The Big Guy's Big Day: A Tribute

He once ate a bowl of soup that was hot enough to leave third-degree burns on a normal man, but insisted it was freezing cold.

He can beat up your dad, even if your dad is Chuck Norris. He's very, very confident about this.

    

When his daughter asked for a pony, he bought her two ponies. And by ponies he meant dangly unicorn earrings.

When he eats at a restaurant, he never brings his reading glasses. In fact, the menu needs reading glasses to understand him.

His stories about winning fights/hockey games/battles of the wits/golf tournaments are so good, he has to tell them multiple times for you to really comprehend his greatness. 

When he plays Barbies with his granddaughters, he always wins.

He doesn't always drink chocolate milkshakes, but when he does, he INSISTS they be made with vanilla ice cream.

He's...The Most Interesting Dad in the World.

Happy Birthday, Big Guy!

From Your Biggest Fan Club

What DOVE Wrappers Should Really Say: Submit Your Ideas!

This afternoon, I opened a miniature DOVE bar (which I may or may not have yanked from a department that isn't my own) and discovered, printed on the wrapper, a piece of advice so mind-blowing it completely transformed my life. Here's what it said:

Do What You Love.

You can imagine how upsetting this was to me. I mean, here I've been this whole time, doing things I don't even like that much, let alone love!!  When I think of the years I've wasted - being at work when I could have been petting puppies, or getting my teeth cleaned instead of sticking Q-tips in my ears, or doing anything other than getting massages, eating tea sandwiches and buying pretty dresses - it makes me feel disgusted, angry, and downright horrified.

Where were you all those times I was scooping cat poop, DOVE?!?

Anyway, I shared these troubling thoughts with a dear friend of mine, who had the brilliant idea of writing our own messages for chocolate wrappers. Except ours would be less trite and more honest. For example:

"I saw you steal this chocolate from Accounting, and I'm reporting you to HR."
"If you eat less chocolate, maybe people will stop asking you if you're pregnant."
"9 followers does not a successful blogger make."   

Dear reader, I need your help compiling a list of such slogans to send to DOVE corporate headquarters for their consideration. Please SUBMIT YOUR SUGGESTIONS, IMMEDIATELY AND PROFUSELY, in the comments section.

Thanks. And remember, I love you.

Good Art, For Example This Poem by 22-Year Old Desiree Dallagiacomo

Much like ladies, poems are meant to be heard, not seen. Or heard and seen, rather. And as a poetry writer and performer with aspirations of combining the two, I was looking for inspiration when I discovered Indie Feed's Performance Poetry podcast. And that is how I discovered Desiree Dallagiacomo's poem "One Side of an Ongoing Dialogue with Sharon, My Therapist." I wanted to share it with you, because much like sushi, good art is meant to be shared, not hoarded.   

You can listen and download it for free here.

Did you? Did it move you? She's 22 years old, and she writes with the wisdom of a world-weary woman, speaking of pain as only someone who's lived so long with pain that it no longer feels like an enemy can. Not in a self-indulgent, self-pitying way, but with defiance and conviction. Owning her story, her words, her pain. Masterfully tempering white hot anger with unexpected moments of honest vulnerability. Embracing every aspect of her experience, without apologizing or justifying, as I often find myself doing whenever I try to explain my pain. Desiree's poem is a remonstration to that urge, a reminder that poetry ought not strive to explain.

What is a poem's purpose then? To enlighten, provoke, empower, unburden, let go?

For the poet, it is freedom from the claustrophobic realm of the torturing ego-driven mind, and a refusal to be quiet and fall in line, to put suffering aside like it could never be anything more than an inconvenience. An unburdening of the soul, a reaching out.

For the listener, it is an awakening of the soul. A summons to engage with our hearts as well as our minds. It elucidates truths, which distance and technology and rational thinking have rendered powerless, by infusing the facts with the warm, visceral breath of humanity.

Poetry keeps us connected. You dig? 

Signs of Maturity (I'm being petulant)

Today, I experienced rejection. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. You'll say it means I'm doing something right. You'll say they're morons for not choosing me. You'll tell me something better is waiting for me. And you're right. But I still feel stung. And I'd much rather add this experience to my prized collection of excuses not to keep trying than summon the courage and motivation to believe you.

I'd also rather write something scathing and sarcastic on the social media sites of the people who were selected instead of me, and a lengthy and strongly worded letter to the one who rejected me, outlining in vivid detail precisely how moronic, how misguided, how tragic that decision was.

Luckily, I'm a mature adult. Meaning I've embarrassed myself enough times to know that what I perceive as righteous indignation is actually just hurt feelings. And I should probably calm down, nurse my pride, and try again tomorrow. But not before I publish this passive-aggressive post.

Vanity Charity

Do you ever feel like the secret to happiness is enough money for a new haircut, a new wardrobe, a personal trainer, and a tan?

If so, I'm accepting donations.

Hopeless Romance, continued

I'm not planning on getting married. Because it sounds like a trick. But if I were to get married, I would really like our first dance to be to this:

Love in the Time of Emo

I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness is the name of a band. They haven't released any new music since their first and only full length album in 2006, but they will forever be known as the group that inspired the thing I say to my cats when I lock them out of my room, or shove them off of my lap because I just want to watch American Horror Story without getting cat hair all over my sweatshirt.

I love you, but I've chosen darkness.

Is there any expression more magnificently emo, more self-indulgent and melodramatic, more utterly satisfying in its embittered absurdity?

As if love requires sunlight. As if sullen apathy and self-centered preoccupation weren't the very foundations of love itself. As if Romeo and Juliet were just a couple of short-sighted teenagers too young to understand the difference between true love and obsessive hormone-driven infatuation.

What is love if not the hood pulled over our faces, the dark-as-night trunk of a stolen car being driven by the kidnappers of our hearts? If not the door that separates you from the human you adore with all of your tiny kitty brain.

Love is darkness. Just ask my cats.  EMO <3 4EVR