More wisdom from people funnier than me.

"The whole world could be cured with enough cake and antipsychotics."
-- The Bloggess, Furiously Happy

You are funnier than me and I hate you for it: a love story.

One of the books I read on vacation was So Sad Today by Melissa Broder.

I remain faintly annoyed at how good and funny it is, because I didn't write it.

(This is just from one chapter; the whole book isn't lists of "love stories.")

Semi-approval from a porn fiend's semi

From the Department of Things Normal People Just Know But I Had to Learn by Having My Day Ruined*: Don't read online comments, SPECIFICALLY the ones on porn featuring women of a similar size/shape to you.

"Not bad for a chubby chick," says some 45-year-old serial masturbator in his mother's basement. 

If I ever write a book, I want "Not bad for a chubby chick" to be the review blurb on the cover. Wait, actually...yeah, that'll be the title. 

If I may borrow from a Chris Rock bit: "Yeah, I got a gut -- there's some good pussy under this gut." Can you say the same about your dick, Rando Calrissian?

* Kidding -- my day can't really be ruined by people who comment on porn.

The Berenstain Bears and the Illiterate Cheesemonger

Conundrum: An otherwise fine, fairly attractive man on OkCupid sent me a message, but under the "favorite books" prompt in his profile, he just wrote, "I'm not into books."

Ordinarily, immediate grounds for dismissal: "If you go home with somebody and they don't have books, don't fuck them."

BUT...He works with specialty cheeses.

You GUYS. What if he's a cheeseMONGER?!

To his credit, among other things, his message said, "I'll start reading one now if it will help."

Well played, Cheese Guy.

Also, yes, it would help: War and Peace, please. Make it snappy.

Shut up and take my money

My newly updated Amazon wish list is proof that Jesus loves me and wants me to be happy.

Or, you know, proof that book publishers know an It Girl when they see one. Whichever. 

(I'm trying to score review copies, but they won't send them until right around the release dates. *shaking fist at life*)

 

I don't see how I'm NOT supposed to buy this book.

I'm not supposed to be buying any more books, because there are at least 30 on my "to-read" shelf -- books I have PAID for that are just sitting there, as untouched as my vagina.

But, I mean, I think if my instinct based on a first page is to buy copies for myself AND every woman I know, I should get a pass, no?

Rhetorical question -- I already ordered it. Don't judge me. You're not my mom.
 

Reading too much into Goodreads

I checked out the profile of the OkCupid guy I wrote about earlier, and I'm not interested, so the name thing won't even be an issue. (If I met anyone cool, I'd likely get over a name pretty quickly.)

Weirdness factor, though: In his profile, the OkCupid guy linked to his Goodreads page. I clicked it, and it took me directly to a Goodreads page that asked me to accept a friend request from him. I didn't know that was a thing. I declined the request, but then noticed it also had him "following" my reviews, which I also didn't know was a thing. So I went to find who else follows my reviews -- and it's him and That Guy, plus two other people I don't know. 

Fucking Internet. 

I don't write reviews, so it's not as if there's anything to follow, but I locked down my Goodreads, anyway. 

I'm almost positive That Guy friend-requested me on Goodreads a million years ago, and when I declined, Goodreads automatically did the "follow" without him even realizing; he's likely never noticed because I don't post anything there. So I'm not implying that he's, like, stalking my reading list -- that would be dumb. The sequence of events was just freaky.

The Smug Singleton Projection

See, look at me, understanding a bad workweek is influencing my inclination to say, "Fuck this, I'm going home, and why is this New OkCupid Guy getting all bitchface at me? [He's not, at all, my brain is just breaking.] I'm never dating again. No one's dick is worth me having to get Date Pretty, what with the showering and the shaving things and the being charming -- I have no charm, I hate everyone. I am officially OK dying sexless, peach fuzzy, and alone with my blankets and books."

I KNOW WHEN I'M PROJECTING, SHITDICK ELBOW HECKLER.

Ahem. I feel better now.

My reading list seems fun.

I just remembered my parents gave me an Amazon gift card for Christmas, so I'm sure they'd be thrilled to know I'm using it to buy a copy of The Bell Jar.

Also ordered The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a Fuck, which, oddly, will likely instruct me to spend less time with my parents. ("Keep only the things that spark joy" was the original premise, so...)

Rich Bitchface

Amazon user review on Rich Bitch, by Nicole Lapin: "Having worked in finance for years, I know how dry and masculine conversations about money can be – but this book, on the other hand, is totally refreshing and entertaining. It offers a ton of empowering, insightful, and practical advice and is one of those books you get for every woman on your Christmas list."

Ohhhhh... Go fuck yourself. Hard.

I almost don't want to buy it now, but I do need a For-Dummies-like primer for my finances. But that's not because I'm a woman, it's because I'm a dumbass. Dicknuts.

I know I'm not a dumbass, I just have a hard time with numbers. And I wasn't traumatized by gender inequality in my youth when the boys started dominating math -- my parents are also shit with money, so the ineptitude is genetic.

I'm trying, but it's just SO difficult with all the MANLINESS, you know? All those penises on the forms... How is my tiny lady-brain supposed to understand?

 

What's the Dewey Decimal code for poorly written tales of abuse?

Psst... Hey, audiobook app... That's not romance.

Is there a category for stalky, rapey psychos?
  

In which my squad won't give me goals.

Email to Friend: "The therapist asked me to write about my accomplishments this year, and goals for the upcoming year and beyond. I've been struggling with it because I genuinely can't think of much. (I assume 'Keep breathing' and 'Stay employed' are implied. Maybe 'Don't sleep with anyone dumber than me?')

"But I'm finishing Judy Greer's book, and coincidentally she's talking about how she has an always-evolving list of goals, what's important to her, etc., that she reads and revises as needed.

"And then Kelly Sue DeConnick sent this text yesterday to the Bitches Get Shit Done list, so it's pretty much law now, right? List ahoy, Little Shark!"  

Friend: "I can think of at least three things you should be proud of yourself for, but I'm not telling you because you have to look back and be proud of yourself. You have to look in the mirror and see the good."

Me: "THREE?! Shit. I'm pretty rad. (I think I had two. Will continue considering.)"

Blowjob interns.

And with her first sentence, Gillian Flynn basically dares me not to devour this book in one sitting. (It's a standalone short story, so it's only 62 pages, but still.)  Also, I am terrible at handjobs, because they put the "dick" in "ridiculous." You HAVE hands. I have a mouth. It's WAY better. My hands are like my mouth's slacker interns -- they help my mouth along and fetch it coffee and stuff, but we don't trust them with the really important projects.

Lazy Sunday snort laugh

"Sometimes feeling full of something is exactly what you need: be it wisdom, shit, dicks, or egg rolls."

OK, yeah, I'm in love with Brittany Gibbons. 

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?)

#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)

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.) 

  

Oh, hai.

NBD, just meeting one of my heroes today. (I've met her once before, but hopefully this time I'll be able to use my words.) 

  

Quotable Kaling

"Since I am not model-skinny, but also not super fat and fabulously owning my hugeness, I fall into that nebulous 'normal American woman' size that legions of fashion stylists detest. For the record, I'm a size 8 (this week, anyway). Many stylists hate that size because, I think, to them, it shows that I lack the discipline to be an ascetic or the confident sassy abandon to be a total fatty hedonist. They're like: pick a lane! Just be so enormous that you need to be buried in a piano, and dress accordingly."

-- Mindy Kaling, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns)