Friday's Random Thoughts - VCC Lexicon Edition

THIS IS THE WEEKEND I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR!

Today, Jacob, Todd, my brother Tim, and I are driving to Athens to see Louis C.K perform at the Classic Center. The Great Chris Talley™ and his wife The Great Heather Talley™are also going and we're all meeting up for dinner beforehand.

As you might know, Louis C.K. is runner-up to George Clooney for position of pretend boyfriend. I believe this is proof that I am not shallow and only looking for the dreamboat. I also like slightly overweight, balding gingers.

It's really all about the personality. When I was in college, a guy approached my friend Liz and asked the best way to get my interest. (This is back in the day when guys in bars wanted me to be interested. Sigh. Those were the days. I believe this is why I now feel put out if I have to pay for my own drinks.)

Liz said, "Make her laugh."

I have been to Athens once before and when I told my mother about it, she said, "Oh! You were conceived there! In the Callaway Gardens apartment complex."

Good to know, Mom.

Sunday night, I'm going to see Duncan Sheik at Workplay. Oh Duncan, how I love thee!

I will also spend part of the weekend shopping at the 7th Annual Holiday Craft Bazaar. The event is held at several locations, such as Naked Art and Avondale Brewery. I highly recommend you stop by Bottletree, 3719 3rd Ave South, and buy something from my friend Chris Davis. Get his autograph while you're there. He's famous. 

Chris and I are excited to be in the same issue of Weld this week and writing for our former coworker Nick Patterson. (You can take the folks out of Southern Living...)

Come Monday...well, I guess I'm done. I will proceed to fall into a long winter's nap. Wake me on March 1, please.

Speaking of taking the folks out...

Did you hear the news that Jenna Bush Hager is the new editor-at-large for Southern Living?

As my spirit animal Tina Fey once said, "I want you to pay attention to the following over-the-top eye roll."


I know I shouldn't take it personally. Two years ago, when I got the news that I could no longer write essays for the magazine's back page because Rick Bragg would be doing them every month, I dealt with it with class and dignity.


No, I'm thankful to have yet another example of what matters in publishing. I was starting to forget how 15-plus literary agents have told me that, no matter how good my book might be, I don't have a platform. I'm not famous. I don't have a famous dad. I'm not the most amateurish  interviewer on the Today Show EVER. (Speaking of Today, this headline made me laugh: Matt Lauer Will Be Fired If Today Show Continues to Suck.)

Say What Now? 

Last night after reading my blog, Todd said that we must add "Go home, Lindsay Lohan" to our lexicon.

Todd and I have our own vocabulary. Yes, we're those people. We like to say things and crack up, and  other people don't have a clue what the hell we mean by "banana and pear."

So here's a little VCC vocabulary lesson.

Go home, Lindsay Lohan: You're drunk, dude. Seriously, go home.


Sacrilicious: This is my favorite descriptive word for all religion-based jokes, including the irreverent  things I write about Bad Boyfriend Jesus.

Shut up, Carrie Underwood: One day I was telling Todd about how I'd watched Soul Surfer, the inspirational movie about a girl who loses her arm in a shark attack. Carrie Underwood plays a do-gooder friend who, at some point, gives the girl who lost her arm a little lecture about healing, moving on, and trusting in God. As I was telling Todd about this scene, I said, "Oh shut up, Carrie Underwood!"

"Shut up, Carrie Underwood" is shorthand for indicating a person who does not understand shit about your situation but feels the need to tell you how to deal with it anyway.

You and Mark Twain: Todd wrote a story that I edited. I told him to remove an exclamation mark from one sentence. I said, "You know, Mark Twain said using an exclamation mark is like laughing at your own joke."

"Well," Todd said, "You and Mark Twain can suck it."

If one of us says "you and Mark Twain," that means you can suck it.
*Mark Twain didn't actually say this. It was F. Scott Fitzgerald. I blame the movie Marley & Me for misleading me. 

Banana and pear: In the car on the way to lunch several years ago, our friend Rob was complaining about all the dumb jokes people send nonstop via email. During his rant, he threw out this gem: "'What did the banana say to the pear?' Fuck you!" We cracked up. So if we say "banana and pear," it means "Fuck you."

Now, next time you hear us say one of these things, you will know what we mean and will be appropriately offended. You're welcome.

The VCC Mailbox

Hey kids, let's go to the mailbox!

This week was a stellar week for mail up in here.

Tina has been unpacking boxes that had been in storage for quite some time. She found a card addressed to me that she never mailed. She didn't open it. She sent it to me and it arrived Tuesday. It reads "Sorry this is so tardy! Happy belated birthday and Mother's Day!"

I don't know what year it's from, but I guess it was that year she never told me happy birthday, dammit.

Tina also sent me a Thanksgiving card with $5 for a latte. Awesome friend is awesome.

Also in the mailbox: a package from my cousin Richard. The packaged contained this amazing little book:

Sacrilicious!

I can't wait to try out all my new "miraculous moves." I hope you'll join me in The Apostolic Conga Line.

Last but certainly not least, I got an amazing note from someone who reads my blog. He sent me a Starbucks card to fuel Friday's Random Thoughts!


I don't think I say it enough, but thank you all for reading and supporting my rants and random thoughts. It means the absolute world to me. I'm not just saying that. Without you, I'd just be a girl with a dream sitting here talking to herself. I mean, I am sitting here talking to myself, but let's just pretend I'm talking to the cats.

Happy Friday, friends!

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Lindsay Lohan Needs a Curfew

In the wee hours of the morning, Lindsay Lohan was arrested for assault at a New York City nightclub.

I know. Shocking, right?

This brings up an important piece of advice from me, your spirit animal Amy B.

You should be home by midnight. Nothing good happens after midnight.

Have you forgotten what you learned from Gremlins?

Are you too young to remember Gremlins?


If you forgot, here it is: Do not feed the creature after midnight. (In this case, the creature is you and all your totally bad ideas. No, going home with that guy is not a good idea. No, going to that club for more drinking is not a good idea. No, consuming a huge amount of breakfast foods at Waffle House is not a good idea. Go home.)

I have spent plenty of nights out past midnight and, oh yes, having plenty of fun, but you can be quite sure none of it was good for me. And the next day I felt like ass.

I strongly believe that life is better - and not as full of regret and hangovers - if you just get your butt home and in pajamas by midnight. I don't always follow my own advice, but when I do, I wake up on time and I am productive the next day. If I don't, I sleep late and, when I do drag myself out of bed, my brain is good for nothing more than watching Lifetime movies or reality shows on E! (otherwise known as Hangover TV).

Another important piece of advice to remember next time you're out: "Never go with a hippie to a second location." - Jack Donaghy, 30 Rock.


-----

But this advice is not why I have called you here today, my friends.

No, what I'd like to talk about is my complicated feelings every time I hear news of poor Lindsay.

I hate her.

My friend and former coworker Rob used to keep a list of people who belonged on the Celebrity Death Plane. Lindsay is at the top of the list.

I bet she makes the lives of everyone around her stressful and miserable. I bet everyone around her is on guard all the time because they never know what's going to happen.

When you spend time with an addict, you can't be sure if the night will go well or go horribly off the rails. You can't be sure if you will be showered with love or pounded with insults. You might get pushed to the ground. You might laugh so hard you almost wet your pants. You might wonder how things got so out of control. You might wonder what you can do to fix it all. (Nothing. You can do nothing to fix it.)

Seriously, I hate this bitch for going around making the lives of those who love her harder than they have to be.

I sincerely believe she is incapable of getting her act together. She will never sober up. Rehab will never work for her. Screw this selfish little twit, I think.

So here's where it gets complicated.

In my lifetime, I have loved an addict. And I get incredibly frustrated when people say cruel things.

Like:
"The people around the addict should have done more. I would have done more." (No, you wouldn't have. If you have the secret for getting addicts to clean up, you could bottle it, sell it, and make billions of dollars.)
"The addict is just a piece of shit. Cut him/her out of your life. It's not that hard." (Yes, it is that hard. Have you ever loved someone?)
"The addict got what was coming to him/her. The addict was asking for trouble. The addict should just stop. It's not hard." (Please shut up.)

All of these statements come from a lack of experience with living with an addict.

And do you see that paradox of the things people say? You should do more, but you should kick that person out of your life. You should do more while you care less.

Good luck with all that.

The addict is not a piece of shit or a scumbag or beneath you. (Go ahead and thank your lucky stars right now that you aren't one.) He/she has a problem. A real, huge, awful, life-defining problem.

Lindsay Lohan has a real, huge, awful, life-defining problem.

I wish she could sober up and have a nice life in which she is home by midnight wearing pajamas and fuzzy socks, in which she wakes up the next morning feeling good and hopeful about life.

I doubt very much that she ever wakes up feeling good and hopeful. I think she wakes up with a bottomless pit of need that she attempts to fill with pills and booze and whatever else might make her feel better for a moment or a day.

I find myself wishing that someone would reach out a hand to Lindsay Lohan and help guide her back to a safe and healthy life.

Then I realize I am doing the same thing I did for years and years. I thought I could be that hand. I thought I could figure out the magical thing that would guide someone back to a safe and healthy life. That was a lie I told myself. In fact, I still tell myself that lie sometimes. It always comes to me in the dark, after midnight.

See, I told you. After midnight is a wasteland full of pits of quicksand. After midnight is the fire swamp from The Princess Bride. Watch out for the ROUSes.

Even though I can't stand this ridiculous woman, I remember what it was like to love someone like that. I would hate it if people placed bets on when he would die. (Check the comment section of any story about Lindsay Lohan today and you will find those types of wagers.)

It would break my heart if people said bad things about him or hated him for it...even though sometimes I hate him for it.

Part of me wants to see Lindsay Lohan crash and burn. Part of me wants to revel in the Schadenfreude. Here's your seat assignment on the Celebrity Death Plane, Ms. Lohan.

But I already know exactly what it's like to watch someone crash and burn.

It's not pretty. It's not entertaining. It's not anything anyone was asking for. It's not anything anyone deserves.

It's only human wreckage.

Do you want a front row seat for that? Trust me, you don't.

It's past your curfew. Go home.

Related posts:
Making Peace with Hemingway

An Enormous Green Rape Monster

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I Don't Feel Like Writing Anything

So why am I here?

I don't even know.

I thought I'd try to write something - anything - since it's been several days since I posted. I haven't written anything since last week because I've been so busy eating my weight in Thanksgiving leftovers while sitting on my sofa reading Broken Harbor, a novel by Tana French, and watching Lifetime movies.

The beautiful thing about Lifetime movies is that you can watch them while you read, because Lifetime movies are so predictable. They are like comfort food for your brain. Lifetime movies are also excellent when you have a hangover.

Here's a little leftover from last year about Lifetime movies and why I am perfect for one: A Very Special Lifetime Christmas Movie...Starring Me.

This weekend I watched a movie that takes the characters of Little Women and puts them in a modern-day setting. It was complete crap. Louisa May Alcott is rolling over in her grave.

I watched Dear Santa, a movie about a psycho who stalks a widower and his daughter after she finds the daughter's letter to Santa asking for a new wife for her dad. OK, it's not presented as stalking. It's presented as FATE and LOVE and a whole host of other bullshit things that would make a woman track down a man so she can be some little girl's new mom. (The dead spouse is key in these movies, in case you didn't read my post about A Very Special Lifetime Christmas Movie.)

I also watched Love at the Christmas Table about two people who grow up spending Christmas Eve together every year. Over the years, they fall in love. At the end, of course, they get engaged. Because deciding to marry someone with whom you have spent one day out of the year is totally reasonable and that marriage is definitely going to work out.

After all that, I fixed myself a cocktail and I watched Lindsay Lohan play the role of Elizabeth Taylor in Liz & Dick. When I told Kate the title of what I was watching, she started giggling uncontrollably. And this is why you never hear about little boys being named Dick anymore.

The movie was pretty bad (everyone MUST stop pretending that Lindsay Lohan would be a great actress if only she didn't get in so much trouble). But the movie isn't bad enough to become campy fun. There aren't any good lines you can take from it and repeat obnoxiously. For instance, over the holiday I also watched some of R. Kelly's "hip-hopera" Trapped In The Closet and, if you visit me and stand in my kitchen for more than five minutes, you are likely to hear me sing this: He looks at the cabinet, he walks to the cabinet, he's close to the cabinet, now he's opening the cabinet. 

While "watching" all these masterpieces, I finished Broken Harbor. I recommend all of Tana French's books. She's an excellent writer. All of her books are murder mysteries set in Ireland, but they go beyond your standard detective novels.

Broken Harbor really hit home for me in a lot of ways. I don't want to give too much away, but basically there were things that were painfully familiar to me, like how things can go so wrong in a short amount of time, how you can spend your entire life getting over something and still blaming yourself for it, and how dealing with someone who is mentally unstable is exhausting and frustrating and damaging to your own mental health.

I cried a little yesterday because I always cry after a holiday. Even when everything goes well, the holidays are difficult. We spent Thanksgiving Day with The Great Chris and Heather Talley™ and it was a wonderful day. The food was amazing. The company was excellent. I have asked Chris and Heather to officially adopt me and Kate and Jacob. They'd be fools not to at least consider it!

Having dinner with the Talleys allowed me to continue my 39-year streak of not cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

Friday, Kate convinced me we should put up the tree and decorate it. I was a little grumpy about it at first, but I'm glad we did it. The living room was festive for the arrival of Charles's parents, who we call MeMe and Bob. They arrived Friday afternoon bearing Thanksgiving leftovers. They left early yesterday morning and, about 20 minutes later, I noticed that they'd left a laptop behind. I called and they turned around to come pick it up.

Kate said, "Oh, good! I missed them already!"

Saying goodbye to your grandparents is hard. There's one thing that's hard about holidays. They always involve saying goodbye.

The holidays also are hard because they naturally evoke memories of past holidays. Thanksgiving was Charles's favorite holiday. Eating, watching football, eating some more. Taking home leftovers. Eating again. I told the kids that I think their dad loved the leftovers even more than the original meal.

We have one  piece of apple pie left in the house and I am so grateful that it's almost gone. It turns out I can not be trusted around apple pie. I hope one of the kids comes home from school and eats it before tonight to save me from myself.

This morning I had scrambled egg whites for breakfast, a little post-Thanksgiving penance. As much as I love wearing elastic-waist pants, I would like to be able to fit into the rest of my clothes come January.

But first...

Maybe I should eat that last piece of apple pie before the kids get home.

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