From the department of Legs for Days...

Via Amy Schumer's Facebook page -- damn, girl, GET IT.

Her legs look longer than my body.

California girls, we're undeniable

Last night I dropped off my CA friends at the airport after their Thanksgiving visit, and they extended an open invitation to come stay with them, or even live with them for a bit, whenever I want.

I suddenly have a million urges to get the hell out of here, if only for a week.

I already have an East Coast vacation booked in January, but my spring/summer wanderlust is looking westward.

Maybe Easter. I feel like going to town on a big fuck-off chocolate bunny while lying by a pool. (All the more reason to keep working out throughout winter, so I don't scare small children with all this gelatinous White in a swimsuit.)

And they could probably get me a job if I eventually wanted to relocate permanently. I have exactly four skills, but they travel well.

Then again, maybe I won't.

I'm doing that thing where you write a text but then delete it without sending it because you're too cool. But then I write it again. And delete it again. Because I'm cool. 

I'm not cool, you guys. I'm a goddamn spaz. 

(Have we taken "spaz" off the politically correct table yet? I feel like we should, but Paulette called herself "spastic" in "Legally Blonde," and we all know "Legally Blonde" is basically the law. So I'm allowing it.)

Happy Thanksgiving!

A few things I'm thankful for this year, in no particular order:

1. All y'alls. (Or, in the words of my native people, "all-uh-yas.")
2. Kids who aren't mine.
3. Shonda Rhimes and Jenny Lawson.
4. Miranda Lambert and Anna Nalick.
5. "Silver Linings Playbook."
6. Therapy and progress therein.
7. Prescription drugs.
8. My friends -- "Boyz II Men, ABC, BBD, the East Coast fam-i-ly." (Yep. Said it. Deal with it.)
9. Four straight days with no alarm clock.
10. Gravy.

There are more, but those are my favorites. Enjoy your day, guys. Gravy be with you. (And also alcohol, because let's be honest...)

Victoria's Secret is that she's always cold.

As if we needed more proof of what a classy lady I am, I pulled my bra strap away from my back because it was itching, and ended up putting my finger through the fabric.

I mean, it's like you can't rely on a 5-year-old bra anymore. What CAN I believe in, Universe?

Right, then. Shopping. 

Also, this is totally how I roll when I wear flannel pajamas. Victoria's Secret gets me.

In which Facebook suggests I die alone.

"Suggested Post" is apparently code for "Making sure you stay single."

"I forgot how good you taste..."

I never get tired of this song. 

"I'm not gonna tell you what it's about. You have to listen to the lyrics. And don't judge me." 💕

Insanitease.

Email to friends: 

 

"My therapist is really into baby steps, so she's telling me to just watch workout videos as a step toward getting myself into a workout habit. 

 

"So I'm watching/listening to Insanity while I'm working, and as it turns out, I can't just sit here with Shaun T heavy breathing, grunting, and shouting commands into my headphones. 

 

"AHEM. *squirm* I think I should change over to Netflix."

 

I am perhaps too aurally stimulated, but... "Start to warm it up. We're going through a few exercises right now, until you're dripping." 

 

UNF. Dripping achieved. 

Working out is totally easy.

"I forgot how good you taste..."

I never get tired of this song.

"I'm not gonna tell you what it's about. You have to listen to the lyrics. And don't judge me." 💕

Selly Celly

I almost never say "mansplaining," but I absolutely just had it happen to me, via a Facebook friend I rarely talk to. (Come to think of it, I don't know why we're Facebook friends. I will remedy that.)

 

I mentioned I was going to a cell phone store, NOT requesting help in any way. But he climbed straight up my ass: "What do you need? Oh, a new phone? What kind? Have you been with them long? You might be better off calling to find out what they'll offer you for customer retention. You should wait to see what they're offering for Black Friday. And other stores might have better deals. Be careful with the plans they offer you. Check if it's an authorized retailer or a franchise store, that might affect what they can give you." 

 

*looking around* Um...I AM literate, right? To read makes my speaking English good? I've had a cell phone for 15 years. I think I got this. Also, I am a grown woman who's worked in retail and shopped for things allllll by myself for a good portion of my life. I know sales BS when I hear it, and I CAN do math (if given enough time and a pencil and paper). Under the T&A, I promise there's a fairly functional adult. True story: they let me drive a car and everything. I am going to a store to get information. If the information pleases me, I will make a purchase. That is how shopping works. 

 

Sidebar: my current phone is possessed such that I don't care about Black Friday. I will spend money to guarantee I'm NOT phantom dialing obscure contacts without touching the phone. (Thankfully I deleted all my ill-advised "dates" from the phone, so it can't call anyone dangerous, but it's still not optimal.)

Lights, camera, nonsense.

Talking to a friend: "Do you have time to pick up a GoPro before Thanksgiving? Because you could just show your therapist the footage of your family dinner and say, 'This. This is what I'm dealing with. Fix it.'

"The therapist might even give you a discount once she sees it, in which case the camera would basically pay for itself."

I am juvenile.

$11 for fingering?

Cheap at twice the price!  

Radical feminist nachos

I saw a shirt online that said "Ask me about my radical feminist agenda," and I think I need it, mostly because if anyone actually asked, I'd probably just say "Nachos."

I guess maybe "nacho equality." Like, "I want 100% nachos, not 78% or whatever it is. I want as many nachos as a man. And extra cheese. For, um...restitution or whatever."

"What would we do, baby, without us? Sha la la la..."

I just got called "cold" and had Sad Singleton noises made at me when I mentioned to coworkers that I consider Thanksgiving weekend a short vacation, not family time, and that I hoped my family didn't host dinner, because I'm looking forward to relaxing alone.

"Jeez, some people LIKE spending time with their families." Hey, good for them. I am not one of them. Sorry, is my childhood trauma bothersome to you?

For me, Christmas is the family holiday. I will happily (well...) attend. But a pregame four short weeks BEFORE Christmas? Having my parents insist on family "closeness" now that they're older, not realizing they were my age 25 years ago while they were inadvertently teaching me NOT to value family? Sorry it's not my top priority as an adult.

(I know I don't have to attend either holiday, but skipping both is more of an emotional hassle than it's worth. Plus, ham.)

Thanksgiving weekend is for me to sleep, watch movies, and cook something delicious, not to drive 2 hours to make shitty small talk or silently ponder which mood medications my father should be on.

I can be thankful and reflective by myself. It's better than being asked if my ex is seeing anyone, hearing how much my family misses him, and explaining to obscure relatives looking at me quizzically that I "recently" ended a long relationship. Oh, and don't forget what a good mother I would've been, and how maybe I'll change my mind -- that is not at all like being punched in the uterus. (Also, c'mon, my eggs aren't exactly fresh from the farm. They're, like, Walmart eggs at this point.)

Besides, I promised a friend who'll be spending Thanksgiving with HER family that I'd be her on-call getaway car if she needs an extraction (SEAL Team Smug!). So I'm not the only one not singing "Kumbaya" for family time.

BTW, yes, if you know me, "cold" is exactly the right word. I am a complete, dead-inside asshole, and people I love mean nothing to me. You nailed it.

 

Petting Zoosk

The next love of my life could be on Zoosk right now and I'd never know because I refuse to use something called Zoosk.

Facebook is where Suck goes to blow.

I'm avoiding my personal Facebook after seeing PEOPLE I KNOW say Charlie Sheen "had it coming." 

Don't fucking make me defend Charlie Sheen. Christ.

(I'd already been avoiding FB for a few days, but I do check it here and there to remind myself that everyone and everything there is still awful. Facebook is where Suck goes to blow.)

Pants-off dance-off?

What my office is really lacking is a piano for me to dance on. (Yes, Glee again -- whatever. I wouldn't knock the song until you've seen me dance on a piano.)

Climbing the corporate ladder...

Because I am a professional: "Are all these projects due at noon? Because if they are, I have some very specific suggestions as to where they can bite me."

Toucha toucha toucha touch me

Don't judge me. I STILL wanna be all prim and proper and then give Mr. Schue a lap dance. 

UNF.

Not at all what I'm thinking about at work...

Monica: "Pheebs, you know what I'm thinking?"
Phoebe: "...How it's been so long since you've had sex, you're wondering if they've changed it?"
Monica: "No. Although NOW that's what I'm thinking."

Book Review: I will always say YES to Shonda Rhimes.

Disclosure: I am a Shonda Rhimes fan (duh): Meredith, Addison, Olivia, Annalise. You name, I worship.

So it really should come as no surprise that I loved her first book, Year of Yes. I loved it on spec, really. Shondaland disciples understand. (Juju be with you. And also with you.) But I was still excited that it met and exceeded my expectations. It was great to read about SHONDA, not just to see her peppered into little bits of her characters.

As you may infer from the title, Rhimes dedicated a year to saying "yes" to things outside her introverted writer comfort zone: giving the commencement speech at her alma mater (Dartmouth, NBD); losing more than 100 pounds; making self-care a priority; saying "no" when necessary; accepting praise, as a woman especially, with a "thank you" and no attempt to negate or downplay your achievements. (Have y'all seen that Inside Amy Schumer thing? You should. We all should. And then we should all knock that shit off.)

Really the best thing I can say about the book is: it made me feel better. I hesitate to use the word "inspirational," because UGH. But it was. It helped me during a tough time (specifically, the week I happened to be reading it, my brain was not being especially kind to me). But the book still made me laugh so hard my lady-belly ached. I had to put it down multiple times to laugh it out. On at least one page, Rhimes had me brimming with weepy tears, then cry-laughing two paragraphs later. It's one of those comforting books that made me feel like things are actually pretty OK -- I am a badass lady and I shall "power pose like Wonder Woman," and if you don't like it, you can just step right off.

I actually bought a LivingSocial deal for an audiobook site just so I could have Shonda Storytime. Maybe her "badassery" can infiltrate me via hypnosis osmosis while I sleep.

Her reflections on Mommy Wars were insightful and hilarious, even though I don't have children. Standing up at a PTA meeting and shouting "Are you fucking kidding me?!" when they demanded homemade desserts instead of store-bought? Hero. But it also made me think about how I speak to my friends who are mothers, and to consider again the way women address and judge each other. (By the end of that chapter, you too will be all, "Whitney Houston. Curling iron. Solidarity." Just trust me.)

My favorite chapter was the one about her weight loss, how food is amazing and DOES make you feel better, because it's delicious but also because it's a lovely, numbing spackle for your internal wounds. Oh, Shonda -- you had me at "Cheesecake will always taste like love."

My new favorite expression -- and get ready, because you'll see me use it in the future -- is "veal practice."

"Did I tell you what veal practice is?" asks Rhimes. "Oh! Veal practice involved me lying very still on the sofa trying as hard as I could to mimic the life of a veal. While eating veal. I wish I were kidding. It. Was. Magic."

Veal practice, people. It's gonna be a thing.

2015 was actually my own Year of Yes -- a year that brought me Amy Poehler's Yes Please, Jenny Lawson's Furiously Happy, Matthew Quick's Silver Linings Playbook, and finally Year of Yes, the icing on the therapeutic cake (but only metaphorical cake because I try not to use cake as therapy anymore).

Rhimes' book is, in essence, about deciding to stop living your life being small -- meek, numb, detached. Going through the motions, doing only what you have to, not being present, not feeling joy. Sleeping, basically...hardly even living. I struggle every day NOT to live that way, but she's right -- sometimes it really is easier, so I can't say I always succeed.

It was as if this year the book gods had bestowed upon me the exact books I needed to get my shy ass off the couch and out to an aerial yoga with a Creative Ladies' Club full of women I didn't know, to an oral sex class or a burlesque workshop, and to really deal with my family issues and these romantic ensnarements I can't escape -- Olivia Pope ahoy, y'all. (I suspect I won't get past them until I find my own Jake Ballard, though, so I think I just have to wait that out. Plus, Liv totally screwed up that Jake thing. I mean, honestly -- Jake taught you how to shoot, danced to Stevie Wonder with you, fingered you on a tropical beach, and brought you Gettysburger. WHAT THE CHRIST MORE DO YOU WANT, OLIVIA? You want "Olitz," seriously? Fitz is a giant bitch-baby with an overly emotive forehead. Vermont is cold, and jam sucks -- Jake shakes like jelly. For the love of God, Liv, go STAND IN THE SUN!!!!!!)

*pant* *pant* *pant*

I sense I have too many feelings about this.

So. You go get yourself a copy of Year of Yes.

And I?

I will go enjoy some veal practice.

#YearOfYes

*At my request (pleading, really), the lovely people at Simon & Schuster send me a copy of Year of Yes for my review.

Busta Shonda Rhimes

Worth revisiting as I wrap up my Shonda Rhimes book review:

"You don't get to call me a whore. You chose Addison. I'm all glued back together now. I make no apologies for how I chose to repair what YOU broke."

This construct really evolved by the time it got to Olivia Pope: "I am not a toy you can play with when you're bored or lonely or horny. If you want me, EARN me!

Goddamn right, ladies. Testify.
(BTW, this is not a one-sided notion. I certainly hope I've earned the men I've had relationships with and have never taken them for granted. Ha ha, GRANTed... See what I did there?)

You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar.

I wanna high-five every male porn star who goes down on his lady for more than a minute.

I mean, it almost never happens, so it wouldn't take long. I'd probably get a lot of other stuff done that day. Starting with hand washing.

Current mood...

The elephant in the room.

Quick acknowledgment: I am not a complete asshole. I'm aware of the fucked-up shit happening in the world right now. I am not trying to be insensitive. Quite the opposite, actually -- I am so OVER-sensitive that if I tune into the news too much, I will end up on my living room floor in a ball, weeping for humanity.

It happened after 9/11. It happened after Newtown. It happened after the Boston Marathon. It's why I've had bitchface all day today and am currently hiding from the world with spiked cider and a book.

For the most part, my goal here is to make you guys laugh if I can. So that's what I'm going to keep trying to do. You have enough anger and sadness on your social media -- I have nothing to contribute you haven't already heard a million times. And my thoughts on world events are more than likely not why you're here reading the po' folks' Carrie Bradshaw.

So. I'm gonna go on making my little jokes and trying not to end up in The Weepy Floor Ball, which is the world's shittiest yoga pose.

I love y'all.

As you were.

Naked truth

Eating better and working out is going OK, but I realized I have a new fitness goal: to look as good naked as I do dressed. I look adorable today... or at least I will until I go home and take off my pretty wrapping. Then the illusion is shattered when everything on me goes "flump."

I don't even know if my body is capable of being toned -- I've been thinner, but still looked like I was covered in vanilla pudding when naked. My shoulders and clavicle are bony as fuck, yet I have a gut like Nacho Libre -- where does that get logical? This is how I know I was not intelligently designed -- only a system that gave us the duck-billed platypus could also provide this particular assemblage. The good Lord woulda had His shit together.

Maybe there's a spa treatment that can just slough off all my skin so I can start over.

(I'll have none of your logic about patience and perseverance and inner beauty. FEH! I want to look like Ashley Graham tomorrow. Make it so.)

In which nothing you do matters if you're not married.

Dude, what the shit is wrong with you?! That girl is, like, 12 years old* and a floppity bajillionaire
megastar. Who gives one iota of one kitten's dick if she's not married? Jesus. You leave Katniss alone, Diane Sawyer!

  

"...This whole year of, ‘Who am I without these movies? Who am I without this man?'" Girl, preach. Let's get together and have coffee and braid each other's hair. We'll talk.

Speaking of hair, I should probably call my hairdresser right now and warn her that once I see Joy, I'm also going to hack my hair off with some raggedy scissors and then have her fix it. It seems fun and cathartic. Or I'm just a crazy celebrity copycat.

* OK, fine, she's 25 -- same difference. Clearly a spinster. Christ, I need more cats -- I'm totally behind here.

In which nothing you do matters if you're not married.

Dude, what the shit is wrong with you?! That girl is, like, 12 years old* and a floppity bajillionaire
megastar. Who gives one iota of one dick if she's not married? Jesus. You leave Katniss alone, Diane Sawyer!

  

"...This whole year of, ‘Who am I without these movies? Who am I without this man?'" Girl, preach. Let's get together and have coffee and braid each other's hair. We'll talk.

Speaking of hair, I should probably call my hairdresser right now and warn her that once I see Joy, I'm also going to hack my hair off with some raggedy scissors and then have her fix it. It seems fun and cathartic. Or I'm just a crazy celebrity copycat.

* OK, fine, she's 25 -- same difference. Clearly a spinster. Christ, I need more cats -- I'm totally behind here.

Y'all didn't need to hear this.

I know it's a common name, but it still amuses my brain sometimes when I talk to my coworker Rob and vividly remember a very different Rob who really (REALLY) liked hearing his name in combination with "Fuck me harder."

I really wish I'd said that because I'm super smooth in bed and intrinsically attuned to my partner's needs. But really, the first time I said it I was just bored. Thankfully most orders a woman gasps while hovering around orgasm sound fairly sexy -- I could've said "Let's get pancakes later, Rob" in that voice and it probably would've helped him along. But I'm glad he was happy, and it got me to my destination as well. 

'Tis the season to be anxious, fa la la la la...

Oh, right. Seasonal anxiety and depression are real things, which means, until probably January, I can't be in a Target unattended for more than 15 minutes unless I want to feel like I may actually have a nervous breakdown.

Fuck you, Target. It's not even Thanksgiving yet. Can I get my goddamn laundry detergent and a new yoga mat without getting punched in the feels by your bullshit B-squad reindeer? (This has also happened in grocery stores, card stores, and on one very special occasion, a CVS.)

I don't do well in stores to begin with, but the seasonal shit started post-breakup and clearly hasn't dissipated at all. My ex helped me slowly stop hating Christmas after many years of retail work and unbearable family gatherings, aaand now that hatred is back, with a little extra special flavor -- like a lovely smoked sea salt for mood swings.

Adjust your dress, your cynicism is showing.

I'd like to thank our nation's veterans for fighting for our freedom to whinge self-righteously online about a non-news coffee cup "story" while we jerk off in SWEET bachelor pads in our parents' basements.

What? 

Is that not why they're fighting?

#YearOfYes Foreplay

You may recall about a week ago I was fortunate enough to receive an advance copy of Shonda Rhimes' Year of Yes. (How much would it have sucked if they'd said "no" to my request for a copy of Year of Yes?)

Since then, I've only gotten through the first 100 pages, mostly because I'm an asshole, but I also got too busy. But the book came out in stores today, SO:

The first 100 pages are hilarious and inspiring, and unless it somehow ends with a puppy massacre, I have faith the rest will be the same.

I should be able to finish reading and write a full review over the weekend. But in the meantime: she's one of my heroes, the book is at least one-third amazeballs, and you should all go read it. (Unless you don't groove on Shonda, in which case I have no idea why you're reading this -- I am merely her hacky, foul-mouthed henchman.)

Also, I just found out she narrates the audiobook, which means I'm going to go spend $18 (on iTunes) to have Shonda Rhimes read me a story, and probably finish the book much faster.

#YearOfYes #Worship #TGIT (<-- in which "T" is for "Tuesday" this time)

Unsexy chair dancing.

They told me I couldn't sing and dance on my desk anymore, but this chair is getting the ride of its life. 

(Don't judge me. The Bangles were the business. You don't even KNOW.)

My body is NOT a winter wonderland.

 

Eh. I don't know. Do you have the spring boyfriends in yet? I'm slightly crazier in the winter, plus there's all that driving and family time and spending money on gifts and meals between now and Valentine's. 

My dating representative -- Public Consumption Smug -- is currently busy hermiting under a mountain of blankets. The only way I'd be down for "Netflix and chill" is in the literal sense -- I have popcorn and bourbon cider, you bring the movie. I will wear my finest pajamas and will even locate MATCHING fuzzy socks. 

This is my game at this point, y'all. 

Joking aside, were there a man on this couch, I'm pretty sure I could summon the energy to have ill-advised sex with him, assuming he could get it up on spec for the presumptive bounty lurking beneath the Temple hoodie and yoga pants. #SexyAndIKnowIt

I love the implication that it's just THAT easy to get me a new person who'll deal with me, and me with him, long enough to get to "boyfriend." See, what you have here, Hinge, is applicants for the "seasonal help wanted" sign on my vagina. That's not a boyfriend, sweetie, that's a temp -- he'd be filling an opening. Like at the Gap (heh). Stop trying to make it all rom-com.

Cize it up, size me down.

I had a screening at work for insurance discounts, and I got 3 out of 4 of the available discounts -- I am too fat to get the one for healthy BMI. BMI is a bunch of bullshit, but OK -- mine is high, qualifying me as "overweight."

1. Fuck you, I'm adorable. In the words of Cher Horowitz, I'm "like one of those Botticelli chicks." (But certainly NOT a Monet.)
2. HOWEVER...it's getting cooler and I can't just keep wearing summer dresses and ignoring the fact that none of my pants fit.
3. I don't necessarily care that I'm size 14; I just care that all the clothes I own are a 12. I'll be goddamned if I'm getting dicked out of an insurance discount AND have to spend money on larger clothes.
4. Maybe I'm wasting money on therapy when all I need to do to fix a "mood disorder not otherwise specified" is have some at-home therapy with Shaun T​. (It's not, but it can't hurt.) (Also, mmm, Shaun T...)

I've resolved this here before, so if I don't report back soon that I am once again partying in my pants, I'm going to post my address here and one of y'all has to come bust my kneecaps. Deal? Excellent. Glad we had this talk.(As a bonus, if you break my kneecaps, I can't work out. See what I did there?)

P.S. This is going to blow numerous goats, because the weather is changing and pretty much all I want to eat is lasagna. I'm basically Garfield from November through March.

Cinematherapy

I'm not sure what it says about me that watching Silver Linings Playbook usually makes me feel better. But as cinematic spirit animals go, I could do worse than Tiffany Maxwell. (With a Jamie Rellis chaser.)

Bourbon cures all.

Weirdly, I'm feeling MUCH better...

And also feeling as if every shelf in my home not dedicated to bourbon is a shelf wasted.

 (Bourbon & Branch, Philadelphia.)

No one's looking at my face today.

I woke up sick, and literally the only thing getting me out of bed is the plans I had that provide higher-than-average odds for meeting and mingling with sexy nerd boys. 

Thankfully no one I really want to hang out with would care if I do my hair and put on makeup -- just a low-cut shirt should cover it. (Or not, I suppose is the point.)

Damn, girl...

There's a Justin Timberlake song called "Damn, Girl" in which the first lyrics are just him repeating, "Damn, girl; damn, girl; damn, girl; damn, girl; damn..."

I'm not coveting her in a naked way, but... damn, girl.

She's my body-image hero. I want us to have amazing boobs and that sweet waist curve and go shoot arrows together.

Would a "basic STD" also thrive on PSLs?

My health insurance enrollment form has a space where I can sign up for "basic STD."

It stands for "short-term disability," but still, a weird box to check. (Tee hee.)

I ❤️ NY.

#SmugTakesManhattan  

Smug Takes Manhattan!

Field trip to NYC to see my boyfriend! ❤️  

His guest is Bryan Cranston, so it's basically my first three-way. Shit's about to get real, people. 

Bryan Cranston's hot snuck up on me post-"Breaking Bad." He's super cute when he's not making meth, and SO funny in that quick, smart way that melts my draw's. 

I want to love him forever, despite his tighty-Walter-Whities. (<-- Yep. Whole post pretty much entirely so I could make that joke.)

Also, all I can see is "Colbert" and "pie," which is pretty much the dream. 

#SmugTakesManhattan

A terrible feminist and probably an awful human being

I am a terrible feminist and probably an awful human being.

Everyone on board?

OK.

I definitely have my moments where I'm like, "Man, I'd kill to be built like Kerry Washington" or whoever.

But last night I watched Chicago again (for burlesque research!), and I realized, "Goddamn, I would much rather be built like me than like Super Thin Renée Zellweger any day."

I sincerely hope the most prominent feature of my chest is never the bones in it. (I can't even see those bones, I forgot there WERE bones there.)

I could floss with that woman. 

I know, I KNOW. I shouldn't judge another woman. There's room for all of us (ahem -- especially her, she's basically vapor), and we're all snowflakes, blah blah, bliddy blah, sisterhood, traveling pants, etc. FINE. I'm an asshole. We've established that.

Also, while she's tiny, I'm sure she does crazy yogalates-ninja-reformer class or something and could kill me with her pinky finger. Plus, she's a floppity-bajillionaire mega-star who can sing AND dance AND act (I'm told), and I live in a studio apartment and have 45 Facebook followers, so who the hell am I? She gives no fucks what I think, and rightly so. 

Now, don't get it twisted -- if you offered a trade of INCOME, I'd be on that shit like white on rice. (Not that she knows what rice is, but you get the idea.) But body-wise? I'm glad I'm me, is the point. Flat ass and all. I'm not a hater -- this was a self-esteem epiphany. So there.

A fun post to balance the feels...

When I did the burlesque class a couple weeks ago, apart from being just inherently rigid and prim, I also couldn't really get into any of the music. I'd never heard any of the songs before, and the instructor kept looking at me like, "Bitch, what music do you need to relax your stupid, uptight hips?"

THIS. I needed this. Bring me back that chair -- I'll make it my bitch. I could burlesque the shit out of this: 

"Run your fingers through my hair,
I want you to touch me there,
But I will not open up my thighs
When you've got bourbon in your eyes,
You're the one that makes me smile,
And I know you'd make it worth my while,
But she's waiting for you and I think she cries,
When you've got bourbon in your eyes."

Or, hey, if we're going for something more (incredibly) obvious, can I get a little Aguilera up in here?

"You've been a bad bad boy
I'm gonna take my time, so enjoy
There's no need to feel no shame
Relax and sip upon my champagne
'Cause I wanna give you a little taste
Of the sugar below my waist, you nasty boy..."

COME ON.

New plan for the evening: My own burlesque playlist and workout. I have Sex Kitten capacities, dammit. I am a WANTON, SULTRY STRUMPET! HMPH! (Just...you know, don't look at me or anything. Because then I just get awkward. And not in a cute, Deschnanelly way -- it's got a li'l Gollum on it, frankly.)

The Asshole Files, Entry (...ew...) 1.

OK, so remember yesterday's "asshole" warning? Let's start easing into some of that...

I know this is partly my fault for letting so many "little things" go and stifling my feelings and then exploding (go Irish!), but I wish people who claim to know me understood how far they had to push me and how much they had to hurt me for me to NOT talk to them.

I WILL talk, eventually, because I'm generally too lazy and forgetful to hold a proper grudge -- I have better uses for brain space. But for the moment, something you've done has shut me down, and I Basic Bitch "just can't" with you. You broke me; I need to "breathe and reboot," to think things through before I blow up on you. And that's always the time people are in my ass, setting up tent cities and trying to talk like we're just cool now.

No. You should've talked before. Right now, fuck you. You're picking a scab, making the wound worse, and giving me, like, emotional MRSA. I just need a minute.

(Or, OK, in extreme cases I've needed...10 months and [not-that-I'm-]counting, but A. That person should've known better, and nudity/trust were in play, and B. Right now it's just my family I'm having issues with.)

"Pop. Six. Squish. Uh uh. Cicero. Lipschitz."

Normally with people I like/love/respect, I'm very, "I'm not gonna diss you on the Internet, 'cause my mama taught me better than that." It's part of why I don't talk much about my ex, because he's still one of my best friends and I don't need to air those issues publicly. My close friends and my therapist have heard it, and that's enough. (Plus, if I ever said anything here that got back to him and hurt him, I'd jump out a window. [I know. Hence the therapist.])

But OTHER than him, we're all OK with me being kind of an asshole on my own site on occasion, right? We know I'm a little insane but generally a nice human, except when I get pushed too far? Because tempers are gettin' a little Jersey up in here at Smug HQ -- people are stepping to my backyard swagger. So, um...fair warning, sometimes I'm an asshole, but generally only in writing. (And in my defense, it really does take a lot. I mean...they had it comin'...)

(I love that I'm clarifying as if any of you gives a dick if I'm not Gandhi.)

Facebook is mocking me.

For whatever reason, this GORGEOUS non-Melissa-McCarthy dress came up in the results earlier when I was looking for the Melissa McCarthy clothes at Nordstrom, and now Facebook is mocking me with it via a "sponsored post."  

I can TOTALLY wear that to Christmas dinner, right? My family wears sweatpants to weddings, so this is perfect, no?

See also: Fuck you, Facebook, I don't have $150.

Rebel Wilson's "relevant and dope" new fashion line

Via Cosmopolitan: Rebel Wilson's New Fashion Line Is Here — and It's Amazing

I actually don't get the appeal of Rebel Wilson as an actor. I don't think she's as funny as everyone else seems to think she is.

BUT.

This line really is cute. I felt bad that I didn't like a lot of the stuff Melissa McCarthy made, and it was SO cost-prohibitive. (You know you're fucked when something's at Nordstrom.) But Torrid? I might be able to hang with Torrid. And OMG, the model is the CUTEST.

Full disclosure: Depending on the week, I am one or two sizes away from "plus size," and don't believe it should be a thing. Clothes should just come in sizes. But I love seeing more options being made available, especially cute, affordable ones with adorable models.

Year of Yes, Yes, 1,000 Times, YES!

So this came in today's mail. 

No big deal, I just get advance reader copies now.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My first book review is coming soon! (Ahem, as am I, probably, because I'm pretty goddamn excited.) 

  

Fighting crime in dainty underthings and fuck-me boots

I wore knee-high boots and no pants (a dress) today, which means I've spent much of my day thus far pretending to be Wonder Woman.

Unloading some family issues

One of the platitudes I resent most is, "You'll miss your family when they're gone."

I have no doubt I will, and hey, thanks for making me feel like a dick, but the fact that I'll miss them eventually doesn't change the fact that right now, they're being assholes. Not everyone is the Cleavers, people -- some people have issues.

I've been in therapy for months and we've barely gotten into my family. Yes, it's likely that's where all my shit comes from*, but two things:

1. I am a grown-ass person and don't want to blame Mommy and Daddy for my ineptitude or unlovability (I KNOW, I'm just being petulant today).

2. My issues are so textbook I feel like it'd be almost insulting to the therapist. Not even textbook, it's fucking "Cat's in the Cradle." I'd explain what's wrong and the therapist would be like, "Really? You want to pay me to fix this? Go listen to some pop music and Google some shit -- you're smart, you'll figure it out." (My therapist gives me an inordinate amount of credit -- she's super impressed when I take out the garbage and thinks my navel-gazing introversion is a good thing -- she calls it "self-awareness," I call it "narcissism.")

* I have a friend who's like me in being a complete stubborn ass about therapy, like we KNOW we need it, but UGH. Because I can't speak for him, but "my problems aren't real problems, I should just learn to deal." So when I told him my therapist was a LMFT -- licensed marriage and family therapist -- and worried if that was really what I needed. And my FELLOW STUBBORN ASS says, "I don't know... you have a LOT of issues with your family." So... I guess I can take that to the bank. Or to the therapist. FUCK. I have to talk about real shit and not just "stepping out of my comfort zone" by attending a burlesque class. Tell you what -- I'll do burlesque FOR A LIVING if I don't have to talk about my family. (<-- That sentence right there? Part of my patented Prostitute Starter Set. Thankfully I'm too old to be a profitable prostitute. I CAN, however, troll the dudes on OurTime.com and give them a helluva Girlfriend Experience.)

...I've lost control of this post so I'm going to go get more coffee.