Friday, March 24, 2017

OMG This Week Was Like, Soooooo Embarrassing!

You guys. It was suuuuuuch an embarrassing week for SCROTUS. Like, OMG. Seriously it was so embarrassing. First, a unanimous Supreme Court overturned a Gorsuch decision IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS CONFIRMATION HEARING. Can you imagine?!?!? This is like a "Say Anything" column in YM Magazine from the late 80s:

Dear Say Anything,

I was sitting in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee, right in the middle of my confirmation hearing for a seat on the United States Supreme Court, when all of a sudden I found out that all 8 justices overruled one of my decisions eight to zero! It was SO totally embarrassing, I just got up and ran right to the bathroom.

Demoralized in DC

Then there was our Dear Leader SCROTUS pretending to drive a truck. I am literally not shitting you when I say that there's an event put on by Juneau Parks & Rec every year where the City brings out the firetruck and the ambulance and the buses and kids climb in them and get to have their picture taken in the driver's seat. I have one of these pics of Isaac in a helicopter from when he was three. FOR REAL.

Then there was this. Ads congratulating Congresspeople for repealing the ACA before they actually did that. I get how this is necessary when two baseball teams go to the World Series, and you have to make up a bunch of shirts even for the losing team, just in case they win. But we're talking about thousands of articles of clothing. These ads take like five seconds to put together and distribute AND you should have a waaaay better idea ahead of time whether you're going to win or not. You'd think you could at least wait until you'd CLOSED THE YOOOGE TERRIFIC DEAL before releasing these stupid ads.

Finally, it wouldn't be O.H.M. if I didn't end on my own embarrassment. I totally tweeted my love letter to Ed Sheeran and my offer to have an affair with him and guess what? He DID NOT TWEET BACK to me and his 17 million followers that I'm the most hilarious woman he's ever met and he would totally be my boyfriend if another ginger guitar player hadn't gotten to me first.


To Ed Sheeran, Who Would Totally be My Boyfriend in Real Life

Hi Ed. 

You don't know me, but if you did, I swear you would TOTALLY be my boyfriend in real life, or "IRL" as the kids say.

I had this realization on my drive into work the other morning when I heard your hit song "Shape of You" on the radio. The one you wrote for Selena Gomez but then decided to do yourself, because it has a Van Morrison reference and you were afraid Selena's fans were too young to understand. 

I learned that from Ryan Seacrest.

See? I get you already. I love Van Morrison and know all three of his songs. Brown Eyed Girl is my favorite, with the Moonlight one coming in at a close second. I'm old enough to remember when Julia Roberts made Brown Eyed Girl famous again in Sleeping With the Enemy. Wikipedia tells me you were born the same year that movie came out (1991), but I saw it in the theater. 

It's the one where Julia escapes from her abusive husband by swimming away into the ocean in a thunderstorm as he shouts "LAURRRRAAAAAA!!" over and over again from their deck while shaking his fist at the sky. She ends up in Indiana where she meets this adorbs drama teacher and then the husband comes back to stalk her, and she knows he's been in her house because all the soup cans are lined up in her cupboard and it's super freaky and then the drama teacher helps her kill the husband who you think is dead after she stabs him but really isn't. 

You could be the drama teacher in that particular scenario and I would dance around to Brown Eyed Girl in the kitchen. That would totally be us.

The other thing is the ginger factor. This is the elephant in the room so we might as well get it out of the way. I love gingers! And guitar players! Lots of girls love guitar players but not many girls love gingers. 


I happen to be married to a ginger guitar player at this very moment! He's bald now, but he used to be a ginger. You'll be bald too someday, but then you can assert your ginger pride by growing a big ginger beard. TRUST me. You want a girl who isn't scared off by ... well ... you know.

Maybe "girl" is a little generous? After all, I'll be 40 this year and you're 26. But age is just a number, and think of the things I could teach you with my additional 14 years of life experience! It would be like a MILF/cougar seminar at Oxford for 5 credits.

Also your accent is dope, and I believe you would be amused by my American sass. An intercontinental love affair with a married woman 14 years your senior is exactly what you need to inspire your next big hit, "Shape of U2." It will be all about listening to Achtung Baby (which also came out in 1991) while lying next to a woman whose body has been forever ravaged and destroyed--or beautifully blessed, as a feminist doula might say--by pregnancy and childbirth.

Ed, you know you want my love. Your love was handmade for somebody like me. C'mon now follow my lead C-C'mon now follow my lead whoaaaa.

See? I even know the lyrics to one of your songs.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Size of Dead Fish Correlates Directly to Penis Size, Study Shows

We've all known it for years, but now we finally have the data to prove it: The size of the dead fish featured in a man's online dating and social media profile uniformly correlates in a one to one ratio with the size of his penis.

An informal survey conducted by the Center for Marine Biology and Phallic Substitutes released the results of the survey today, which clearly show that be it a salmon, halibut, or marlin, the bigger the fish, the bigger the dick of the man who is holding it.

"We weren't really surprised by this result," said Tom Smith, the researcher who conducted the survey. "It's more or less common knowledge that if you're holding a giant dead fish in your hands on the Internet, you are very strong and masculine, and your penis is extremely large. Precisely as large (inch for inch) as the fish you are holding, in fact, regardless of whether you were the man who actually reeled it in."

Other surveys conducted by the same organization have found in recent years that pick-up trucks and motorcycles also have a marked direct correlation to penis size.

"If a man is straddling a Harley Davidson or standing near the bed of a shiny new pick-up truck, you can consider that proof positive that he's hung like a donkey," Mr. Smith stated.

"It's very important that the public--women especially--be given an accurate accounting of the size of a man's unit," elaborated Mr. Smith. 

"The only effective way to accomplish that is for a man to stunt online with a hyper-masculine object that stands in for the phallus. This indicates in no uncertain terms that the broseph in question is a total badass with a first-rate package, and that moreover, any woman who hits him up will not walk right for a week after she makes the pleasure of his junk's acquaintance."

I Only Have One Problem With "March Nakedness" and It's Not What You Think

Let me be clear from the jump: I have nothing against stripping, or "dancing," as it's euphemistically called at times. I'm all about live and let live: If you want to take off all your clothes and hump a pole while shitfaced dudebros catcall you and stick dollar bills in your thong underwear, knock yourself out, I say. And if you want to do it at the Viking Lounge in Juneau for dudes who just paid a $10 cover that includes a $1 drink--with ladies no cover all night!--then all the better. 

In my personal experience, most women who enter the field of pole-arts have a little bit of baggage to work out, but don't we all? I mean, look at me for fuck's sake! The main reason I'm not stripping is that the amount of money I'd have to spend removing all my fur would be more than I'd make getting naked. It would be a net loss. Trust me.

So again, I'm not judging. At least not for the stripping or the watching of the stripping. I'm judging for the name. 

I feel like the Viking Lounge could have arrived at a more creative name for this event than "March Nakedness." March Nakedness lacks the pizzazz this event so clearly deserves.

Like maybe "March Hotness?" Or "March Tits-n-Ass?" Or "March Nudeness?" Or even "March Nadness?" Although that last one would be the male version. Come to think of it, they don't say it's not coed, although the silhouette on the bill implies it is not, and I've never seen a male pole dancer. Think of the junk slapping against that pole. Not a good look, I'm afraid.

Anyway, "March Nakedness" just sounds so clinical--so slap-dash. Doesn't it? You can't just stick the suffix "ness" on the end of your March Madness-themed stripper show and call it a day!

Go home, March Nakedness. You're drunk.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

What Fresh Hell is This?

It's Harry Potter World at Universal Studios in California, that's what. Fine, I admit it. I was a TEENSY bit jealous that I had to stay behind for work while my family went to Hogwarts and visited grandma and grandpa in "Placentia." 

Placentia is a not-made-up-town in SoCal that sounds like a female reproductive organ. It's located somewhere along the sprawl of Spanish-tiled Targets, Starbucks, Planet Fitnesses, and Cheesscake Factories between L.A. and San Diego, and my in-laws call it home.

I haven't been to Fallopian Tube in years because the kids usually spend spring break there and I'm always working, but if memory serves it is hot, dry, and features street after street that looks exactly like the three streets you just passed. But it has sun and Disney World/Universal Studios. Juneau, on the other hand, has rain and Costco, so I get the appeal. 

Last year, the kids and Geoff had just missed the grand opening of Harry Potter by a month, so they had to wait another 11 months to pay almost a grand for the privilege of eating a chocolate frog in Hogsmeade. Okay, fine. I'm trying to make myself feel better for missing this, but someone had to stay behind and earn the money to pay for it. 

I will let these pics--specifically the screenshots of my texts with Geoff--tell the rest of the story. As of this posting, I have not received an answer about the wands.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Most First Dates in Alaska Involve a Dudebro Telling a Kayak Guiding Story, Study Finds

The vast majority of first dates in Alaska involve some random dudebro telling a long, enthusiastic "this one time at band camp"-type story about a kayak trip he once guided, a new study published by the University of Alaska at Fairbanks shows.

"What's really remarkable about the outcome of this study is that it confirms a long-standing hypothesis among researchers in the field of basic outdoorsy dudebros, which is a sub-specialty of basic bro academia," said Dr. Amy Jones, lead author of the study and chair of the Department of Sociology at UAF.

"What we're finding is that the vast majority of basic outdoorsy dudebros instinctively resort to arguably embellished stories of heroic outdoorsmanship--kayaking trips in particular--to impress their dates in the early phases of a relationship." 

Usually, this results in a monopolizing of the conversation to the exclusion of any relevant information about the woman sitting across the table, who is expected to exclaim "wow" and "whoa" and "whaaaaaaat?!" through the part about the breaching whale and especially the part about getting weathered in to a cove. 

"It's usually not until the third craft beer that he gets to the part about the exact number of miles involved and this one urban dudebro from Chicago who was like, totally unprepared for the elements and had to be rescued by him," Dr. Jones added.

Dr. Jones and her team's next study aims to analyze the connection between basic outdoorsy dudebros talking about their last mountain climbing adventure and ophthalmic issues incurred by their dates' blank staring and surreptitious eye-rolling.

Monday, March 20, 2017

A Dudebro I Once Tried and Failed to Bang Became a Priest, Because of Course He Did

I'm not ashamed to admit that romantic rejection was high on my list of special skills from puberty onward. I tended to pursue fruitless dalliances with dudebros who were ambivalent about me at best, and wholly rejecting at worst, to the exclusion of many booger-eaters and the occasional gem enticed by my well-honed feminine wiles.

I recently learned that one of the aforementioned dudebros whose bones I tried to jump out of boredom (and who was definitively having less than none of me) grew up to be a priest, because of course he did. 

I feel like this is a metaphor for my many failings in love.

Let's be clear: I haven't seen or spoken to this guy in 20 years. In fact, I think the last time I saw him was in 1998 when I tried and failed to make out with him; and even then I barely knew the fellow. He was from the Deep South and I was/am from the Bronx, so I suspect he was not accustomed to a somewhat forward Jewish Jezebel. But he had a beard and long hair and was into the outdoors, and thus proved irresistible to me at the time. (Even then, he looked like Jesus).

I don't presume to conclude that I am the sole reason he took a vow of celibacy and committed his life to God, but I can't discount the possibility. For all I know, it was that moment on a lawn in New Hampshire when I moved in for a kiss and he recoiled in horror that led this man to say to himself, "you know what, this is horrible, and I never want to deal with any of this awkwardness ever again. I think I shall become a priest!"

Yes, I realize this is giving myself a highly narcissistic level of credit for the impact I've had on the life of a relative stranger. But it's often the briefest moments that unexpectedly lead us to our most consequential life choices, isn't it? 

Any priest can tell you that.

I'd need the records to be sure, but I am low-key convinced this guy's admissions essay to seminary contained the following question: "when did you know you wanted to become a priest?," and the answer was: "when some girl from New York City tried to stick her tongue in my mouth."

Stock photo of rando priest: not actual dudebro in question.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

So Dirt Makes You Happy . . . But Does Filth?

That is the question. This here article claims there are special antidepressant properties in soil (a.k.a. dirt) that make you happy. But let's get real for a sec. I'm not returning to agrarian times until the zombies come, I can't even keep a cactus alive for three days, and I can barely tell lettuce and cabbage apart when they're in the ground. 

So what I really want to know is, will FILTH make me happy?

Because there is plenty--PUH-LENTY--of filth in my life to go around. There's my daughter's bedroom closet, in which resides all manner of toy food (fortunately not real food) and American Girl Dolls and the occasional stray lollipop despite a strict no-food-outside-the-kitchen-area prohibition for this very reason. (This is the third of only three household rules, after no screen time during the week and no exposed anus at the dinner table. We run a very tight ship).

Where is the study that says the floor of my car will give me a runner's high? Like, I want to stare at those wet gum wrappers, pipe cleaners, moldy socks, and banana peels and just soak it all in and deadass feel a surge of joy course through my body. 

Can that happen? Because it would be cheaper and healthier than drugs or alcohol.

Also, if filth turned out to have curative properties, it would sort of kill two birds with one stone. (Not that I would ever kill a bird, mind you. I only eat my chicken in neatly-cut slices-on-Caesar-salad-form). 

Metaphorical bird one would be fighting with my kids about cleaning up their shit/doing laundry/doing dishes. That would be over, because their filth would suddenly become the source of my happiness. For example, instead of gagging and telling them to put their last three bites of cold eggs in the garbage disposal, I'd suddenly feel like Eddie Vedder just followed me on twitter and then DM'd me to tell me I'm hilarious.

Bird two would be the aforementioned drugs and alcohol currently necessary to maintain a calm perspective on the filth. Suddenly, I'd have all this money back in my pocket, because all my mental health needs and buzzes could be found on Isaac's dresser in an old box of pull-ups now serving as a house for pine cones. True joy could be unearthed in this weird corner of our living room where Isaac's frog lives and Paige has fifteen different plastic bags lined up with different types of garbage in them that I'm not allowed to throw away. 

And what would I do with the savings? Why, buy more shit to filth up my house and make me even happier, of course!

Suddenly I would no longer have conflict over my filthy house and car, nor would I need to numb all my senses to cope with the filth, because the FILTH ITSELF would deliver happy juice straight into my bloodstream!

Please, someone tell me this study extends to filth and not just dirt. Or, at the very least, shit.

Do Not Let the Mofos Gaslight You

Whether you're four or 104, that's the message of this children's poem by Shel Silverstein, and it's more relevant than ever, I think.  

In a few short lines, it asks some essential questions: Do you know the difference between right and wrong? Do you know when it's time to fight versus flee? Will you trust and rely on your own judgment? Or will you trust and rely on others--whether it's an authority figure or a well-meaning friend

In other words: who will direct your own moral and ethical compass?

Recently I went through a hard (but fortunately brief) period that forced me to confront all of these questions, repeatedly, on a near daily basis. It brought a number of outside forces into my life that challenged my inner voice. And in the end, my inner voice was one hundred percent validated and vindicated.

But did I need anyone or anything else for that? Not really. Do any of us? No.

Not if we know the difference between right and wrong. And that's when I think about my grandfather--my mom's dad. He went to federal prison for sedition--fucking sedition--and served four years of a 10 year prison term for organizing something that's now federal law: labor unions.

When I think about that dude, I think about how he must have known--despite everyone who said otherwise--that he was on the right side of history. I never met him, since he died 29 years before I was born. If he could stay the course despite rejecting a plea deal from the government and contracting tuberculosis in Leavenworth, then surely I can type some words and put them on the internet

I mean, come on. Come. ON.

So yes. I can, and will--consistent with the First Amendment and my own moral compass--continue to point out that Donald Trump is a major danger to democracy, the constitution, and our country's safety and standing in the world. 

I know it. You know it. His detractors and his supporters know it. The world knows it. And somewhere deep down in his sad, damaged, hollowed-out little gourd of a heart, Donald Trump knows it too. 

Dragging Trump is not why I started this blog and regular readers know this; O.H.M. is about a lot more than that, but it's often about my own sense of right and wrong, whether I'm writing about clear mom jeans or refugees.

If there's a singular axiom I live by, it's this, and I recommend it to anyone who wants to live their own truth: 

Do not let the motherfuckers gaslight you.

The Fine Line Between Fashion and Medical Supply Has Definitively Been Reached

And here we are, with these Daisy Duke granny Depends denim diaper shorts and this gladiator Mary Jane sandal that looks like a leg brace in a museum of early nineteenth century medical curiosities.

I thought Nordstrom couldn't outdo itself with the clear knee mom jeans, a garment that serves no other apparent purpose than to facilitate blow jobs and humiliate their wearer. 

But here you have it.

These "Jepends" or "Jiapers" are an answer to Jeggings and go super well with this neuro-muscular-skeletal congenital disorder sandal that you wear ostensibly to right your bow-leggedness or to enter a Roman coliseum to do battle with a nurse dressed in a paper bustle under her petticoats and a tri-corner paper hat.

The zipper down the back of the Jepends/Jiapers are there to facilitate quick fecal release. You'd have thought someone would have designed a shit chute for short shorts before now, but now someone has, and is name is Levi.

Yes, the creator of the early-90's "button fly" has now developed the "butt-fly." So basically, if you're down to fuck AND suffer from fecal incontinence (DTF/IBS), these shorts are for you!

Add this cute little shirt to the mix and even if you're 30, you can pretend to be 12. And also 99. And living in an inpatient facility with metal cots and doctors who wear that weird mirror thing on their head and come to your bedside wearing a monocle and a watch fob

This ensemble is as if Forever 21, Gymboree, and Medicaid got together and created a fashion line. And to think, Nordstrom booted Ivanka Trump's line for this, most of which was even more hideous.

Go home, Nordstrom. You're drunk.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

The Ski Patrol Beard and Man Bun Game is Strong at Eaglecrest Ski Area

I'm just saying, you guys. It's a fact. I'm not the one who noticed, either. It was my ovaries. 

Now that I'm 39.5, it's like my body has suddenly realized it only has a couple years left to make babies, and so my ovaries are shooting out eggs and hormones in some sort of biological fireworks grand finale before the lights go out on the baby factory for good, and my uterus becomes just another rust belt town full of broken dreams.

That's kind of where I'm at right now. I know it's taboo to talk about it, which is exactly why I'm going to. Women aren't supposed to have libidos or check out a few dudebros on the sly. Especially if they're over 35. If they do, they're desperate sluts. If they don't, they're cold fish. 

Just one more double standard, I suppose!

But on that whole misogynistic continuum, I'd have to put myself further toward the desperate slut end of the spectrum, simply due to the involuntary manner in which my eyes are drawn to the extreeeeemeely strong beard and man bun game in the Eaglecrest ski patrol.

You can put a beard and a man bun on pretty much anyone, and all of a sudden your uterus be like, wasssssuuuup, mah bruthah?! Or at least mine is. Then add 6"2 of buff ski rescuer dudebro who can dig peeps out of an avalanche on command and hopefully teach you how to do the same, and it's like, yes, I will totes join gametes with you.

Again, I will emphasize: it's not me talking, it's human evolutionary biology. Truly the only thing I was good at when it came to human reproduction and child rearing was getting pregnant. I sucked at being pregnant and at almost everything about parenting since, so naturally my ovaries are always trying to do what they do best. 

See, deep down, those little fuckers know full well that the jig is up and it's game over. So what are they doing? They're throwing a Hail Mary pass all the way down the Eaglecrest french fry line toward late twenty and early thirty-something ski patroling dudebros, hoping that their sinewy arms and lustrous, healthy hair will put a new primate on the planet.

SORRREEEEEEEEE. Not today, motherfuckers! Not. To. Day.

15 New Mottos for the United States Now That "E Pluribus Unum" is Obsolete

1. Land of the Free, Home of the Whopper
2. Ad Nauseum
3. That Awkward Moment When . . .
4. Check Your Privilege
5. Two Drink Minimum
6. 'Dis Mah House, and if You Don't Laaahk it, GET DAFUQ OUT!
7. If It's Gonna Be That Kind Of Party, I'm Gonna Stick My Dick in the Mashed Potatoes!
8. Got Truth?
9. Tastes Great, Less Filling
10. Gimme a Cheese With Nuthin'
11. It's Miller/Bannon Time!
12. #
14. All in All, It's Just Another Brick in the Big, Beautiful Wall
15. Where's the Weeeeeeeeeed, Man?

Friday, March 17, 2017

Clear Knee Mom Jeans are a Thing, and I am Officially Shook

I had to do independent research to believe it, but a full audit of the internet has verified that Nordstrom is, in fact, carrying "Clear Knee Mom Jeans" from Topshop for $95. Having booted Ivanka Trump's shitty shoes from their shelves, the upscale department store has now made way for an item that I do not even have words for. 

Wait, never mind. I have a few words for them.

Not since Clear Pepsi has the color clear been more egregiously abused. Like, I seriously do not even understand why. Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy? 

So many questions. First and most obviously: WHY clear knees? And then WHY admit that they're mom jeans? And then WHY COMBINE those two concepts? 

Also: if you buy them, will you look like Pat Benatar? Because the woman wearing these looks like Pat Benatar. And while Pat Benatar might happen to be a mom for all I know, she is certainly not wearing "mom jeans;" and if she is, I promise they do not have clear knees.

What, exactly, is to be gained by exposure of the knee in this manner? Is the knee like the new erogenous zone for moms, replacing cleavage and asses and all the other things you need to worry about when you're young? It's like, hi, you're a mom now, so welcome to exposing your sexy . . . knees?

I want an exclusive interview with the designer of these jeans. Truly I want to get into his or her head and find out exactly what they were thinking when they created these. Not because they're hideous, which they are. But because I want to be in on the creative process from which these were derived, like a Pink Floyd album or Alice in Wonderland. It's almost like the person who made these had to be on acid. There is no other possible explanation.

This is like the mullet of clothing: all business above and below (especially with the capri-cut, which is a staple of all mom pants), and a party in the middle. Or is it a vent for hot flashes? Or a new, ironic way to embarrass our children?

I am SO fucking confused right now. For reals.

For Charlie

Everyone called him Chuck, but if you really knew him, you called him Charlie. So that’s what I called him, and it made me feel cool. Like I was elevating myself to a special level of intimacy simply with one little tweak to a nickname for Charles.

It didn’t hurt that he looked like a pinup from Tiger Beat magazine, either--a teen heartthrob before he was even a teenager. Somehow he skipped over the whole "awkward phase," the asshole.
I should know. I was there. 

Girls loved him, all the more so because as beautiful as he was--and he was not unaware of that fact--he was never a dick. He was never cruel or unkind, like many boys his age; and if he could sometimes be suggestible, he was never mean. He never mocked anyone. He was always funny and witty, and a little dark and broody as well.

Every girl knew Charlie had perfect teeth, but not every girl knew he was funny and dark. I loved that about him, and I loved how I felt like I was the only girl who knew it.

We met at summer camp in 1988, before I had boobs and when Charlie’s entire wardrobe consisted of unwashed New York Yankees tee-shirts. We both lived in New York City, so we saw each other often throughout the year.

Charlie possessed an enviable collection of Nintendo games and VHS movies; and he had free reign over Manhattan’s ample takeout menu options. We played Legend of Zelda and ordered big greasy hamburgers from Jackson Hole, laughing like morons when the guy answered the phone the same way every time, “HALLO JACKSON!,” in a heavy accent of indeterminate origin, with the bustle of industrial kitchen noise in the background.

He was a regular fixture at my apartment too. Sometimes he’d take the express bus and bring his homework. We’d compare French text books, making fun of the pictures and the characters: “Guillaume va a la discotheque!” What the fuck is a “discotheque” and who goes to one anymore? And we would dissolve into peals of laughter at how stupid they were, these cartoon French kids in a text book, drinking nonalcoholic punch and dancing at a party to vinyl records.

When Charlie left for boarding school in tenth grade, I didn’t have a word for the void I felt, but I knew it was a little glowing orb of love. We talked on the phone when he was homesick, which was often. I would check the mail each week for a mix tape full of Led Zeppelin and Doors music, pop it into the tape deck on the pink carpet of my bedroom floor, and then carefully select songs for my reciprocal mix tape, writing the song titles in careful print on the liner sheet of a blank cassette. 

I insisted on tagging along with Charlie's mom on the two hour drive to all of his plays (I think I still have the playbills somewhere). When he came home for vacations, I decamped to his mom’s place, and I’d borrow his clothes with no intention of returning them. We’d sometimes mess around a little, completely at my insistence and mostly out of a mutual curiosity I think.

Charlie always had a girlfriend, but we never talked about why none of them was me until we were maybe 20 or 21.

We were looking at a familiar lake and mountains, sitting on the front porch of the mess hall at the same summer camp where we’d met a decade earlier, and where we were both working as counselors. By this time, each of us had experienced at least one serious relationship. I can’t remember exactly how the conversation went, but I more or less asked Charlie why he had never wanted to be my boyfriend. I presented him with a sort of half-hearted, now-or-never ultimatum that seems so silly and juvenile in retrospect.

His response, though, was neither of those things. I’m not getting the words right, but it was something along the lines of didn’t I realize our friendship was better and more enduring than any romantic relationship could ever be. He was letting me down easy, I knew. But he wasn’t lying either. I knew that, too. And, surprised at how unhurt I felt in that moment, I also knew he was absolutely right.

In the twenty years since, he’s been proven right more times than I can count. Last week, Charlie was on a TV show (he’s an actor) and I trolled him hard by texting his lines to him in real time in dramatic all-caps.

“This is amazing,” he texted back. “I’m standing in my kitchen and I can’t stop laughing.”

Yesterday my dad mailed me an old photo of Charlie and me that my dad “restored,” meaning he got a new photo printer and wanted to test it out. 
I stared at the photo and let my mind unspool for awhile before texting Charlie and asking his permission to write a blog post about our friendship. 

“Um, sure!,” he wrote back. “I want you to be able to express your beautiful self, Goody Bak!” 

He was invoking one of a million inside jokes—this one a rather cerebral reference to my last name and Arthur Miller’s play, The Crucible—where every female character in 1692 Salem, Massachusetts was called “Goody” so-and-so.

This morning, while Paige was getting ready for school, I had this thought:  
Every girl deserves a boy who, after three decades of friendship, affectionately implies she was a witness in the Salem witch trials.

Thursday, March 16, 2017

Rocking My Morning Routine Like a BOSS!

Someone named Diana Madison (who I've never heard of, but who clearly I should know) has some advice for tackling mornings like a "BOSS," whatever that means. Here are her tips, followed by my explanations of how I am quite conveniently already running this whole program on turbo.

My first rule for the mornings is to have a quick meditation. Lately, with my one year old daughter, it’s not easy to do long meditations. I start with a quick 5 minute meditation to just get me in the right mind set.

OMG. Like, TOTALLY. I too like to start my mornings with a meditation. My meditation occurs on the toilet with my iPhone, as I quickly review all the horrible things that have happened overnight in the rest of the world while I was asleep in Alaska. After taking a glance to make sure I'm not bleeding without explanation, I flush twice and run the sink at full capacity to drown out the sound of my kids fighting over socks. This toooootally gets me into the right mindset.

After my meditation, I plan out my day. I like to know what I am going to do, hour by hour and what I could expect. If there is any challenges, I like to think in my head that the problems are already solved. It’s the power of the mind and what I manifest. In my mind, I am a winner and I can overcome any obstacl

OMG. Samesies! The minute I get to work, I look at Outlook and know exactly what I can expect for the day in terms of pointless, maddening interruptions that will interfere with my productivity. I like to think that the seventeenth email about leftover cheesecake in the break room refrigerator and the vagaries of the new timekeeping system are problems that are already solved. Using the power of my mind, I manifest that I am a winner who never got those emails in the first place.

My third tip for obtaining a productive morning is putting effort in looking my best. When I look my best, I feel my best. This helps with my confidence and gives me strength to be a BOSS. 

This is like, SOOOO true! I put a SHITLOAD of effort into looking my best each morning. After the aforementioned twitter/shitter session, I stare blankly at my closet and ponder how it could possibly be that every article of clothing I own is sooooo 2002, and how I can't afford to make any of it 2010, much less 2017, because I live beyond my means LIKE A BOSS. So I settle for one of seven pairs of black pants from the Gap and a sweater that itches and makes me sneeze. This helps with my plummeting self esteem and gives me strength to be the boss of exactly no one, especially myself or my kids.

My last tip for a productive morning is to always remind yourself on why you started . . . Find the little things that make you happy in life. To be honest, I get so excited when I get my tea latte in the mornings. It used to be a coffee fanatic, but now that I quit…I’ve switched to green tea lattes. It is my fuel to get my day going.

YASSS QUEEEEEN! SUHLAAAAYYY BITCH!!! Why did I start this day again? Wait . . . fuuuuuck. I forgot and it's not even 7:30 a.m.! Can I go back to bed now? Actually it's technically my sleeping bag, because I sleep in a sleeping bag in my own bed. I have a major temperature disparity in my marriage. What can I tell you. Anyway, the little things that make me happy in life are . . . let's see . . . being in my house all by myself for 8 consecutive hours so I can eat Honey Nut Cheerios on the couch for dinner while watching a movie starring Channing Tatum. But I can't do any of that right now because I have to get to work, so I guess I'll guzzle down a tureen of coffee. I used to be a coffee fanatic, but now that I quit, I switched to MORE COFFEE, because . . . I need it. Not even close, not even while I was pregnant. (Sorry kids!) In fact, if I don't have coffee within 50 minutes of waking up, I get a debilitating migraine and turn into the biggest asshole on EARTH. It is my fuel to get my day going.