The Dimpling of My Discontent

I live in Florida.  I own no shorts.

Why don’t I own shorts?  That’s a really valid question, what with the “Florida” thing and all.  I would probably be much more comfortable in the summer when it’s around 5,000 degrees outside with 5,000% humidity if I could just throw on a good ol’ pair of shorts.

I don’t own shorts because my thighs look like a Christmas advent calendar where behind every dimple lies a trinket of horror.  THERE.  Are you satisfied?

I, dear friends, am a suffereur of cellulite.  It sounds fancier if you misspell “sufferer”, doesn’t it?  Like auteur, or provocateur, or whoeur.

I really shouldn’t beat myself up over it, I know.  I should beat up all those cruel, evil people who have smooth thighs, especially the ones who are like, “Oh, you should try working out!”

Screw you, Patsy.  I work out two times a day like a freaking racehorse and that stuff is still very much present and getting worse by the year.  I’m sure at this rate in another ten years I’ll have to get rid of even my ankle-cropped pants and just wear a long tube of fabric that ties off under my feet and I’ll have to crawl across the ground like an inchworm to get around.

“You should cut out dairy!”  Yep.  Tried it.  No dice.  Still dimpletown, but then the matter was further complicated by not having access to those little Babybel cheeses that I crave night and day.  I’ve gotta tell you, dimply and angry are two bad looks that look bad together.  You can check the research on that.  It tracks.  Sometimes cheese is the only thing that gets people through the night, you heartless bastards.  Don’t take it away from innocent people who are just trying to live their lives when your science is junk at best.

Oh, oh!  And you people with your “Well, I guess I must just have good genes!” can go cram it, too.  Are you saying that I have bad genes?

Because I do.  Nice catch, there!

If you put my DNA under a microscope it looks like a couple of rabid raccoons went crazy with a trash can full of expired silly string and Mountain Dew at a Pink Floyd laser light show.  I’m surprised my internal organs are even on the inside at all and I don’t just have to wear them around my neck like a charm necklace.  I truly, deeply, envy the posture and physical grace of the average gutter possum.

My bad romance with this dreaded dimply condition started when I was 11 years old, when I weighed less than 100 pounds, and was very physically active.  One day I looked at the side of my right thigh and went, “What the hell is THAT?”  It happened at a water park, too, with witnesses.  I wanted to deal with this humiliating matter as reasonably as possible, so I went back to the water park later that night and burned it to the ground.  I put up a tombstone where it once stood that read “RIP Maggie’s Non-Dimpled Thighs 1976 – 1987”.

I hate to be Negative Nancy here, except that I don’t hate it because I excel at being Negative Nancy, but I’m here to tell you that there’s no hope.  If there’s a cream, gel, patch, lotion, exercise, diet, witch doctor, magic spell, or animal sacrifice that’s been purported to reduce cellulite, I’ve tried it.  I’ve tried it and it failed.  I should have just taken all the money I doled out for these remedies and spent it on something that actually makes me happy, like another vintage Donny Osmond lunch box or my drinking habit.

So far the best solution I’ve found when faced with bare-thighness in daylight with witnesses is to create a diversion on the other side of the room, back slowly out the door, and run for my life.  This is why I carry a sack of pre-filled water balloons and an airhorn with me at all times.

I tried throwing a handful of sand into the other person’s eyes one time like a cellulite ninja, but that got “hostile” really fast.  People are all, “Oh my god you threw sand in my eyes!  Oh mother of all things holy!!!  I’m blind!  I’m bllliiiiiiiind!!!!!” and you’re like, “Did you see anything before the blinding?!!  This lighting is really unflattering in here you know!”

I realize that literally 90% of all women have cellulite, and that it’s perfectly normal and something that nobody should be ashamed of, but how is it that all of the women who don’t have it are the ones who end up on television, in movies and magazines?  If you follow the stats, that means every single woman who doesn’t have cellulite ends up being famous.  That’s science!  Or photoshopping.  Either one.  My math may be slightly off there, but SO WHAT?

Do these women have a secret club??  Is there a special knock that leads to a secret room filled with women have the thighs of young amphibians?

Because we need to find that room, and lock those bitches in.

Sixx is The Loneliest Number

Imagine my surprise to see a message pop up from Nikki Sixx on my Instagram a couple months ago.

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Nikki Sixx?  Messaging ME?  How could this be?

I had recently name-checked Motley Crue in a blog post, and the very stupid part of me that wants to believe these kinds of things can actually happen got really excited for approximately three seconds.  Logically the whole thing made no sense, but that lizard part of my brain hissed, “What if it’s really him???” and then my pupils bloomed black to the edges of my eyes as my cold, steely heart grew to ten times its size.

What if Nikki Sixx wants to be my friend??  What if he wants to invite us to pool parties and doesn’t hassle me about leaving my cover-up tied around my waist because no matter what you do or how much you diet and exercise, you will never, ever, ever, for as long as you live, fight off cellulite past the age of 40?  What if he’ll let me and Bobby throw tennis balls into the pool for his dogs?!

What if he and I write a song together and after we finish recording it he gives me one of those handshakes that morphs into a hug and calls me “Little Sister” and then I don’t die right there?

Then what if Nikki Sixx writes a book about our unique friendship, and in the dedication it reads, “Her pupils bloomed black to the edges of her eyes as her cold, steely heart grew to ten times its size.  Love you, Little Sister.  I am talking about Maggie just so we’re all on the same page.  Here’s a picture of me and her standing together so that you know this is all true and stuff.  She didn’t just make this all up if that’s what you’re thinking.”

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Definitely not a fake photo of me standing next to Nikki Sixx.  This might look like a crude Photoshop job, but it’s totally, totally not.  (It’s MS Paint.  That’s how hip and retro I am.)

I have an inkling that Nikki Sixx probably has better things to do than message me to say hello, but that’s really just a working theory at this point.  Maybe he’s always really wanted to message me but was too intimidated by my “wata-mala-ness”, my “natural heat”, as described by Hank Azaria in The Birdcage.  Maybe that particular day he threw my wata-mala-ness to the wind and finally worked up the courage to do it.

Of course it would turn out that it wasn’t actually Nikki Sixx, because Nikki Sixx is a very busy famous person and a musical genius and I am neither of those things, and also because the world is apparently just a swirling blue deathball of perpetual pain spinning into the vacuum of nothingness or whatever.

I decided that in lieu of this person actually being Nikki Sixx, I would get my jollies, as they were, by fully screwing around with this Nikki Sixx impersonator.  It was the very least he deserved for making my pupils bloom black to the edges of my eyes and making my cold steely heart grow to ten times its size, only to have it all end up being a torturous scam, the likes from which I will never recover.  Just thinking about the whole thing is making me need to go lie down and then eat too much pizza and then lie down again.

I responded to Fake Nikki Sixx by responding the way I would to any message from a stranger:  By taking pot-shots at the keyboard player from Bon Jovi.

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He sent a reply that made perfect sense, were he either a Russian troll who was raised by Johnny Five from the movie Short Circuit, or actual Johnny Five.

Johnny Five? Nikki Sixx? You add those two together and you get ELEVEN.  See that?

There is absolutely no way this can be a coincidence, except that eleven doesn’t tie into anything I can think of at the moment besides Stranger Things.  And we’re not talking about Stranger Things, are we?  No, we’re not.  We’re talking about Nikki Sixx.  Good lord, try to stay on topic!

Here was his response:

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Is that you, Nikki?  Nikki???

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I then decided to test his Nikki Sixx knowledge by referencing an incident in rock ‘n roll history that never happened.

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As you will see in the next screenshot below, Fake Nikki Sixx failed the test by not even acknowledging this mockery I made of rock ‘n roll history.  Real Nikki Sixx would be like, “Bitch, you crazy.”  To be fair, though, I can’t imagine after all these decades in Motley Crue that Nikki Sixx remembers every single thing that ever happened.  Except that he’s a genius and you know that he does.

Instead of responding to my Gene Simmons thing, Fake Nikki Sixx deflected and crossed a weird line, wanting to know this:

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Hmm.  I’m pretty sure that most women don’t go giving out their addresses to total strangers on the internet since that “To Catch A Predator” series wrapped up and all.  There was no way I was going to disclose that information – unless it were to actual Nikki Sixx – in which case I would have sent him GPS coordinates to my house and told him where he could land a private helicopter nearby.  My apartment complex does have a pool, and so long as he didn’t hassle me about leaving on my cover-up until the sun went down, I would totally let him use my pool.  I’d even offer him my last Coconut La Croix.

No, I wouldn’t.  But I’d give him the last Lime La Croix.

I responded to Fake Nikki Sixx’s question the only way I knew how:  By invoking dialogue from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.

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AND THEN HE GHOSTED ME.  What the heck kind of bag of crap is THAT?  Looks like he couldn’t handle my wata-mala-ness, either!  I cancelled my membership in the Fake Nikki Sixx Fan Club immediately.  The nerve!

I think the only thing that will make me feel better at this point is if everything in the beginning part of this post really happens, so thanks in advance for messaging me, actual Nikki Sixx.  Let’s get to work on that song.  I have a lyric for it about pupils or something.

Building The Perfect Panic Pizza

I’m not particularly skilled at this thing called “cooking”.  I appreciate your attempts at being polite when you pretend to enjoy the frozen pizza I made you that is somehow completely burned on the edges and bottom yet still frozen in the middle.  It’s a magical skill, I know.  How does one even accomplish that in a conventional oven?

That being said, there is one kind of pizza that I’m actually pretty good at making:

The Panic Pizza!

Oh, you don’t know how to make a Panic Pizza?  Well hot damn!  Let’s start the Home Shame Economics cooking class!

The first and most important ingredient in a Panic Pizza is the human-shaped dough glob that is you.  Hopefully, you’ve mixed and mashed yourself with so much alcohol and so many carbs the night before that by morning, you’re ready to be scraped off the couch and rise, get punched a few times in the gut, and then tossed up like so many cookies into the air of daylight.  After all, it’s another day for you to try your best at not being a shit show.  Good luck with that, paisan!

Now your dough is ready for sauce.  Since the jar of sauce is too hard to open and you don’t feel like walking all the way over to the cabinet that’s four feet away to get the jar opener thingy, you decide this Panic Pizza will be sauce-less.

You trailblazer, you.  It takes a lot of guts to have that kind of Lack of Motivation, which brings us to our first topping!  Lack of Motivation!

Hang on.  Now you’re picturing a loved one trying to chew the dry, sauce-less pizza and then they get the hiccups when they try to swallow a particularly large and dry bite, then they start choking, you totally suck at doing the Heimlich Maneuver, and then the morgue comes to take their dead body away because you killed them with your dry pizza because you were too unmotivated to get the jar opener thingy.  The hearse will pull away and you’ll be inconsolable, crying, “Why couldn’t I just get the jar opener thingy?  I should have seen this coming!”

Sorry, Lack of Motivation, but the first topping on this Panic Pizza is Anxiety.  Rookie mistake!

So, first layer on some gloppy Anxiety, then Lack of Motivation.  Our Panic Pizza is starting to really take shape!

Now that you’ve got Anxiety going, you can sit back and put your feet up for a while.  It’s time for Anxiety to take over, which means Anxiety gets to pick the rest of the toppings.  That’s what you get for letting Anxiety into the kitchen.  Once that guy comes into the picture, he takes over EVERYTHING.

Anxiety wants you to feel pretty bad about what a bother you are to everyone when you act like this, so let’s liberally sprinkle some Guilt onto the Panic Pizza.  You want to take it right up to the edges so you don’t get a single bite without at least a little of that zesty Guilt flavor.

Now Anxiety wants you to feel really weak for not being able to control Anxiety, so you slice up some Shame and lay it out on the Panic Pizza in concentric circles.  Those circles better be perfect, because if they’re not perfect, then nobody will like you…

…which is just in time to add Insecurity to the Panic Pizza!

Insecurity gets sprayed onto the pizza from an olive oil mister so that you can be sure it’s evenly coated all over the Panic Pizza.  Oh man, despite all your preparation, it looks like you missed a spot.  It’s probably because of the next topping going on the pizza…

…and that topping is Stupid!

Really, nobody could confuse it for anything else, seeing as you’re a grown adult with adult responsibilities who should be more than capable of handling your own jacked-up and self-destructive thoughts by now, but since you can’t, I guess that means you’re just Stupid!

You know what?  Let’s not render the verdict on that one yet.  Maybe you just haven’t tried therapy, religion, yoga, meditation, herbs, oils, deep breathing, visualization, and grounding techniques yet!  Maybe you just need to try harder to defeat your anxiety disorder!

Oh wait.  You have tried?  Tried and failed, you say?  Then go ahead and toss some Stupid onto that Panic Pizza, then pop open that smoky bin next to it, and LAYER ON THE FAILURE.

The only thing left to add to your Panic Pizza is the cheese of Anxiety’s choice, which means you don’t get any cheese, because Anxiety thinks you don’t deserve any.  Instead, Anxiety will give you the last topping in the form of a little cup of that garlic butter “sauce” from Papa John’s, because if that shit ain’t Self-Loathing, I don’t know what is.

Mamma mia!  Anxiety make-uh you the perfect Panic Pizza pie-uh!

Related, I found this at Wal-Mart this weekend.  Feel free to mark this on your calendar as the day humanity officially gave up.

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This is not okay.