Hey friends! Just wanted to let you know I’m taking a break from writing for a while to tend to some personal stuff. Hope you all had a great New Year, and thanks, as always, for being so awesome. 🙂
“Don’t get on the scale. Ever. It’s just a number, and it doesn’t really correspond with your health or your fitness level. So throw it out! Never step on a scale again!”
I had an eight year period of my life where I embraced this philosophy. After being fairly small for most of my life, I gave up the scale in my late 20s and what do you think happened?
Did I feel unchained from watching my figure? Did I gain a newfound sense of confidence?
I put on forty pounds.
I know what you’re thinking. It was probably because I was putting on muscle! Was I really fit under that doughy layer of marshmallow fluff?
For some people, I’m sure that’s the case, but it was most certainly not the case for me. I personally chunked up for a few reasons, and none of them had anything to do with having too much muscle mass.
The first reason for My Own Personal Chunkening was that I ate anything I wanted, anytime I felt like it, until I felt uncomfortably full – and I mean packing it in.
Wendy’s Double Cheeseburger, fries, and a Frosty for lunch? Thank you! And not just as a treat. Every day. Then round off the workday afternoon with some cookies, maybe a bag of chips or two.
Dunkin’ Donuts sausage, egg, and cheese on a bagel as a midnight snack, after already having eaten three meals and two snacks that day? Please pull forward and pay at the first window.
Brownie sundae at every restaurant meal? I would order a brownie sundae and when the other person with me would say, “We’ll split it!” I had absolutely no qualms about giving them the look of death, saying, “No,” and then inhaling the sundae like it was my last day on Earth.
People loved this. Any time I shoved an entire slice of pizza into my mouth, my cheeks expanding out to those of a hamster, they practically applauded. People love to encourage bad behavior for some reason, I assume so they don’t feel so bad about their own?
The second reason was that I sat at a desk-job all day. I did zero exercise. Literally none. I was so unfit, I was constantly out of breath even just walking fast, and my joints hurt all the time. Knees, hip joints, even my finger joints. I wasn’t even 35 and I hurt all over.
The third reason was that I was perpetually very stressed out and under-slept. I was out playing shows with the band at night and still waking up at 6am for my 8-to-5 day job every morning. I dragged myself into work in the morning on 2-3 hours sleep regularly, and I was all kinds of messed up and constantly sick.
I was so exhausted that I felt I had earned the right to stuff my face and slowly become one with the couch. Hadn’t I suffered enough with my financial problems, stressful workload, and unsupportive boyfriend? The least I deserved was fresh-baked cookies and an episode (or eight) of The Golden Girls.
And I tell ya what, my thick ol’ body onstage with the band? People loved it, especially the women in the crowd. They couldn’t believe the confidence I displayed onstage despite my yuuuuuuuuge ass. They were encouraging, and sweet, and awesome, and always made me feel like a million bucks. I was never actually as confident as I appeared to be, but I felt like I owed it to women to show them that they could be confident no matter what size they were.
The reality was that deep down, anytime I saw a picture of myself, I would get very upset, delete it, and spend the rest of the day freaking out about my double chin. Clothes didn’t fit me unless I put on practically head-to-toe Spanx, and I had to wear biking shorts under my dresses so that my thighs didn’t rub together. I sat down at my kitchen table one time, and snapped a leather belt I was wearing right in half at the back.
I knew I’d put on weight, but I didn’t think it was that much. As someone who’s exceptionally skilled at living in denial, I made up every excuse in the book when I split a pair of pants that I’d had and worn on a weekly basis for ten years. “Oh, the washer must have shrunk these! On the 250th wash!”
I went to the doctor for the first time in a lot of years, and they made me get on a scale. When the little metal slider thing clicked into place and the number was read aloud, I felt my knees go weak. I could not believe how much I weighed. I had estimated that I weighed about 30 pounds LESS than the number that was staring back at me on the scale. Holy ballz. I’m only 5’4″. When you’re that short, every 5 pounds puts you up at least another dress size.
I had finally had enough of feeling like crap all the time, so I started working out, and kind of watching what I ate. I lost about ten pounds, and I was really happy with it. Then the ex-boyfriend dropped a nuclear bomb on my life and I lost ten more pounds in one week. (Related – I don’t recommend grief-rage vomiting as a diet.)
Then I straightened my ass up, decided I needed to get healthy, and signed up for a paleo local food delivery service and lost another twenty-five pounds. I started exercising just 15-20 minutes a day, six days a week. (That paleo diet made me lose weight like crazy. I literally could not stop losing weight on it, and eventually had to start adding stuff like bread and pasta back in to even maintain my weight.)
I wasn’t surprised at the people told me I looked great with the weight loss, but I was surprised at how many people were total dicks about it. I mean, really, really surprised. They would ask outright how much I weighed (something that would NOT have been cool when I was overweight), scrutinized my diet, accused me working out for hours every day, and there was even a rumor going around that I had developed an eating disorder.
When I was inhaling pizza and cheeseburgers until I was so full that it was physically painful and I could barely move, nobody accused me of having an eating disorder. They cheered me on. When I stopped eating pizza, people gossiped that I needed to go to a clinic. It was really weird.
So don’t let random unsubstantiated tips like “Don’t get on the scale!” take over your life. I get on the scale at least a few times a week so that I know when I need to tone it back on the pies, because it works for me. Do what works for you. Paleo worked for me, might not work for you. Running 10 miles a day might work for you, doesn’t work for me.
And the washer totally shrunk those pants. On the 250th wash!
I came home to a neighbor blasting a Kid Rock song (on repeat!) through the wall of our apartment the other day. Now, normally I’m very meek when it comes to confronting neighbors, having toiled with some particularly nasty and violent neighbors in the past, but I made it less than ten minutes before I marched over and started banging on his door.
You’re gonna play Kid Rock into my HOME? Where I eat and sleep and expect houseplants to flourish?!
It got me to thinking that I’ve never heard someone blasting music that I would consider decent. Not once. Not once in my life. Not through an apartment wall, not out of a car, not from a radio on a towel at the beach.
(For the record, it was that “Sweet Home Alabama” monstrosity that Kid Rock horked up and furballed onto the radio a few years back. The one where he rhymes the word “things” with “things” for god’s sake. Also, he is not from Alabama, and neither is Lynyrd Skynyrd.)
I’ve never sat next to a car at a stoplight that was blasting music and thought, “Oh wow! This person next to me has got great taste in music!” It’s always something just absolutely terrible. It’s like there’s a law that if a musical note is heard loudly in public, it has to belong to a musician who is no more than six degrees of separation away from Limp Bizkit.
Same goes for someone prominently holding up a book that they’re reading. They’re never holding up something fantastic like a David Sedaris book or a Jughead comic. It’s always something like “How To Win Bitches” or “Chicken Soup for The Precious Moments Figurine Collector’s Soul” or some shit by Ted Nugent where he’s wearing the Constitution as a loincloth. I think if I ever heard a good song blasting out of a car or saw someone holding up a decent book, I would be so shocked that I would just drive right into an embankment.
Witnesses say the last words the victim uttered as they pulled her charred, limp body from the fiery wreckage were, “Finally! Someone blasting The Ramones! Please – someone save my Betty and Veronica Double Digest on the passenger seat. Save it for the future generations.”
I’ve come to realize that the same is true for loud conversations. As a soft-spoken type, I’m appalled at how loudly people converse in public, and it’s always the conversation that you don’t want to hear.
We were sitting in a bar the other night (big surprise there), and someone nearby was having a two hour long, one-sided conversation with the person next to them, broadcasting it out of their mouth at approximately 5,000 decibels, blasting in my ear like in the opening scene of Back to The Future when Marty McFly plugs his guitar into that giant speaker and it blows him back like ten feet.
The subjects varied between a riveting tale about that time she ordered a bottle of wine at a Red Lobster in Daytona Beach in 1982, several mentions of how the Jello-shot the bartender had just given her looked like a urine specimen, her strong belief in guardian angels, and how Trump was going to earn her vote again if he levels Iran.
Basically the conversational equivalent of a Kid Rock song.
Never once in my life have I been sitting at a bar and heard someone shouting a conversation about the Abstract Expressionist movement in art, or about the best red lipstick for your skin tone, or about how every single kid on Mr. Belvedere was so ugly that sometimes it actually hurt to look at the television. You know, stuff that I’d actually be interested in hearing about! Never!
It’s always the person who wants to shout racial slurs and talk about the “handy” he got for half-price when he was stationed in Okinawa because she was missing two fingers. Or the women at brunch who try to top each other’s birthing stories at full volume, making sure to really enunciate the words “…THE SIZE OF THE BLOOD CLOT THAT FLOPPED OUT OF ME…IT WAS LIKE TWO CALVES’ LIVERS, CAROL.”
Nobody’s ever like, “Let me yell my well-thought out opinion about Wendy’s versus Arby’s!” That’s a conversation I could get into!
I mean, where are my people? You’re probably off in the corner, like me, quietly debating the best Talking Heads song, not talking about Jello urine specimens or vag-shrapnel, and making plans to get nachos and watch Rocky IV for the fiftieth time later.
And Wendy’s is the superior option because they have baked potatoes that are actually baked in an oven, which are something that would take you like an hour to cook at home and would heat up your whole house.
And because Arby’s killed my entire family when I was a child.
Okay, maybe not. But Arby’s doesn’t have baked potatoes.
I just looked it up and they actually do have baked potatoes.
See you in Hell.
Someone asked me if I was excited about the new Dumbo movie. I had to restrain myself from responding with one or more of the following:
“I would rather replace every strip of bacon I eat with a similarly sized strip of duct tape that was used to pick hairs up from a crime scene that occurred on a bus station bathroom floor.”
“I would rather be locked in a room with Adam Levine (who I prefer to refer to as “Gonorrhea Jesse Pinkman”) and forced to listen to him wax philosophical about his ab routine for three days straight.”
“I would rather go back in time and replace every Love Boat cast member with a Kardashian/Jenner. Kylie is the new Gopher!”
But, oh no! You can’t be honest in those situations! People get all, “Geez! Sorry I asked!”
You know, people claim to want honesty above all else, but I can tell you from experience, the last thing most people want from you is honesty. What people really want is for you to agree with them.
And you know what I don’t agree with?
Subjecting myself to Dumbo for a second time in my life.
Yeah, I saw it when I was five years old, and that was frankly more than enough to emotionally scar me for life. The only way you could make me watch the re-make is if you were to put me in a straitjacket and hold my eyes open a la A Clockwork Orange. Even then, I would just try to use The Force to choke myself unconscious.
Don’t act like I’m the only adult who still tries to use The Force. I attempt it at least a few times a week when presented with “unpleasant situations” in public. It hasn’t worked yet, but I swear last week a guy in front of me in the Walgreens line started to loosen his top collar button to get some air when he asked for a raincheck on a sale item during rush hour. Had he turned around at that moment, he would have seen me doing this:
He continued breathing air despite my righteous efforts of justice, happy as a raincheck-clam to torture all of the people he was holding up in line. I could deal with it if it were some poor little old lady in a muu-muu and knee-highs, but this guy walked outside in his fancy golf outfit and suede driving moccasins and climbed into his S-Class Mercedes, raincheck in-hand for two canisters of almonds.
I pictured him sitting at a table later that night at Long John Silver’s, complaining that the seafood “just simply wasn’t up to snuff”. THEN GO TO A REAL SEAFOOD RESTAURANT, JOHN “BUDDY” REGINALD RUTHERFORD-WINCHESTER III. You clearly have the money and are just playing mind games with the rest of us! You can pay full price for almonds, you rich prick!
In case you’re wondering, The Force also doesn’t work on making the tires of an S-Class Mercedes explode and rain down from the sky in hot tar ashes onto the tops of someone’s suede driving moccasins. I place equal blame for that one on: (a) my rejection letter from Jedi school, and (b) quality German engineering.
Back to the Dumbo thing.
If you’re a regular reader of this blog, then first of all, sorry, and second, you know I was an anxious worry-wort of a child. A nervous wreck. A real Sensitive Sally. I didn’t really require supplemental things to worry about.
So imagine my surprise, sitting in front of a television screen, kindergarten-dangly-legs-happy to see “the cute elephant movie”, when Dumbo appears on the screen, gets mercilessly tormented by all the other circus animals, his mother defends him, and then she gets taken away from him and locked up in a cage, leaving Dumbo to fend for himself in a harsh, cruel world.
Hey you know what I shouldn’t have had to worry about when I was a kid? My mother being taken away from me and locked up, leaving me alone to traverse a cruel world. I don’t care if it works out in the end – little kids shouldn’t have to worry about those things. Yes, sometimes it happens, mothers get locked up, kids get taken away, but worrying about it in advance will do absolutely nothing beneficial for you as a kid.
Same with Bambi. Kids shouldn’t have to worry about their mothers getting shot by hunters. How about we just let them cross that bridge when it happens and address it at that time, because odds are pretty damn good that it’s not going to happen in the first place? In the meantime you’re just terrifying children for no good reason.
If you want to teach kids about things like life and death, forego the Disney films and get them a hamster, and then never, ever, ever, ever, ever let them actually hold the hamster, because having to watch a child hold a hamster is the most nerve-wracking thing I’ve ever experienced.
You know what? No hamsters. Get them a fish with a locking lid on the tank, put barbed wire around the outside of the tank, and keep the tank in a locked room that the kid can never get into.
Children around small pets is just too much for me. I can’t take it.
“Look how cute Bryson/Greyson/Flotsam is holding the baby chick!”
GET THAT CHICK AWAY FROM THAT KID RIGHT THIS SECOND. I KNOW HE’S SQUEEZING IT.
So, no. I’m not seeing the new Dumbo movie.
Look, maaaybe I’m guilty of blocking children’s view of the otters at the marine conservation center. What is that? A CRIME?
(Please note in advance that this post is what is often referred to as “a joke”. Your children are adorable, some of my favorite people are children, blah, blah, blah, etc. Do not send a Mom Mob after me. I’ve got enough problems trying to get the Beauty Battalion off my jock for insulting their lie-brows and suggesting that “contouring” is over. They already wrote “You’re dead, bitch” in bronzer across my driveway and came back later with highlighting powder to really make it pop.)
I get way more enjoyment out of the otters than your kid ever will, and I can say this because your kid can’t be bothered to put down his Nintendo Switch long enough to notice the otters to begin with. Ignoring otters?! THAT should be a crime.
My attention to otters can best be described as utter otter devotion, and should be rewarded as such by naming me “Honorary Otterkeeper” for the day, where I will get to wear a glittery badge and feed shrimp to the otters from a souvenir bucket that I get to take home with me that says, “That’s an-OTTER story!” on the side with a picture of two otters reading books and wearing glasses.
I would get a personal invitation to the birthing of all baby otters and unlike SOME PEOPLE who have “Little League practice”, I would actually show up every time.
I would give the baby otters interesting names, too, like “Ottermatic For The People”, “And Then There’s Maude-er”, and “Genesis But Before Peter Gabriel Left The Band”. I wouldn’t give them some totally lame name a kid would give them, like a cat with white paws named “Socks” or the tiger-striped cat named “Tiger”. You’re really breaking the creativity bank there! What are you, 8?
Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn at the otter tank, Bryson/Greyson/Flotsam – not that you even care! Your parents are the only ones who are having a conniption over me blocking the tank, anyway. You were probably here last week and you’ll be back again the next week because for some reason children get to do all the vacation things ALL THE TIME now.
Know where we went when I was a kid? School. If school was out? Home. You only got taken to an otter tank if your parents had some kind of hideous news to spring on you, like you were moving to Goober, Idaho (Shout out to my fellow Overboard fans!), or had an incurable form of Leukemia.
Curable Leukemia would only warrant a trip to the McDonald’s drive-thru at best, and there would be no special orders. You’re getting crushed peanuts on that hot fudge sundae even though you don’t want them, because THAT’S the way it comes. Hell, you’re getting them even if you’re allergic to peanuts! “Toughen up, Sally!” is what they’d say as you turned purple and lost consciousness.
If a kid had asked to go swimming with dolphins, any of our parents would have just pointed to the open ocean and said, “Go for it, asshole.”
If you ever, ever made the mistake of saying, “I’m bored!” it was immediately met with, “Then go clean your room.” (This was a brilliant parental move, by the way. We figured out pretty quickly to stop complaining that we were bored.)
I mean, for the love of Mike, people. Otters don’t cut it with these kids? If your kid is non-plussed by the glorious sight of frolicking otters, I have serious concerns for how they’re gonna feel someday down the road about doing their taxes.
Come to think of it, if I took a kid to an otter tank and they rolled their eyes like, “Whatevs!” I would make them actually do my taxes that year as punishment. You think third grade is hard? Wait until you see U.S. tax code. And I better be getting a fat refund, kid, or your ass is grass. Orphanage City, sonny boy!
Now, I have heard it’s good to provide children with “motivation”, so I would at least be kind enough to leave my to-do list next to the tax papers:
- Take ungrateful kid to that orphanage in the sewer with the scary clown in it
- Pick up dry cleaning
- Order cake for celebration now that ungrateful kid is living in that orphanage in the sewer with the scary clown
- Turn ungrateful kid’s room into otter habitat
(The foregoing are just several of the many reasons I am not permitted to have children.)
All right, hate-mailers, put down your weapons. I’m sure your kid who can’t be bothered to fawn over otters is going to turn out just fine. Everyone knows that bored, demanding children only become more pleasant to be around when they become teenagers. Enjoy your time in Hell, is what I’m saying.
Fine. So like all old, childless people, I think a lot of “kids today” are spoiled. That’s a new one!
“The children now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise. Children are now tyrants, not the servants of their households. They no longer rise when elders enter the room.” – THIS IS AN ACTUAL SOCRATES QUOTE FROM LIKE 450 B.C. SO GO BLAME HIM FOR STARTING THIS
If you want to get uppity about it, just know that for my punishment I will have to train an otter family to change my diapers for me when I’m old, I’ll die with no heirs and will be tossed into a shared hobo burial pit, and the only proof that I even existed will be a souvenir bucket with “That’s an-OTTER story!” on the side with two Winger cassettes inside, so relax. I’ll get mine.
I’m not sure there’s a more dreaded situation than someone calling you up and saying, “Hey! What are you doing this weekend?”
Uggggh. Even if I’m doing absolutely nothing, with the way you’ve worded the question, you’ve now forced me to answer, “I’m not sure? I think there was a thing we were doing? I’ll have to double check and let you know. Why, what’s up?”
Know why I have to answer that way? Because I have no way of knowing what kind of nightmare you’re going to try to pull me into with your vague-ass question. What will it be?!
Let’s roll the dice, shall we? I shall also provide you with a visual reminder along the way of who I am, just in case you forgot.
You want me to help you move and you live in a five floor walk-up, and when I show up you haven’t even STARTED packing yet? I’m rolling the dice aaaand…
You want me to work at your old high school’s band boosters gift wrapping even though I didn’t go to your school and was never in marching band to begin with? Look, bucko. I vowed to never return to my own high school after I emotionally limped away from that hellhole twenty-five years ago to nurse my wounds after four years of goddamned torture. You can imagine my feelings about hanging around yours.
You want me to come to your Scentsy party, which by the way I am never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever (*please see footnote at the bottom for further reference) coming to? I would rather put on a scuba suit made of feta cheese and slide down a gigantic cheese grater into the arms of a nude, olive oil-coated Rush Limbaugh marinating in an ocean of balsamic vinegar.
(Don’t ask me, “What is Scentsy?” Google it and then run for your life. And for the love of god, my husband and mother-in-law read this blog, let there be no further talk of nude Rush Limbaugh. In the entire universe.)
You want me to come over for a “Wedding Video Watch-Party” where you will make everyone spend their Saturday night watching your two-hour long wedding video, and by the way I was actually present at said wedding? I remember it well. It just happened a month ago.
Uh oh. Someone said the word “wedding” on the interwebz, which is the opposite of pulling the emergency brake. Here we go. Make yourself comfortable!
Besides your wedding, I was also present for the engagement announcement party, the ‘formal’ engagement party, the wedding dress shopping, the friends bridal shower, the family bridal shower, the bridesmaid dress fittings, the dual bachelor and bachelorette parties, the rehearsal dinner, the breakfast with ‘the girls’ before the wedding, the wedding reception, the after-party, the brunch the next morning, the goodbye dinner with your relatives FOR THE LOVE OF GOD ENOUGH WITH YOUR WEDDING THAT I HAVE ALREADY DEVOTED MONTHS AND MONTHS OF MY LIFE TO, NOT TO MENTION LIKE FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS UGGGGGGGH THIS IS WHY I ELOPED.
I can hardly wait until you have a baby so that I’ll have to quit my job in order to attend the “Destination Gender Reveal Party” you have scheduled at 10am on a Tuesday in Indonesia, where you will request that everyone show up in authentic costumes from Alice in Wonderland so we can make handcrafted Lewis Carroll books for your spawn out of sustainably-sourced bamboo paper; the very same party where you will insult everybody by loudly and snottily correcting anyone who doesn’t refer to the book by its proper title of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”. LIKE IT MATTERS, SHARON.
What? Of course I can bring the ice sculpture of the Cheshire Cat! What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?!
I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t get mad when I decide to liven things up when you reveal the gender by collapsing into a heap of sobbing tears on the floor, raising both arms to the sky and crying out, “Oh god, why?!!! WHY?????!!!!!!” then I’ll think about it.
Some of you people get married and have babies and lose ALL TOUCH WITH REALITY. You can at least let me have some fun with it.
Okay. I’m over it. Wedding rant done. Back to it!
You would like to get together for a nice evening of cocktails and conversation at that fantastic new place we’ve been wanting to try out? I’m rolling the dice…
We’ve got a 7! 7 is a winner!!
The point is, could be something awesome, could be something I would sell my soul to get out of, but with the way you asked, there’s no way to know until AFTER I’ve already told you my availability, which then means I’ll have no way to get out of it. Give people an ‘out’ for Maude’s sake!
If you say, “Hey! What are you doing this weekend?” and I answer, “Oh, nothing!” now I’m on the damn hook.
Now I look like a jerk if I turn you down for the hideous thing you want me to do, and that’s not fair, because there are way, way more interesting reasons that I’m a jerk, and now you’ve just made me look like an ordinary jerk, you bubblegummed bastard!
Interesting jerk behavior includes putting Worcestershire on everything before I even taste it, hating a sports team forever because I didn’t like a star player’s face who’s not even on the team anymore, hiding behind store displays when I hear someone yell my name out in public, and not feeling even remotely bad about blocking children’s views of the otters at the marine center.
< Eyeroll > I like the otters, too, Bryson/Greyson/Flotsam. You’re not the only one who wants to see them frolicking. Stop being so selfish, 8-year old!
*ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever
With all the fun we had last week dismantling your psychic abilities, I’ve decided to poke fun at astrology today, so if you’re into astrology, it was nice knowing you. Don’t let the Capricorn kick you in the ass on the way out!
< soft sobbing >
This is what I do. I push people away because I’m scared they won’t accept me if I gave them the chance to get to know the “real me”. I’m afraid. Please love me.
Actually, it’s just because I think astrology is general hokum and balderdash – but you’re free to be into it. As I remind people all the time, I’m not the police of anything, even when you’ve run into me and I’m wearing a full SWAT team uniform and holding a riot shield. It was for a sex thing!
I spun my Debunking Wheel this morning and it was either debunk astrology or debunk the Richard Gere gerbil myth, and I don’t feel like getting that edgy today. I had a lot to drink (vitamins) before I went to bed late last night (9:30pm), so I’m not up for medical/sexual rodent arguments today (I am always up for those arguments).
I am a Taurus. If you’re into astrology you’re smirking right now and saying, “No shit, Sherlock.” If you’re not into astrology, you’re welcome to join my anti-astrology club called “Science”.
I found this thing about Tauruseseses on the internet today while I was searching for “general hokum and balderdash”. It was on an astrology site, and it’s a little mnemonic for how to spell the word Taurus in the most complicated way or something.
Here it is:
T for trailblazing
A for ambitious
U for unwavering
R for reliable
U for understanding
S for stable
There was this crazy long description of the attributes and flaws of the Taurus right before it that was – Oh Mylanta – so freaking long. I only made it part of the way through before I saw the word “sensual” and just stopped reading.
Know who else is a Taurus according to the article? Saddam Hussein. Know who else? Hitler. Know who else? Tony Danza. If “sensual” applies to me because I’m a Taurus, that means it would apply to all of them, too.
Thank god for that Tony Danza, at least. His sensuality brings up the average for everyone else.
Honestly, though, I’m still trying to figure out, in 2019, just who exactly the boss was on “Who’s The Boss?” It’s a real conundrum. I mean, is the “boss” the woman who hired a male housekeeper employee, or is the “boss” the male housekeeper employee who was hired by the woman?
THERE’S NO WAY TO KNOW. IT IS ENTIRELY POSSIBLE THAT THE WOMAN IS NOT THE BOSS OF THE MALE EMPLOYEE DESPITE THE FACT THAT SHE IS HIS EMPLOYER. FOR REASONS HAVING TO DO WITH
HOO-HAHS AND DING-DONGS SEXUAL POLITICS.
Hey, I don’t have a degree in Human Resources, mostly because I spend a lot of time trying to avoid all humans, so I’ll have to leave that one up to the court of public opinion.
What that means, basically, is that we’re all going to die having never gotten to the bottom of this debate. This debate that could have easily been avoided altogether had they kept the original title of “A Bozz Can’t Have A Da Titz, Capisce!”
Please note in this promo photo for the show: The only person who is, in fact, the actual boss also happens to be the only person who’s not wearing a sweatshirt that says, “I’m The Boss”.
It is also clear to me that, where the figurative rubber meets the figurative road, Mona is the boss, because Tony and Angela couldn’t even figure out they had boners for each other until like a million seasons into that show. Mona tried to get it on with Tony from the very first season because Mona knows exactly who Mona is, which makes her a BOSS.
So let’s take this Taurus mnemonic on one letter at a time to prove how wrong it is. Like you’re doing literally anything else right now.
T for trailblazing: This is true. I invented the laziest grilled cheese where you spray two pieces of bread with cooking spray, put them into the toaster, then when they’re done you take them out and put a slice of cheese on them and stick them in the microwave on a paper towel for 10 seconds to melt the cheese. No pan required. No dishes to clean afterwards. As we have previously discussed, you are required to put yellow mustard on all American grilled cheeses, and don’t give me any shit about it.
A for ambitious: Please see above. I’m going to make the mustard thing happen nationwide. Yellow mustard adds a much needed zip!
U for unwavering: Once I have decided that I don’t like you, it’s forever. You should probably move away, or else find some way to live with the fact that every time you walk by me I’ll be fantasizing about you losing big on one of those Japanese game shows where they make you wear a diaper full of squid tentacles to recite the alphabet backwards and if you mess up they chop off your pinky finger. Do you think you can handle that? I have a fairly vivid imagination, too, so I’ll have an image of that burned in HD in my brain when I think about it.
R for reliable: You can always count on me to not ask before taking the last mozzarella stick out of the shared basket – and yes that’s every time, Miss Manners. I was raised with prison rules when it came to food (and pretty much everything else if we’re being honest here). If you didn’t snatch food off a platter like a jackal tearing the leg off a zebra carcass, you were out of luck. You’re lucky I only took the last mozzarella stick and didn’t just grab all of them out of the basket when first they arrived, lick each one of them and yell, “GUESS THEY’RE ALL MINE NOW.”
What was the next letter oh my god this is sooooooo duuuuuuuuuumb.
It took me by surprise when I went to have a tire patched at Pep Boys last year and drove home from the experience in full, wailing, sobbing, freak-out mode. Because as much as I have banned myself from ever crying with eye makeup on, it turns out my desire for mascara-free cheeks is no match for 40-something hormones.
I had a nail in my tire, and it was deflating quickly, so I needed to stop by Pep Boys. When I got to the service desk, they told me it would be about an hour. An hour later, they told me another hour. An hour later, they told me another hour.
Meanwhile, everyone in the waiting room around me was watching videos on their phones of TruTV or something similar, where the shows consisted of people screaming and being chased by the police, and for some reason, all of them had the volume cranked to 10, on phones that were seemingly made entirely of broken speakers. It sounded like a room full of robot parts being dragged across a floor made of chalkboard. You know, in a bad way.
(Oh, hey, side note: When watching a video on your phone in a public place, turn the volume down to a respectable level, you goddamned animals. Literally NOBODY wants to hear it. Also, don’t say, “Oh man, you gotta see this!” and then make someone watch a five minute long video on your phone when you’re just out to dinner. NOBODY wants to have an unscheduled five minute long video thrust upon them when they’re sitting at a restaurant.)
I’m hypoglycemic and my blood sugar was starting to get really low, so I reached for my emergency snack in my purse only to find it wasn’t there, so I had to make do with eating sugar packets from the free coffee station in the waiting room. As I tossed back the sugar packets like someone throwing handfuls of dead mullet at a sea lion’s gaping maw, I couldn’t help but feel it was a classy move by a classy lady. /brag
When the service guy emerged from the bay three hours later, he handed me my keys and sent me on my way. I pulled out onto the road and immediately made a wrong turn, which meant I would then have to make a U-turn.
That was it.
I immediately burst into tears and started sobbing like I was having a nervous breakdown. This went on for the entire thirty minute drive home. I cried so hard that I had burst capillaries around my eyes the next day. I cried so hard my neck muscles were sore. Because making that wrong turn was just IT. Five minutes after I got home, I was fine.
A few months ago, I got into my car after work and burst into tears for literally no reason. Then I cried even harder because I couldn’t figure out why I was crying and sobbed and shouted at myself, “I don’t know what’s wrooooonng!!!!!” Five minutes after I got home, I was fine.
More recently, my boss emailed me a couple follow up questions on a long project I had just turned in. He asked nicely, as always, because my boss is actually a really fantastic boss. So anyway, he asked nicely, and then the tears started welling up in my eyes, and I had to leave the office to go collect myself in the ladies room before I completely fell apart. Because he asked me a couple follow up questions. Nicely. Five minutes later? Fine.
One day I was watching a duck waddle across a street, and I burst into tears. Totally fine five minutes later.
I have melted down in the past year because the dishwasher had clean dishes in it, because that meant I had to put them away, and I was not emotionally prepared to put the dishes away right at that moment. Sure, theoretically I could just put them away later, but in the meantime I would sit on the couch and it would just gnaw and gnaw at me that I was lying around doing nothing when there was work to be done. Basically, I cried over clean dishes because I have a really good work ethic.
To summarize, these are the situations that will make me cry in my 40s, along with a visual aid of Dawson from Dawson’s Creek to demonstrate the crying scale:
(1) Making a wrong turn:
(2) No reason at all:
(3) Being nicely asked a couple follow up questions:
(5) My own work ethic:
The only thing they have in common is that five minutes later, I’ll be fine.
40-something hormones? You figure that shit out. I have to go make sure that in the past five minutes I haven’t started growing a mustache and a dumpster ass like Mike Ditka.
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.