SELFABSORBED.ME

Dear Christmas Cookbook Gift,

Wow it was such a surprise when I opened you. I was so excited at first looking at the packaging thinking I was finally getting a signed copy of 'Where I Came From'. But then I disocvered you, an entire book, filled with Betty Crocker's best.

Now I don't know who this Betty woman is. But I do know one thing. She seems like a pretty selfish bitch to me. Telling me all about having to make "torts" and "cakes" and "boiling water." Making me feel like I am the kind of woman who should invest my time and energy into things like "baking" . Well Betty, let me tell you, the more you try and tell me how to bake, the more I realize I am going to figure out exactly which book store you came from so I can return your red colored ass and get something more useful, such as a book on how to kill myself with rubber bands.

The problem is Betty, your instructional guides require me to do things that I refuse to do on a normal day, things such as 'go to the grocery store'... 'make lists'... 'be prepared'....I consider showing up to my ex boyfriend's house fully sedated on percocets, 'being prepared'.

I tried to make your lemon bunt cake only once and I was halfway through writing down 'lemon' when I realized, what am I doing? I bake the way Anna Nicole solves math equations in Heaven....pretty much never. And I refuse to feel pressure just because a woman named 'Betty' tells me to go do so. I don't even like the name Betty. I knew a Betty once and she was the biggest cunt I'd ever met. So excuse me Betty if I don't feel like ripping open your magical paper pages and discovering just one more thing I have failed at learning in life. You know who used to cook? Dinosaurs. Dinosaur wives used to cook along with people in the BC era and women with names like 'Pearl'. So if you don't mind Betty, I am going to go order myself a nice plate of California rolls from Haru, right after I go give you to some poor homeless kid of the street who needs a cook book way more than I.

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So the holidays can be a very confusing time in a relationship. So many things going on, decisions as whether to meet the parents, not meet the parents, exchange gifts, not exchange gifts…normally I do the right thing and make sure to break up right before the holidays and then quickly resume the relationship after new years is over. Listen, I don’t want to buy you a gift, I don’t even want to kiss you during New Years. I want to spend my new years how most people spend it, drunk in a dirty bar bathroom, puking up yams on the hand towel lady named Rosetta, whom I keep referring to as ‘Ruby Red’.

If you are one of the unlucky people however to be involved in a relationship during this time of the year I think a few Holiday rules need to be laid out.

Rule #1- Thou shall never buy their significant other a ‘vacation’ Buying someone a vacation as a gift is the end of your relationship. It is like playing Russian Roulette with a bad ear infection, you will always lose. My friend Christine bought her boyfriend a trip to the Bahamas, they broke up three weeks later…my friend Adam bought his girlfriend a tip to Aruba and she sleep with his best friend the next night. Trust me, buying someone a vacation as a gift is like giving an 8 year old a loaded handgun, it’s only fun for the first minute or two and then eventually, someone gets hurt.

Rule #2- Thou shall never subject your significant other to your family unless you are married/engaged/under contract. Your family is never as normal as you think they are. In fact they are probably about as amusing as any Tim Allen movie ever created. My parents are the nicest people, but they are still a bunch of conservative republicans, so if you don’t enjoy scotch and a good game of ‘find grandma’s pearls in the oriental rugs’, then I would suggest you not stop by for a visit.

Rule #3- Thou shall never send mutual holiday cards with your significant other. Do you think it’s not bad enough I have to get mutual birthday cards from ‘Both of Us’, please don’t subject me to your holiday happiness as well. And please don’t include on the inside notes how the two of you went around picking apples, or Christmas trees, or making popcorn strands or some shit like that and then sat in your stockings near a fireplaces reading stories from the Bible to each other. Dear Lord Jesus, the card you sent with the sad puppy dog face in a holiday hat was bad enough, I almost vomited up all my red wine and percocets just seeing the damn cover. I don’t need to hear about how you ‘Both Wish Me Peace Love and Joy’…I wish both of you a nasty cause of the bubonic plague if you send me anymore of that shit.

Because I am lazy this week
And because this is genius

I'm just a regular everyday normal girl and my parents are nice people motherf*cker!

So many online profiles contain inspirational quotes that say, “Dream Big!”. Everywhere you look people are telling you to, “Dream Big!” Go out, get what you want, reach for the stars, and remember To “Dream Big!”…But you know what? I prefer to “Dream Small!” In fact sometimes I like to ‘Dream Tiny!” I think if I Dream Small, then guess what? I will have already achieved my dreams! I dream about making enough money to afford a quality plastic razor, maybe not a fancy one, maybe just one with a nice moisturizing strip, or with even a grip-like handle that has suction, just so that I can shave my legs finally! And then I look down and realize, “Look! All my dreams have come true! I DO own a razor! And it DOES have a moisture strip!” This is why I Dream Miniature. Why do I want to Dream Big and set myself up for failure? I like to dream about obtainable things like recording TLC’s A Baby Story on my DVR finally. ...DONE! Wow, life is good. I encourage you all to Dream Tiny! Because Tiny Dreams do come true!

Apparently the Jews love a good rap! Benji K is an old colleague of mine, an exceptionally good writer and outrageously good looking....I fainted when I first saw him...either that or I was really really drunk...and passed out.
http://djbenji.blogspot.com/2007/12/kims-hanukkah-rap.html#links

Last night a member of the male species emerged from our bathroom and proclaimed, “Well if I ever get shot or fatally wounded and am bleeding profusely I know there will be enough pads and tampons to save me and an entire army…” My roommates and I just stared at him.

Yes, I admit it; living with all women in a sorority style apartment is like swimming in the waters of a fallopian tube. There is enough estrogen in our place to make anyone want to curl up on the pink sofa with a nice Anne Geddes posters and cry. But the thing I have discovered is men also run in similar patterns.