Mary Poppins is still my favorite.)

Yes, the airbrushed, photoshopped images we see totally distort our views. We know that. But do we GET it? I just want to say that you can all stop freaking out about being fat. If you're naturally tiny, great, be tiny. Own it.

But if you're not, why do you need to be? Why do you want to be?

STOP WITH THE GUILT ALREADY. Stop feeling guilty about everything you eat. Stop feeling guilty because you weigh more than you did in high school. Stop feeling guilty if you'd rather chill with a friend than work out. And for the sake of everything EVER, stop trying to make me feel guilty about my habits just because you feel bad about yours.

I walk most places I need to go, and when I have money I'll take a yoga class because I like yoga. I put lots of butter on my toast, and I always have some really good chocolate in my desk drawer. I'm never going to be tiny. And I feel fine about that.

This is me, feeling fine about it.


Please feel fine about you too.

You guys, I was totally going to talk about my breasts, but then this post got way too long so YOU MISSED OUT.

We Are Thirty, We Are Legion

Today I am a ma'am. I totally stole that from Valerie Harper - PLAGIARISM ALERT, KLAXON SOUNDS. I just really like that line; I heard it years ago and I've never forgotten it. PS - If you call me ma'am I will punch you, just so we're clear.

Yesterday Spencer and Chrissy threw me a little birthday get-together. For some reason I didn't have the presence of mind to get a picture of the chocolate orange cheesecake-like goo that Spencer made. It was DELICIOUS.

This is not a picture of cheesecake.


Somehow - and I'm pretty sure this is Chrissy's fault - we ended up reading stories Spencer wrote as a child. You guys, they featured a land octopus, the word "backguns," and a cowboy named Billy who had killed hundreds of indians and wolves by 1978.

Lisa reads. Audrey peeks. Peek, Audrey, peek!


Meanwhile, San* sits by, blissfully ignorant, while Keffy's eyes begin to glow red with inner fire, which had burned away his soul years ago.


He must have gotten to San when we weren't looking. Oh, San, we mourn thee.


Nathan does the knee squeeze while Dani simultaneously pulls the yawn-and-stretch maneuver. They're hoping to take coordinated groping to the Olympics in 2012.


Spencer, ever the critic, thumbs his nose at his own work, calling his six-year-old self "a sanctimonious hack." Way harsh, Spencer.



Then today I saw Adam by myself (derivative, abundantly cliched; not recommended), had a mocha and a cinnamon roll, then Dani and Nathan took me to see District 9 (different, interesting, bloody, and a little bit funny; recommended, if you can take gore).

I'm going to count it as a win, though I sadly did NOT get to see a fortune teller or a psychic. Where are they all hiding? Bellingham seems like the kind of place that would have them in abundance.

And now I'm going to have tea to aid in my valiant effort of not coughing up a lung. There are medals for that, right?

*I can't get "San" to umlaut properly. What? That's totally a verb.