Ain’t No Rest for The Petty

I always get a laugh when someone I know says something like, “Come on, Maggie.  You’re not petty like that.” Or, “I know you.  You’re above that.”

I have to pause from those conversations and take a moment to look in the mirror to make sure that I’m actually wearing my own face that day, and not one of those Ronald Reagan rubber masks from Point Break that I like to wear on Thursdays, because I assume a case of mistaken identity must be involved here.

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There’s no way to prove that’s not me on the right.

If you claim to know me but would state that I am above any level of pettiness or immaturity, then we need to get together more often, because you obviously know jack squat about me.

Also, I’m very busy with social anxiety and I don’t have time to get together with you.

Here’s the facts, folks.  I am probably the most petty and immature person you have ever encountered.  I am not being self-deprecating here.  I saw the “Nanette” special on Netflix.  Don’t tell me to not be so hard on myself.  I should be at least five thousand times harder on myself.

I can assure you that I am not above nearly any level of pettiness.  If anything, I would be willing to go much, much, much lower if the situation were to warrant it.  So low that sometimes I almost want the situation to warrant it so I can once again feel the thrill of vengeful house-egging and the pounding of my heart as I run away, villain-laughing, exclaiming, “That’s the last time you’ll question MY pet rat-naming skills, ho-bag!” into the damp Florida night.

“Chad” is a perfectly good name for a pet rat and I still stand by that to this day.  Take a second and think about every Chad you’ve ever met.  See?  It makes sense.

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You know one or more of these rats is a frat bro turned investment banker.

Pettiness and immaturity are two of those things that when you’re younger you think are just a consequence of youth and inexperience, and that you’ll eventually grow out of them.  That being said, if you’re still petty and immature when you round the big 4-0, that deal is pretty much sealed.  You’re officially, permanently, petty and immature.  You should probably try out for a show on Bravo.  Let’s all get together and petty it up sometime.

Also, I’m very busy with social anxiety and I don’t have time to get together with you.

Like so many things in life, I turn to the film “Moonstruck” to work through this behavior, so anytime someone accuses me of being petty, I just yell, “In time you’ll drop dead and I’ll come to your funeral in a red dress!”

Pretty sure I have to get that Moonstruck quote tattooed somewhere, but that would break my longstanding tradition of having tattoos that don’t mean anything.  It’s too bad, because I reach for that quote often, mostly when I am making an obscene Sicilian gesture at someone who has already left the room.

I am not Sicilian, by the way, as evidenced by my lack of ability to make delicious Sunday gravy, and my complete failure at being able to talk with my hands without looking like Zack Morris trying to talk his way out of detention with Mr. Belding.

I am so Northwestern European that in a recent WASP contest, I came in first place in not knowing what the big deal is about that Despacito song.  I saw Andrew McCarthy on television one time, fanned myself with a slice of Oscar Mayer bologna, and exclaimed, “Well, my my my!  Who is this Grecian gigolo?!”

Get this (and this shit is crazy).  Just last month I sent in a passport application and it got kicked back to me because they claimed they were unable to discern my facial features against the solid white background in the passport photo.  In order to remedy this, I had to go run around a building to put some color in my cheeks and put on some bronzer to re-take the photo because apparently I’m so freaking pale I DON’T SHOW UP ON FILM.

Any Sicilian gestures that I know I just learned by osmosis from having my face pressed against the television while watching re-runs of The Golden Girls for the past 30 years or so.  Television is educational, and I won’t put up with you disparaging it.

And perhaps you would not be receiving this obscene Sicilian gesture to begin with had you NOT looked at my new shoes and instead of complimenting them said, “Wow.  What size shoe do you wear?” implying that my feet are huge.  Also, my feet are actually huge.  You think I don’t know that?

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I refuse to field any questions as to my wardrobe in this photo from 1992, but good lord, look at the size of those feet.  You could power a tugboat with those flippers.

Guess what you’ve done now, Puf’nStuf?  Now you’ve gone and made yourself an enemy.  You couldn’t just compliment the shoes, even if you didn’t mean it?  I compliment people on their shoes all the time and I don’t mean it.  It’s called “being a contributing member of society”.  It’s called being a “team player”, you Juicy Fruit jackwagon.

You thought you could throw your little passive-aggressive stuff at me and I would just lie down with my giant feet in the air and take it, but now I will do everything in my power to make sure you are on the receiving end of my pettiness and immaturity FOREVER.  And, no, I will never forgive you.  Ever!  The die has been cast!  The only difference between you being all frozen in a block of my loathing and Han Solo being all frozen in that giant bar of chocolate is that Han Solo is eventually getting out of his predicament.

Oops!  That was a spoiler.

You have now been cordially drafted into the ranks of several dozens of individuals I have encountered in my life who fall squarely into the “Nemesis” category.  As such, you will now live in the long shadow of my wrath and I will make it my life’s work to end you.

“End you”, by the way, means I will mock your mannerisms behind your back as you walk away, and mentally put snotty air-quotes around your name anytime I think about you, and maybe tell people behind your back that I think your baby looks like Wilford Brimley and that nobody is fooled by that pink satin headband.  I will elaborate by telling them that unless that pink satin headband covers your baby’s entire face, your baby will still look like Wilford Brimley, and that you should invest in a headsuit rather than just a headband.

Quietly.  From a hundred feet away.

It is important to note that I am now at an age where my wrath is exceeded only by my complete and total fear of confrontation.

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.