The Universe Loves Me, the Universe Loves Me Not…

July 4, 2014

The Universe Hates Me:


Oh sorry, I meant fired.

Jan 3: Job Offer Accepted! I finally get to resign from my horrid, horrid job.

Jan 7: Resignation, and it feels so good.

Jan 10: Job offer….rescinded?!?! But dudes, I already quit my old job!!!

(Later that day):

Me: Can I have old job back?

Boss: Don’t worry.

HR Lady: No, sorry dude. It’s been 3 days, but we’ve already put into place a plan to replace you that cannot be undone. Fuck you.

Me: Let me get this straight. I went from having a new job to having no job?

HR Lady: Yes, as I just said, Fuck you.

Jan 14: New job offer, much better than the one that didn’t work out! Whee!!

Month of February: Second job offer slowly evaporates.

March: Unemployed.


The Universe Loves Me: 

March: Unemployed!


April: New new job offer accepted, and  job ACTUALLY HAPPENS!

The Universe Hates Me:

we're cool

Nothing personal, valued subordinate female employee.

My last day at the firm was supposed to be Jan 31. But because they like to humiliate you there, HR lady calls me in her office a couple weeks before on a Friday afternoon to say: Boss and Managing Partner decided that today’s your last day. Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal.

Boss, who I spent the entire morning with and who acted like everything was cool, conveniently out of the office that afternoon so that, after I worked for him for 5 years, he doesn’t have to say goodbye to me.

The Universe Loves Me:

At least I had time to fart in Boss’s chair.









The Universe Hates Me:

Two days into unemployment: timing belt breaks on Kia, destroying the engine. Have to sell for scrap.


Break my timing belt, break my heart.

The Universe Loves Me:

Friend Clark Kapowski works at car dealership, gets me a sweet sweet deal on a new Prius!


Courtesy of Clark Kapowski.

The Universe Hates Me:

And then THIS happened. A fucking tree fell on my fucking house.


The Universe Loves Me:

Cat has unobstructed view to the street.


Wrong way, Stupid.

The Universe Hates Me:

Distracted by the fucking fuck tree, we ran out of oil.


So, as always, we called Paul’s Oil to come and bleed the furnace.. But they couldn’t come because Paul died. Seriously, Paul died. That is not funny.

The Universe Loves Me:

Nothing can make this right.1

The Universe Hates Me:

I feel tired, like, all the time. And then I’ll sleep too much and feel lousy about it.

The Universe Loves Me:

I get to wake up to this every morning.


The Universe Hates Me:

Sometimes I have not been able to find graphics for my blog that I thought would be easy enough to find, and it’s really weird and I worry it has some deep scary cultural meaning. Just try finding: Co-Worker in Ugly Outfit or Pregnant Woman Running Scared in the Woods. Universe (i.e., Google), why dost thou forsake me?

The Universe Loves Me:

When I search for images of Martin Freeman doing something, they are always readily available. Seriously, try it.

Martin Freeman disco dancing.


Martin Freeman bubble bath

Martin Freeman bubble bath

Martin Freeman hamburger boobs

Martin Freeman hamburger boobs


Martin Freeman getting attacked by a tree that's probably about to land on someone's house

Martin Freeman getting attacked by a tree that’s probably about to fall on someone’s house


Martin Freeman really sad your cat died

Martin Freeman really sad your cat died

Martin Freeman rainbow hat

Martin Freeman rainbow hat


Martin Freeman hypothetically taking a dump

Martin Freeman taking a hypothetical dump.2


“Disappointment is an endless wellspring of comedy inspiration.”

– Dr. Martin Freeman


1 Derek: Nothing? What about the fact that I learned how to bleed the furnace myself and we have hot water and I have a sense of my own power and independence?

Me: What about PAUL, Derek, what about PAUL?!?


2 Derek: I don’t think you can use “hypothetical” like that. How could “dump” be “based upon hypothesis or conjecture?”

Me: Well, we certainly know that yours aren’t.

Derek: No one thinks you’re funny.


Interview II: Revenge of the Buns

May 26, 2014

You: Ok, so the last time I tried to interview you, it didn’t go so well…

Me: I thought it went pretty well.

You: And this time you’ve brought…..?

Me: This is my lawyer, Goldie Buns.

You: Is she–


The Newport Buns.

Me: No relation. Goldie Buns is of the Newport Buns, whereas I am of the Baltimore Buns.

You: I thought you said it went pretty well, then why did you bring your lawyer?

Goldie: I’ll ask the questions around here!

You: But I’m trying to conduct an interview!

Goldie: Objection, leading. Sustained. Please rephrase the question.

You: But I didn’t even ask a question!

Me: You didn’t ask a question? You suck at interviews.

You: May I ask a question now?

Me: You just did! (High Fives Goldie)

You: (groan). So, my notes indicate that you spent the fall of 2001 in Abu Dhabi, conveniently out of the country for 9/11…What were you doing there?

Goldie: Want to hear a cool story about how I was born early because my mom scared herself into preterm labor?


Goldie’s mom, freaking out early labor style.

Me: Yes! That sounds cool!

Goldie: So, she was walking through the woods and didn’t realize she was walking behind a shooting range…

You: Ugh, can I at least ask a question about summer fashion?


Oh Tyler, you are the living end!

Goldie: You just did! (Me and Goldie High Five again and put you to shame ).

Me: Remember that time I was high from getting my tooth pulled and then we went to CVS and I sat on all those whoopee cushions?

Goldie: Man, that shit is funny.

You: You weren’t high from getting your tooth pulled, you were high from the medications they gave you.

Goldie: Did you hear something?

Me: Hey Goldie, what do you call it when a boa can no longer constrict?

Goldie: What?

Me: A reptile dysfunction!

Goldie and me: Wha ha ha.

You: I don’t get it.

Me: You are just a shitty, shitty person.

Goldie: Yes, you are a shitty, shitty person as a matter of law.

You: Fuck you guys!!!!

Goldie: That’s it, you’re going to jail.


You, about to go to jail and looking like hot garbage. Also, the cop is your dad.



Interview with a Big Buns

May 4, 2014

You: Hi, it’s me and I’m here today with world renown blogger and member of the Calvinist elect, Big Buns.

Me: Please, please, hold your applause.

You: Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you born?

Me: Out of a vagina. Next question.

You: Eww, what would your mom say if she heard you talking like that?

Me: What does my mom have to do with it?

You: Because- you – well- ugh, nevermind. Moving on….who is your favorite author?


Vagina Woolf (left).

Me: Vagina Woolf.

You: Book?

Me: Womb with a View.

You: Is that all you can do? Make puerile jokes?

Me: Vaginas.

You: Ugh. Ok, look, I think we got off on the wrong —

Me: —-vagina.

You: So maybe we can start over?

Me: Sure thing, dirtbag.

You: Two and Half Men. Charlie Sheen or Ashton Kutcher?Image

Me: Go fuck yourself.

You: This interview is over.


True Confessions II: I’m Dumb as Bricks

April 27, 2014

 I got into an Ivy League law school. Aren’t I amazing?


The one I got into was the one with the suicide gorge, so I decided I had better not go there. Smart and wise….

BUT…also dumb as bricks. Here are some of my greatest hits:

1.  One time in my early 20’s I applied for a copyrighting position. That’s right- “copyright.” I also asked for a salary that was “commiserate” with my experience and education. Still not sure why I didn’t get an interview.


A great source of wool…


2. In a college psychology class, the professor was asking what cotton and wool had in common. I had already piped up about double letters and that they are both fabrics, when I took it too far: “they both come from plants.” I said it with such authority that the professor nodded. I quickly corrected to “I mean…they are both natural fibers,” but the damage was done.

3.   Me: What’s the difference between Citizen Kane and Slumber Party Massacre?

You: I don’t know, what?

Me: I’ve seen Slumber Party Massacre.


That’s all he ever wanted out of life… was love. That’s the tragedy of Charles Foster Kane. You see, he just didn’t have any to give.

4. As a child, I thought the Dukes of Hazzard was a drama.


Luke Duke can go fuck himself.

 5. It took me a really long time to understand the proverb, “A stitch in time saves nine.” Nine what, dammit!!! Nine what? People? How does time save them? And is this “in time” thing some sort of a metaphysical state of being?


6. One time I thought the Pats were playing the Patriots. In baseball.

7. I was assisting a very arrogant trial attorney named Mark at court. He was giving his closing statement, and told a few mild jokes during it that we all chuckled audibly to. Then he said to the jury, “Now, the plaintiff’s attorney is going to say a few words after me. And while he’s talking, I want you to think to yourselves, ‘What would Mark say?’” It sounded strikingly similar to “What Would Jesus Do” and so I laughed out loud with everyone else. Only, no one else was laughing. Mark wasn’t impressed.


Jesus, Attorney-at-Law: What would Jesus Do?
Opposing Counsel: Objection!
Judge: Sustained.
GOD: Overruled. Jesus, you may proceed.


8. Many of my misunderstandings with the world have more to do with my ears than my mind. Examples of my hilarious hearing deficits:

  1. Take it with a grain of salt = Take it with a great assault
  2. George Michael song “Too Funky” – “Would you like me to seduce you, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”  =  “Would you like me to introduce you, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

9. My mom has her own vocabulary. I call it Judyspeak. This propensity for neologisms led to some problems. For example, I thought for years that “Mondale Button” was the scientific term for a cat’s butt. Thanks, Mom.


10. When I was about 5, my older and slightly overweight cousin Ginny asked me if she looked pregnant. The word “pregnant,” however, was tragically way past my pay grade. But I couldn’t expose my ignorance. I figured I had a 50/50 chance of getting the question right, so I went for it. “Yes?” Ginny wasn’t impressed.


Are you gonna eat that?

 11. Probably that same year, there was all this weird pink stuff on the ground that kind of looked like bubblegum. I asked my dad what it was, and he freaked out. “Kristy! That’s insulation! It’s made out of cancer! Don’t go near it, don’t touch it, don’t even think about it!” ….Thank God he hadn’t seen me eating it. 


Derek wanted me to put this in my blog today, so here you go:

Million dollar ideas come to me all the time, often in my dreams. I am truly blessed. Last night I came up with another winner: Pizza delivery strippers.

Male Stripper at Bachelorette Party

Meat Lovers Pizza- Hold the Sausage.

True Confessions

March 26, 2014


Look, I’ve got to get a few things off my chest, but you have to promise this stays between you and me.

You: Uh….you’re putting this on the Internet.

Me: Confession #1 – what’s the Internet?

I Lie


A classic case of sun rash.

Lying for coworkers. Natalie and I used to work together as legal assistants. After she left her abusive boyfriend, she went through a “make-out slut” phase[1]. One morning she showed up to work covered in hickeys after a close encounter with a human vacuum cleaner. Natalie told everyone she had a “sun rash.” I stood by her in her time of need, and proclaimed loudly to anyone who would listen, “Ah man, sun rashes are the worst and also they exist. I have totally had like 4 cases of ‘the rashes’ in my life. Let’s all give Natalie some pie.”

Lying to coworkers. Whenever I have to choose between being nice and being honest, I usually pick being nice. If someone has a new hairdo, I tell them I like it, when really I usually feel nothing more than, “I notice you look mildly different.” If someone at work is wearing a loud outfit, I tell her I like it simply to avoid the social awkwardness of gaping and pointing.


Lookin’ good, Deb!

Faking a Pregnancy?? But I’m already married! My senior year in college, I landed a pseudo-acting gig at some fancy schmancy woodsy resort in upstate New York for the summer. I was supposed to lead people around the place pretending it was the 1800s and that I was a new Irish immigrant who had escaped the potato famine. But I had second thoughts. I had recently married, and wanted to follow Didier to France instead of languishing alone in the woods. I waited and waited until the last possible minute to get out of it. Garnering all my cowardice, I sent the resort an email that I was preggers and couldn’t come. The resort dude called and I made Didier answer the phone.


Shame on you, Wife-Child!

For 40 odd minutes, Didier had to deflect the persuasions of the resort guy – “We can make this work! She can get all the prenatal care she wants here in the woods!” After he finally hung up, Didier wouldn’t even look at me. I learned years later, as we were breaking up, that Didier had never forgiven me for my indiscretion, and was “disappointed in me” for lying and making him complicit in the lie, even though the whole point of my charade was so that I could be with him. He did have the moral high ground, though, having only cheated on me once in our five year relationship.[2]

I Cheat

First, let me just explain that I grew into my morals over time. I would never ever ever have cheated in college or law school, where I actually gave a shit. But before I became the paragon of morality you see before you: lazy desperate times called for desperate measures.


Me, being smart and popular.

Original sin. School and me go way back. School was good to me, and I was good to it. In grade school, I was always smarter than everybody — like way, way smarter. That’s why I was able to make so many friends.

Picture it, first grade: there I was, flying high without a care in the world- when all of a sudden I was stopped dead in my tracks. Teach gave us the math worksheet from hell. There was no way to solve it, it was completely inscrutable. I looked around for sympathy. Everyone else was breezing through it. Even Ryan Thibodeau, who sat behind me and drooled on his desk. Time kept ticking by, and there I sat, internally pissing my pants. Teach tried to help me, but to no avail. Finally, she let everyone go to recess, and I was left behind to complete the assignment, abject and alone. Ryan’s finished worksheet winked at me seductively from his desk. Was this a setup? Were there spies everywhere, just waiting for me to take the bait? Or had Teach taken pity on me as I agonized futilely over this veritable Da Vinci Code? Did she want me to cheat? I concluded that she did, and respected her decision.

Er, did I say jazz? Blues! I meant blues!

Muddy, Muddy Waters. 9th grade was my most morally bankrupt year. I was too busy growing a pair of kick ass boobs to give a crap about my immortal soul.  One time Mrs. Cross was forcing us to read biographies and then write book reports. Gross. I was too lazy to read a whole book, so I found some liner notes in a Muddy Waters CD that contained a short biography. Not short enough, though, for my delicate constitution; I just copied it and called it a day. Mrs. Cross called me up after class to have me explain my obvious plagiary. I channeled the State of Florida, and stood my ground. “Uh, well, you see, Mrs. Cross, there were all these jazz terms— he was a jazz musician, right? — that I didn’t understand, so I didn’t know how to put the concepts into my own words.”

Result: B-.

I Steal

It all started in junior high, when I would fill my sweatshirt pockets with gum at the corner store. In 9th grade (of course), I advanced to shoplifting clothes.

Even though I was a totally badass shoplifter, I had a lot of compunction about it. The guilt of my crimes drove me to distraction, and I told my mom everything in a fit of hysterics.


Forgive me! Forgive me! I stole all the gum!

I was so pathetic that instead of punishing me[3], Mom had to rock me back and forth like a baby until I calmed down. She even told me that shoplifting wasn’t so evil, and that she’d done it herself as a child. There was never a discussion about apologizing to store owners or repaying my debt to society, thank God.

For a while, I was cured. But then in 10th grade, shit got real again.

I had been musing to Angela about my glory days:

* Shoplifting 101: pick out a bra you want, and carefully hide it in a big pair of pants, etc. Then go to the changing room with the decoy apparel and pretend you’re going to try it on. Once in the stall, put the bra on under your clothes. Then go out and put the pants on the reject rack. Leave store. Come back another day. Repeat.

Angela could already taste the forbidden fruit of the loom. Resistance was futile; she quickly talked me into pulling one last heist.[4]

The mark: Kmart, the Pierre Cardin of Waterville, Maine. The score: bras and undies. We walked over to Kmart with evil in our hearts.

It would probably have worked out just fine, but we got greedy. Too many panties, not enough pants. Angela panicked, and put all her clothes away. I was about to follow suit, when all of a sudden my mom showed up OUT OF NOWHERE.

“It’s raining really hard so I thought I’d pick you up!” (Thanks for nothing, Mom.[5])


Us, if Kmart had won. Poor Mom got caught in the crossfire.

I froze. “Uh, ok. I’ve just got to try a few things on.”


By the time I got to the changing rooms, all of my unmentionables had migrated to the bottom of a pair of pants in one guilty bundle. A young employee began inspecting my wad at the service desk. Just as she was about to come to the undies ball, I pulled it out and confided, “Sorry, I hid them because I was embarrassed walking around the store with underwear.” [6] I had momentarily neutralized the threat. As I walked into a dressing room,  she booked it to the manager. Then I snuck out, and put everything back like it was hot.

Shortly thereafter, a store manager came up to me with menacing adult authority.

“What are you doing?” he barked. But he was no match for me.

Shopping,” I said witheringly, in cold blood. He limped away, rubbing his deflated ball sacs.

But despite the trail of employee carnage behind me, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder. Some murky, amorphous retribution was waiting for me.

And Mom was taking forever. “Oh look, Kristy, did you need some notecards?” I just barely got out of there alive.


Result: A narrow escape, a moral victory.[7]

End of Part I

In our next installment of True Confessions: “I Pee My Pants,” “I’m Dumb as Bricks,” and “I Should Have Paid More Attention to After School Specials.”

[1] Don’t act like you didn’t, Trenchmouth.

[2] I never cheated on him, which was the least I could do, considering the gravity of my lies.

[3] I should mention that my mom has punished me a total of zero times in my life.

[4] As you can see, it was all Angela’s fault.

[5] My mom is actually the best mom in the world. If I find out you said anything about her, you’re dead! Well, probably not, but it will really hurt my feelings.

[6] God, I’m good.

[7] My friend Charo wasn’t so lucky. She is permanently banished from Walmart.


ONE MORE THING: I encourage you to write your own confessions in the comments!


March 23, 2014

Did you know that if you grow up with a mean drunk of a dad, that you get to do whatever the fuck you want and no one can get mad at you? I for one loved to pull pranks, and they were hella funny. But just in case you think they’re mean, I put that stuff about my dad right up front so you’d feel too bad to judge me. [1]

Cast of Characters

Me: You know, that awesome woman what writes this blog.

Foxy[2]: My best friend to this very day. Can you believe that shit? What’s nice is that the fact I’ve managed to have the same friend for nearly 30 years is proof positive that I don’t have borderline personality disorder. Foxy also had a crazy home life, so we both had diplomatic immunity for our dickishness. ImageOne time, her mom and stepdad were low on money, and had to make the Sophie’s choice of buying formula for Foxy’s baby sister or buying cigarettes. They picked the latter and gave the baby a bottle of half & half mixed with water. Her stepdad had a weird spot in one of his eyes and was always in his underwear.

Angela: One of my oldest and dearest friends. Angela had an excellent home life, but I did have one thing she didn’t….junk food! I’m talking Twix bars, Girl Scout cookies, 4 flavors of soda, the good chips, sour cream for dippin’, ice cream bars, ice cream sandwiches, etc. etc. etc.

Angela and I dedicated many hours to playing with the Ouija board in my room. One time we were contacted by Satan, who told us he was sitting on the bed. We went to check, and the bed felt all sinisterly cold. We totally flipped our shit.


This really happened.

Angela was really popular because she was nice to everyone, and was even voted homecoming queen. Moral: movies about high school are full of shit. Moral II: that’s why I love them.

Charo[3]: This girl was funny, funny shit. In junior high, we used to stand on the side of the road and wait for cars to go by. When they did, Charo would hunch over and curl her arms into claws, and lisp, “Yesth mathster,” while I beat her with a stick.


Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, do a Google image search for “person getting beaten with stick.”

Foxy and I assumed Charo was depressed like us, but it turns out she just had a real bad case of “the Maines.” Charo had moved to Maine from Virginia in 7th grade, and winter did not agree with her. She lived in the middle of nowhere and was always stuck in this claustrophobic shack while her real house was being built, one piece of wood at a time.


Jesus, Charo, what’s your problem?

Charo and I had shitty eyesight and even shittier glasses. One day we were strolling through the park and some guy was there playing air guitar. Only maybe he wasn’t playing air guitar.

Regina: My pyromaniac friend who threw her bra on stage when the navy band played at our school and once took a dump on home plate. Now she’s a marine biologist.


Phone Pranks

This was me and Angela’s thing.

Angela and I watched the movie Amazon Women on the Moon pretty much every day in junior high. I hope one day as I’m winning a Newbury Award or maybe a Pulitzer Prize in literature, I can cite that as one of my biggest influences. Take that, Maya Angelou!

I believe that if you are not familiar with this comic gem,  that you suck and don’t deserve me to explain the movie to you. Derek disagrees, so here you go, Loser: Amazon Women on the Moon features a bunch of comedy sketches with super famous people intercut with a spoofy 50’s sci-fi movie.

We did not get all the jokes. There was this one skit called “Blacks without Soul,” and I really didn’t understand what “soul” meant in this Imagecontext. It was styled as a PSA, with B.B. King asking for donations for this terrible ailment. It heavily featured David Alan Grier wearing Liberace shirts and selling his best hits album with songs like, “Blame it on the Bossa Nova.”[4]

Angela and I were most baffled by this scene where a black man was talking about a car he had bought. He was dressed like a pimp and walking through a sketchy  neighborhood. We, being rural Mainers, just interpreted this as “City Life, City Clothes.” So then he says, “Safety and good mileage are the two things I look for in a new car. That’s why I bought a Volvo station wagon.” This was a real head-scratcher. The best we could come up with was: “Volvos are, like, really dangerous cars?”


Anyway, as we knew in our hearts that this was the funniest movie ever made, we decided to share its greatness with the world. We used to call strangers, ask if they wanted to buy a Blacks Without Soul album, hit a few clumsy notes on the piano, and then croon “Jeremiah was a bullfrog.” I see now that this may have been offensive. Thank God for my diplomatic immunity.

You can imagine how our hearts broke with the advent of caller ID. ImageFoxy and I learned the hard way that its evil clutches even transcended town lines. We were at her grandma’s in the Big City, Portland, calling this dude Jason[5] over and over and hanging up. Then, just as we were almost out the door and scot free, Jason’s mom called the house… And we were almost out the door.

Then there was Davy. This one requires a lot of backstory that I’m too lazy to tell. One day, if I feel that you’ve earned it, I will let you in on the Cult of Davy. For now, here’s a taste. We called Davy anonymously and he told us he was having a party. Foxy asked to go, and then this happened:

Davy: Are you ugly?

Foxy: Kinda.

Davy: How much you weigh?

Foxy: 200 lbs.

Davy: That’s ayyyight.

Davy was a true gentleman.[6]

Valentine’s Day Pranks

The high school would do a Valentine’s Day fundraiser every year. You paid a dollar, and got to give someone a piece of candy and a card. You could sign the card or give it anonymously. It was a comic goldmine.

Making fun of nerds was mean, but popular kids were fair game. Especially jocks. So we always sent some amazing anonymous cards to our favorite people.


Not cool.


Fair game.

Cory: Cory once said Foxy was sexy, and that he wanted to sleep with her. What a jerk! His Valentine’s Day card: (to the tune of Hey Mickey):Image

Oh Cory you’re so fine

I wish you’d unzip your fly, Hey Cory! Hey Cory!

Oh Cory what a pity you don’t understand

You take me by the heart when your dick is in my hand

Oh Cory, you’re so pretty, can’t you understand

It’s guys like you, Cory! Oh what you do to me, do to me

Do me again, Cory!


If we’d known this was coming, we would have been nicer to Jimmy.

Jimmy: This guy was just kind of generally a dick. I remember in junior high he dated this very nice girl, and after they broke up, he made some disgusting comment about how she was “dry.” A few years ago, he went crazy and managed to hold up a bank with a bible or something.

His Valentine: “Your sexuality makes me want to crawl into a cave and die.”

Jeremy Jones: This guy was high school hot. My sister once told me and Angela that your boobs got bigger if you saw hot guys. So our joke was, “I saw Jeremy Jones and my boobs went from an A to a C cup in 10 seconds!” Rumor has it that he moved to a trailer park in Florida, where he pimps out his high school sweetheart.

His Valentine: “Jeremy Jeremy, I would say, I would make an easy lay. [Something something something] I hope I’ll fuck you again someday.”

Now all these idjits thought their Valentines were the odes of pining secret crushes. Sorry, dudes, you were a pack of dicks. [7]


My Enemies

Steve: There is nothing I hate worse than an annoying person. I would rather play Frisbee golf with a bank robber than spend five minutes in the same room with a boor. And I HATE Frisbee golf.  I’m pretty sure it was invented by sadists in the 17th century to punish elementary school students with poor motor skills.

Steve’s crimes were manifold. We had actually briefly been friends in junior high, but then he wrote me a love note and stuck it in my locker. From that point forward, he was dead to me. It gets worse. One time he wrote an essay which included terms like, “Womyn” and “chrystyan.” Steve was always making painfully dumb jokes in class and then he’d hee-haw like a donkey at his own material. Where others simply rolled their eyes, Regina and I saw an opportunity. Every day in Reading class, she and I would sit together with a piece of notebook paper between us, surreptitiously keeping a tally of all Steve’s asinine comments. We helped Steve reach his full potential and break old records by laughing encouragingly at everything he said.

It gets even worse. One time Steve and I were sitting in the hall working on a project, and Steve farted. By a stroke of good fortune, Foxy happened to be walking by. We shouted in unison, “Go get some Ex-lax!” Score. (NB: for those purists out there, yes, I know that Ex-lax does not stifle farts. But if you can’t appreciate the metaphorical beauty of our joke, then you simply do not comprehend the transcendental nature of comedy. You probably also hate the spirit of Christmas.)

Christina:  God, I hated this girl. You can’t even believe the shit she pulled. First, we had the same name, only she spelled it wrong. Christina was a year below me in school, which was already suspect. She made things worse by being two years ahead in math whereas I was only one year ahead. So that bitch was in my math class. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she was also in my English class. Christina even did drama, despite the fact that drama was my thing. Ok, in hindsight, I might have been the problem here.  To be fair, though, one time at a poetry slam she read a super lame poem she’d written with her little sister. It rhymed.

ImageMrs. Cross: We hated her so much, and yet all I can remember of her crimes was that she used to say the phrase, “in a nutshell,” interminably. One time Charo and I snuck into her classroom and looked through her stuff. Mrs. Cross had the tallies for the gifted and talented writing program, and I did not make the cut. I only had like two or three checks near my name. Foxy had by far the most votes. She was, and continues to be, a very talented poet. Even you’d like her poems, and you hate poetry. So then Charo and I left her a note in her mailbox in the teacher’s lounge (did I mention we also broke into the teacher’s lounge?): “Roses are red, violets are blue, golly gee Mrs. Crotch, we sure hate you.” How I didn’t get more votes for GT writing remains a mystery.

[1] Sucker.

[2] Full name: Foxy J. Sheen. Foxy’s parents were heavily influenced by the works of Michael J. Fox and Charlie Sheen.

[3] If you thought this was really her name, you’re dumb as shit. I asked her what she wanted her fake name to be, and she said, “Charo McElvis.” Ms. McElvis, your wish is granted.

[4] If you’re still lost, go watch the God damn movie and then report back.

[5] Jason later shaved his head and joined a cult. Most likely in response to our prank calls.

[6] His brother recently went to jail for drug trafficking.

[7] Cory actually did end up getting penis enlargement surgery.  My friend Lara slept with him after high school, and he had a notably small penis. Then a few years later, she slept with him again. Afterward, he asked, “Did you notice anything different?” It was the best moment of my life, and I wasn’t even there.

Brandeis is the Worst Place on Earth

March 16, 2014

To be fair to Brandeis, it was the worst place on earth circa 1998. Perhaps since then it’s become a Shangri-la of scholarship. Fortunately for the reader, however, I have no interest in being fair to the biggest vortex of suckiness that the universe has ever seen.


They have a castle. That’s how they get ya.

I didn’t know when I got in that I had been accepted to fulfill some internal quota requiring that the school admit a minimum of 5-10 (and no more than 20) totally bitchin’ college students. For that reason, they didn’t send me the brochure they must have sent to the rest of the student body, which I imagine looked something like this:


Welcome, Freshmen!

  • Are you socially awkward, and kinda ugly?
  • Would your personality be best described as “irritating?”
  • Are you planning on “letting loose” in college by amping up your religious conservatism?

Well, do we have good news for you! Come join your warty hands with your fellow uglies[1], and enjoy 4 years of junior high dances pretending to be college parties!


Q: I like the idea of racial diversity, but am not really ready to commit. Is this the right place for me?

A: Brandeis boasts a highly diverse campus just the way you like it. None of the different ethnic, religious, or other social groups ever interact with each other! It’s a nervous liberal’s paradise! You’ll be able to make friends who are just like you and still brag at your Goldman Sachs interview that you have walked by people of all races, religions, and creeds!

The Curse Of Brandeis

When Anna and Jennie visited me, two of their tires popped in the Brandeis parking lot. When my pal Leeman came to visit, he also popped two tires. And then he split his pants.

So, in conclusion, let me say this to my non-existent teenage fan base: if you go to Brandeis, you will die a horrible death. It will probably be from a disease that doesn’t even exist yet, like terminal herpes or infectious reverse warts.[2]


You, dying a horrible, horrible death. You’ve been warned.

Part II: Dating at Brandeis is the Worst Thing in the World

One of my three friends, Shoshanna, was deciding whether or not to accept the advances of a boy she wasn’t really interested in. A girl with a long-term boyfriend gave her some great advice:

“You’ve found someone who likes you. You must stay with him forever and force yourself to like him,” she said, furiously wringing her hands while she stared ahead in a desperate dissociative panic. With a dating climate like that, I was ready for romance!


Boyfriends are great!

And so I dated Plamen. He did have one thing my seventeen year old heart yearned for: foreignness. That mattered to me then because I was a turd. He had an accent, and even though it wasn’t a particularly good one, it was good enough for me. (Later on, in my “refined turd” phase, I’d only melt for English and French accents.)

He went by the self-inflicted nickname, “Space.” When Jennie came for a visit, she more accurately dubbed him, “Flathead.” And he was always wearing this black t-shirt that listed all the world religions’ philosophies thusly:

Catholicism: If shit happens, I deserve it.
Protestantism: Shit won’t happen if I work harder.
Judaism: Why does this shit always happen to me?
Buddhism: When shit happens, is it really shit?
Islam: If shit happens, take a hostage.
Hinduism: This shit happened before.
Hare Krishna: Shit happens Rama Lama Ding Dong.

(Fortunately, I didn’t write this offensive cosmic jiz, so I don’t have to feel responsible for unleashing it onto the world.)

I suppose another sign that it wasn’t going to work out was right at the start of our relationship. We were taking a hike in the mountains, and sat down for a rest. The sun was setting, and everything it touched was ablaze with gold. I leaned in for that first kiss.  But just before I closed my eyes, I made the mistake of looking at him. He had, without warning, suddenly mutated into an eager Gollum, leering at me from the shadows.



It occurred to me as I shuddered through that romantic moment that maybe he wasn’t the right guy for me, but for some reason (coma?), I ended up staying with him for two whole months. Things did not get better.

So let that be a lesson to you, kids. Don’t date Gollums. Hold out for Hobbits.

Here’s another awkward moment in our relationship: I was in the middle of telling him I liked him very much, but tragically stuttered a bit. He responded with a smile and self-satisfied laugh, “I love you, too.” What was I supposed to say? Look, I was saying I like you, not I love you. I don’t love you. As for your loving me, I guess I can live with that.

Things went from bad to worse. One time we went to Boston and missed the last train back to Waltham. We were stranded there overnight. We wandered around and eventually squished our bodies together on a park bench. Oh, and did I mention it was November? Five hours later, we walked the 75 miles to the nearest train station. When we got back to campus, I learned that his sister lived in Boston, but that he hadn’t wanted to disturb her. Space was just lucky I didn’t have a gun.

Then came the death knell. It rang twice. First, on Thanksgiving, when he smoked pot with my dad. The second was back at school, when he cut his hair to look like Nicolas Cage in Face-Off.[3]


Don’t worry, Dear. This is how love is supposed to feel.

I really shouldn’t have let it come to that.

The aftermath: he bugged me for the rest of the semester, making me Ramen Noodles while I was studying for finals. Space evidently thought I would sell my companionship for soup. Over Christmas break, he sent me a package containing a large plastic dinosaur that symbolized me and my destructive heart-killing forces.  Believe it or not, this didn’t win me back.


My stony, stony heart was somehow unmoved.

The next semester, he started dating my roommate. She listened to Dave Matthews Band.

[1] My friends from home and I called Brandeis “The Ugly School.” This created some awkwardness back in Portland when my cousin Anna had a friend visiting. He was super nice, but a bit unfortunate looking. Our buddy Chris, thinking the friend had driven up from school with me, asked innocently, “Do you go to The Ugly School?” Anna and I quickly defused the situation by loudly and emphatically over-explaining to him that Chris was referring to Brandeis, and not his ugly face.

[2] You: what the hell is a reverse wart?

Me: It’s a wart that grows into your body instead of projecting out from it. It slowly crushes your internal organs and pushes through arteries and veins until they burst. I anticipate that it will be on the market by 2016.

[3] I decided I would be nice, and not mention his unrelenting impotence.

Who Wore it Better?

March 13, 2014
                                                              whoworeitbetteragatha     whoworeitbettersaul (2)

Agatha is owning this Allie Munier original headpiece. The hat says, “I’m a glamophile” and the briefcase says, “I’m working it!” While I love what Saul’s accessories are doing- a gray purse to bring out his natural low lights, and a zebra striped snuggy to show off his “funky” side-  it doesn’t even looks like he wants to be wearing the hat. Sorry, Saul, you are just not red carpet ready. Winner: Agatha.

Things I don’t like about my boyfriend[1]

March 12, 2014

Derek is pretty cool, I guess, but he has some terrible personality flaws that you need to know about. Now, I don’t think Derek would want me to put up photos of him in a public forum, so I am going to use the celebrity he most resembles as a proxy. Thank you for your face, Martin Freeman.


Derek thinking super profound thoughts. NOT!

1. Derek Won’t Dance

Unless he’s drunk. And he’s only drunk if he’s been out late at clubs with his friends. And I can’t stay out late because I am not some kind of superwoman. So, ipso facto, I never get to dance with my own boyfriend. And man, can I dance. Derek and I have only danced together maybe once or twice in our entire epically-long relationship, and he is completely to blame.


Blotto Derek late night dancing without me.

2. Derek Broke His Wrist

Derek broke his wrist when he hit a rough patch of road while riding his bicycle. And now he’s decided that he won’t ever go biking again. This despite the fact that I have lovely images of us biking side by side, probably holding hands, on a super romantic bike trail that likely leads to relationship heaven.


As you can see, prior to the accident, Derek loved riding his bike.

3. Derek’s Been Wearing a Dumb Leather Jacket that Just Isn’t Working


Derek looking dumb in his dumb leather jacket

As you can see, Derek just doesn’t look good in this jacket. He’s more of a peacoat guy. I wonder if I should say anything.

Derek: But K, I thought you did like it!?!

Me: Derek, the only reason you’ve been wearing it is because you couldn’t find a new winter coat you liked and you found this one buried at your mom and dad’s house.

4. Derek Can’t Read[2]


Derek pretending he can read.

Actually, I like this about Derek, because it’s hilarious. It seems he often just sees the first and last letter of a word, and guesses about its insides. Example:

Derek (reading my Facebook page over my shoulder like a total busybody): What does Theresa have to say?

Me: Trisha. It says Trisha. Are you drunk?

Also, here is a list of words that Derek pronounces wrong:

Word Word that Comes out of Derek’s Dumb Mouth
Peripheral Periphreal
Lithe Lith[3]
Milk Melk
Centaur Centarr
Bed and Breakfasts Bed and Breakfastses
Annals Anals
Retina Reteena
Hearth Herth






5. Derek Can’t Swim

What kind of a person who grew up in a coastal town doesn’t learn how to swim? I’ll tell you who: Derek. Now, don’t go assuming he had shitty parents who kept him locked in the basement, not swimming. He had every opportunity to learn, and was too pouty and stubborn to do it.


Derek in the pool, smugly not swimming

6. Derek Doesn’t Like the Beach

Dislike #5 + Dislike # 6 = there goes my Caribbean vacation.


Boo hoo hoo, someone’s trying to make Derek have fun.

7. Derek is Too Cool for Halloween

Derek doesn’t like to dress up for Halloween, and heaven forbid we do a couple’s costume!

Derek: Uh, what about last year when you decided to dress up as me and we were going to be a Double Dose of Derek? So I spent a whole month growing a beard so that you could also have a beard. And then it’s Halloween and you’re like, “No I’m staying inside, I don’t want to go out.” So I grew a fucking beard for nothing, and it was itchy and it was a pain in the ass.

Me: No comment.


DD of D.

8. Derek Put a Razor in the Trash and Then I Cut My Finger on it on Trash Day


Artist’s rendition of Derek throwing the razor in the trash.

9. Derek Doesn’t Like the Common Ground Fair and Refuses to Move to Rural Maine


What kind of a person doesn’t like looking at a bunch of hippies looking at a bunch of animals? Who doesn’t want to learn about turn of the century farming techniques masquerading as new and improved farming techniques?

And everyone knows that rural Maine is a thriving region of the country full of trees, gas stations, and my relatives. Who wouldn’t want to get in on that?

10. Derek Loves the Cat More Than He Loves Me


My Facebook profile picture: a lovely photo of Derek and me at a friend’s wedding, looking happy and in love. My phone wallpaper: a cute silly picture of Derek wearing my kittens and mittens bathrobe. See how much I love him?

Derek’s profile pic? Him and Saul the cat. Derek’s phone wallpaper? Him and Saul the cat. Executor of Derek’s will? Saul the cat.

11. Derek Doesn’t Like Holidays


What a grouch!!!

12. Derek Won’t Wear Deodorant

Derek doesn’t wear deodorant and he thinks he’s getting away with it. Last summer was very, very hot. I think you know where I’m going with this…


Derek and his friend Jason at work. Jason can smile because he’s wearing deodorant and doesn’t smell.

13. Derek Never Gives Me Flowers

I’ve said to him like a million times, “Derek, it’s Valentine’s Day. Derek, it’s my birthday. Derek, I lost my job. Derek, Shirley Temple passed away. Derek, my Internet Explorer isn’t working. Please please please give me flowers!” And what do I get??!? A big pile of nothing.


Derek and my mom, opening night of my play. Note that my mom got me flowers. Thanks for nothing, Derek.[4]



[1]You: Gee, isn’t this pretty mean-spirited? I mean, why would you write something like this? I just don’t get you sometimes.

Me: I could sit and bore you about all the things that make Derek great, but it would take forever and everyone would be rolling their eyes and throwing up into their Max Vibes. You’ll note my list of dislikes is tellingly short. That’s because Derek, like Mary Poppins, is practically perfect in every way.

[2]Guys, guys, obviously he can read. It’s called “hyperbole.” Did you just like not finish junior high or something?

[3] Scene: Derek and I looking at a dictionary as he pathetically tries to argue that his pronunciation is correct.

Derek: See? Lith. A joint, segment , or symmetrical part or division. That’s what I was saying.

Me: Bullshit.

[4]Derek: Actually, I have given you flowers on a number of occasions, probably like 3 or 4 times. And I’m pretty sure I did give you flowers when you were in the play.

Me: Not enough. You should be showering me with flowers on a biweekly basis.

Derek: Well, maybe if you started showering on a biweekly basis, you’d get more flowers!

Me: Psha.

About Jack

March 9, 2014

Here are some way cool facts about my Dad for your amusement and edification that I wrote back in February, 2009.

1. Dad calls my brother Adam, “Jack Junior.”

2. Dad thinks that animals understand sarcasm. One day, he was yelling at our dog Scottie, and then he pet him, saying, “He knows I’m just kidding.”

3. Recently, I was trying to sleep in my old upstairs room, but Dad was next door in his smoking room. In there, Dad likes to listen to music very loudly, conduct “business” on the phone very loudly, or talk to himself very loudly. On this particular morning, the music was off and the calls had stopped- and I heard him announce, “Ahhhh…my head hurts…my back aches…my feet stink.”

4. One wintry day, Dad got run over by a snow plow. It ran over his legs, and then backed up over his legs again. Dad got up and only had a few bruises. That’s when it began to dawn upon me that my father is either the luckiest or the unluckiest person in the world.

5. Dad got hit by a car in a parking lot and (of course) sustained no real injuries. He made sure to comfort the poor old lady who hit him.

6. Then there was the time that Dad got impaled on some uncapped rebar. Not a pretty sight. He nearly lost a testicle. I know, gross, but that’s what happened. (There were, of course, no permanent injuries- please see 4-5.) Now, Dad asked me not to tell anyone about the nature of his embarrassing injuries, and I kept my mouth shut. That is, until my dear old schoolhood friend Maryann called me out of the blue. She’d apparently called my parents to get my new number and had spoken to my Dad. Maryann asked Dad how he was, to which, of course, Dad responded, “I tore up my scrotum on some rebar.” At that point, I figured it was fair game.

7. Dad and I went to Norm’s Bar & Grill, and he was in top form. First, he amazed the waitress by showing her how there was a bee on his hat. How did it get there, he wondered? No one knew. Then he just had to run up to another waitress and tell her how she looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor (she didn’t). Then a man who was busing tables but was probably a manager or the owner walked by and asked how things were. Dad jumped at this opportunity. He gently grabbed the man’s arm, and leaned into him confidentially. “I’ve got one for you…So there’s this Asian guy…” I feared the worst. “And he goes to a bank and asks them to exchange his yen for dollars, just as he had done the week before. But this week, he gets fewer dollars for his yen. He asks the teller what this is all about (Dad does an amazing “generic Asian” accent at this point to the delight of all) and the teller shrugs and says, ‘Fluctuations.’ The Asian retorts angrily, ‘Fluck you Americans, too!'” And I had a sigh of relief. It could have been so much worse.

8. Dad doesn’t really know what the internet is. One time I told him that I emailed my ex in France. He was very concerned, and worried over whether J- would get the message, where the message was now, and how long it would take to get to him.

9. One time, something very unfair happened at school, I have no idea what. But Dad was on our side and he’d had enough. He declared vehemently, “I am going to go to that school and make a big stink!”

10. Dad ran into Maria, whom he hadn’t seen since she was little. He was amazed at how she’d grown up and gotten so lovely. He exclaimed, “Wow! You’re so beautiful- you could be one of MY daughters!”

11. Lots of things puzzle Dad, and he likes to ask me about them- a lot. Here are some ones that often plague him: “What’s the difference between anyone and anybody? What’s the difference between further and farther?”

12. Dad seems genuinely surprised when I finish a joke he’s only told me 30 times before.

13. Dad had this great idea for a sitcom, and he wanted me to help him write it. It was going to be called, “The Wallets” and it was about an ugly man who somehow had beautiful daughters. When he shows people pictures of his children from his wallet, people don’t believe that they are his. So he says, “Oh, these pictures- they came with the wallet!” Good one Dad. I gently explained to him that usually you need more than one joke for a whole sitcom…and that’s how I got fired from the show.

14. One time, Dad wrote a letter to the editor, which he had me proofread. But Dad doesn’t take criticism so well, so I got nixed from that project, too. Anyway, he wrote a letter that I’m pretty sure made it into the newspaper about how they really need to make the JFK road more pedestrian friendly. He noted the need for this especially in light of people’s “fat food” lifestyles.

15. At his most recent high school reunion, Dad won the limbo competition.

16. Dad tells some story about going to the doctor’s and having the doctor marvel at what great shape he’s in. Dad notes the secret to his success: “Clean living.”

17. I believe it was Cousin John who once said that if you look up “vulgar” in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Uncle Jack.

18. Dad thinks kids like him. And sometimes, they actually do.

19. Dad’s working-man hands are so fat he can’t type on a keyboard or use a cell phone.

20. I recently found out that in high school, my friend Jennie would call, and Dad would say, “Call back later,” and hang up. And never give me the message.

21. Dad made a home-made sign out of cardboard to support Ralph Nader’s run for president a few years back. He attached it to a back window on his car. It featured a picture of a cowboyed out John Wayne saying, “Live Greater, Vote Nader.” Dad didn’t actually vote.

22. Dad thinks that Martha Stewart is hot.

23. Here’s the line Dad used on Mom when he first met her: “Can I have a bite of your sandwich?”

24. Long ago, before any of us were born, Dad and one of his sisters were on their way to Canada to look for land- probably for hippie commune building. The man at the border asked Dad, “Have you ever been to jail?” Dad decided to be funny and said, “yes,” (even though at that point in his life, it wasn’t actually true). The man had them turn right back around to Maine. And that’s why I’m not Canadian.

25. When Dad goes in the kitchen to make himself something to eat, he emerges with a startling display of meat, ketchup, pickles, and, of course, horseradish.

26. One time I was in Dad’s car and I saw he had a tin of Altoids, so I thought I’d have myself a mint. Only when I opened it, I discovered that it was full of garlic.

27. If you’re a small child, you may be lucky enough to have my Dad give you a rocket ride. You lie down on the floor, and Dad stands over you. Then he grabs your legs, and flips you up in the air and catches you. It works for a while, but once you get to be a certain size, your head slams against the floor. ROCKET RIDES!!!

28. Dad’s closest run-in with death may have been a staph infection. He was cleaning out a neighbor’s disgusting basement, and he got this bizarre staph infection in his thumb. He went to the doctor’s, who gave him some antibiotics that were not enough. The next day, Dad’s thumb was about 10 sizes bigger. He went to the ER, and spent a week in the hospital. They told him that if he had waited one more day, he would have had a 50/50 chance of living, and that if he had pulled through, it would have taken months for his nerves to heal, if they ever did.

29. The staph aftermath (or staphtermath): As Dad was on the mend, things got weird. All of the extra skin on his thumb peeled off in one disgusting piece. Dad was proud. He put it up on his bulletin board. Heather came over, and I was very embarrassed, so I put on some oven mitts and threw the staph flesh away.

30. Dad usually has really good taste in music- aka he likes what I like. There are some noticeable exceptions. In high school, it was Dokken. My friend Paul and I used to say something about “I’m rockin to Dokken.” If you’re really lucky, you might hear Dad in his room singing along to his latest favorite song. Unbreak My Heart by Toni Braxton.

Dad's the one in the hat.

Dad’s the one in the hat.

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