Let's Pretend This Never Happened: A Mostly True Memoir

by Jenny Lawson

  “Probably,” I agreed. “Although, now that I think about it, maybe Mom wished for our lives to end up just like this. It’s no magical unicorn, but it brought us here, and I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be. Unless it was the exact same place with an air conditioner.”

  Lisa nodded. “I’d fist-bump to that, but it’s too hot to move. So what do you wish for Hailey when you blow out your candles?”

  “Can’t tell you or it won’t come true. But I suppose it’s the same sort of wishes all parents wish for their kids. I wish for her to have love, and just enough heartbreak to appreciate it. I wish for her to have a life as blessed as mine. With her own dead magical-squirrel puppet, and getting arms stuck up a cow’s vagina, and to know the pride that comes with choosing to be mauled by a dog to save someone else. I guess those would be the things I’d wish for Hailey.”

  Lisa looked at me quizzically. “Yeah, I don’t think anybody wishes for their kids to get mauled and stuck in a cow vagina.”

  “I just mean metaphorically,” I added.

  Lisa nodded and closed her eyes as she rested her head on the porch chair. “Well, that’s good,” she said absently as she stretched her legs out to bask in the sun. “Because in real life that’s the sort of shit that haunts you forever. Those are the kinds of memories that get seared into your mind for good.”

  I looked over at her and mimicked her pose, feeling the sun bake into my bones as I let her words run through my mind. I smiled gently to myself as I closed my eyes and thought, “My God. I certainly hope so.”

  Epilogue

  Fifteen years of marriage and one beautiful daughter later, Victor and I are still as mismatched as ever. We fight. We make up. We occasionally threaten to put cobras in the mailbox for the other person to find. And that’s okay. Because after fifteen years, I know that when I call Victor from the emergency room to tell him that I was attacked by dogs when visiting my parents, he’ll take a deep breath and remind himself that this is our life.

  I watch Victor almost in wonderment at the man he’s become, now completely unfazed when my father asks him to pull over so he can peel a dead skunk off the road because he “might know someone who could use it.” I see Hailey slip easily between the world of ballet classes and helping her grandfather build a moonshine still.

  I see how we’ve changed to create a “normal” that no sane person would ever consider “normal,” but that works for us. A new normal. I see us becoming comfortable with our own brand of dysfunctional functionality, our own unique way of measuring successes.

  But most important, I see me . . . or rather, the me I’ve become. Because I can finally see that all the terrible parts of my life, the embarrassing parts, the incidents I wanted to pretend never happened, and the things that make me “weird” and “different,” were actually the most important parts of my life. They were the parts that made me me. And this was the very reason I decided to tell this story . . . to celebrate the strange, to give thanks for the bizarre, and to one day help my daughter understand that the reason her mother appeared mostly naked on Fox News (that’s in book two, sorry) is probably the same reason her grandfather occasionally brings his pet donkey into bars: Because you are defined not by life’s imperfect moments, but by your reaction to them. Because there is joy in embracing—rather than running screaming from—the utter absurdity of life. And because it’s illegal to leave an unattended donkey in your car, even if you do live in Texas.

  And when I see another couple, who seem normal and conventional and who aren’t having a loud, recurring argument in the park about whether Jesus was a zombie, I don’t feel envious. I feel contentment and pride as Victor and I pause our shouting to share a smug, knowing smile with each other as we pass the baffled couple, who move to give us room on the sidewalk. Then I lean in to rest my head on Victor’s shoulder as he laughs quietly and lovingly whispers to me, “Fucking amateurs.”

  The End

  (Sort of)

  Hi.

  You’re still here, which means that you are probably the kind of person who forces your angrily impatient spouse to sit through the credits of the movie on the off chance that there might be some sort of bonus scene at the end, even though they’re the kind of person who jumps up three minutes before the movie even ends so that they can be the first person out of the parking lot, because apparently that’s more important than finding out that “Rosebud” is the name of the sled, or that Dude, Where’s My Car? is (spoiler alert) a terrible, terrible movie. Or perhaps you’re still reading because you think that this can’t possibly be the end of the book, because there’s no way it was worth forty-five dollars,* and you’re hoping that if you keep reading you’ll find something here that actually makes the price of the book worthwhile. Well, congratulations, tenacious and demanding malcontents, because there totally is.

  If you’re anything like me, there is probably at least one well-known fact that you insist is basic common knowledge, but your disbelieving family scoffs at you whenever you bring it up. And so you Google it to prove them wrong, but somehow in the time that it took you to argue that “actually, yes, some squirrels can breathe underwater,” they’ve managed to somehow rewrite the entire Internet so that it looks as if water squirrels never even existed. And then, after that, whenever you disagree with them about anything at all they automatically dismiss you with a patronizing chuckle, saying to one another, “Yeah. This coming from the same person who thought squirrels could breathe underwater,” and then they shake their heads with pity and refuse to even consider your theory about why Jesus is technically a zombie. That totally sucks. But you’re in luck, because the last page of this book will fix all of that.

  Just get a pen and write in whatever fact you want to prove in the space provided, and then casually show it to your detractors in a mature and mildly condescending manner. I suggest something like “So I was just doing some light, squirrel-based reading, and apparently some squirrels can breathe underwater. I can see how you might doubt it, but it must be true BECAUSE IT’S IN A FUCKING BOOK, YOU SKEPTICAL ASSHOLE.”

  You’re welcome. I’m pretty sure that alone is worth forty-five dollars.*

  *My editor just pointed out that this book will not cost forty-five dollars, and I do realize that, but when people read that the book is forty-five dollars after they paid only thirty-five dollars for it they’ll feel really good about what a great deal they got, even though technically they paid full price. This is how marketing works.**

  **My editor just argued that “that’s not how marketing works at all,” that the book wouldn’t cost thirty-five dollars either, and that when people hand this book to their detractors, they’ll probably just look at the cover and realize immediately that this is not a squirrel-based book at all. I explained that she was not looking at the big picture, and that we are going to have to charge thirty-five dollars in order to cover the costs of the removable dustcover identifying this book as Squirrel-Based Facts for the Intellectually Elite. Volume 2: The Elusive Aqua Squirrel. She then claimed that if we did that, the only people who would actually buy this book would be “the three soon-to-be-disappointed squirrel enthusiasts searching for books about squirrels that don’t even exist.” I reminded my publisher that squirrel researchers are an untapped market, and I pointed out that I am pretty damn sure that aqua squirrels do indeed exist because (1) I’ve actually seen one, and (2) their existence is documented in a fucking book. Then she asked which book I was referring to, and I was all, “THIS ONE.” I’m pretty sure this proves my point on all counts.***

  ***My editor says that “there is no way in hell they are going to print a book with a fake dustcover about ‘water squirrels’ just so that you can win an argument with your husband.” So I called my mom (since she was there when I was swimming with my sister in the nearby creek and witnessed an entire family of water squirrels), and she told me that she did remember it, but that she and my father simply hadn’t had the heart to tell an enthusiastic eigh
t-year-old (flush with the giddy excitement of discovering the existence of water squirrels) that she was swimming with a nest of dead squirrels who were floating down the stream after having most likely drowned in the previous day’s flash flood. Awesome. It’s like my whole life was based on a lie. Plus, I’m pretty sure that’s how you get cholera.

  True Facts

  • Milk has no discernible smell . . . at all. . . .

  • “Problemly” is a real word. (Definition: Something that will probably be a problem.) It is unchallengeable in Scrabble.

  • “Flustrated” is not a real word, and regular use of it will result in your genitals’ falling off. Problemly . . .

  • Some squirrels have gills, although this is typically noticed only by the truly observant and highly intelligent.

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  • _______________________________________________________

  *WARNING: In an effort to save the environment, this book was made from the recycled tissues of tuberculosis patients, and should NOT be handled by persons lacking current tuberculosis vaccinations. Also, some of them had the flu. And problemly dysentery.

  This is the actual holiday card we send out each year, and it’s also a special thank-you to you for listening to my story. P.S. This counts as me sending you a Christmas/Hanukkah card. You are welcome.

  Acknowledgments

  A HUGE thank-you goes out to all of my grandparents, assorted awesome family members, friends who’ve loaned me money for booze, and everyone who has ever said a kind word to me, or who has (intentionally or accidentally) not kicked me. I also want to thank everyone who ever read anything of mine and enjoyed it, or at least pretended to for the sake of getting to third base with that girl who tried to convince you that I’m hilarious. Thank you, and I apologize for the chlamydia.

  A very special thank-you goes out to my wonderful and supportive readers, and to the people who helped make this book possible. This includes Neeti Madan, Amy Einhorn, Laura Mayes, Karen Walrond, Maile Wilson, Katherine Center, Brene Brown, Jen Lancaster, Neil Gaiman, Stephanie Wilder-Tayler, Nancy W. Kappes, Donnell Epperson, Laurie Smithwick, the Bir clan, Bonnie and Alan Davis, Wil Wheaton, everyone on Twitter who helped me write this book, Maggie Mason, Tanya Svoboda, Stephen Paroli, Alice and Eden, Evany Thomas, Heather Armstrong, Debbie Gorman, Jeanie M., Mrs. Gilly, the Menger Hotel, Diana Vilibert, the Gruene Mansion, and you. Yes, you. You thought I’d forget you, didn’t you? You have so little faith in me. But it’s fine. I forgive you.

  And my deepest thanks and love go out to Mom and Dad, who taught me everything I know about compassion and bobcats, and to my sister, for laughing both with me and at me. And most especially to my daughter, Hailey, who saves my life every day, and to my husband, Victor, whom I love even more than I want to strangle. Thank you for giving me a life worth writing about.

  Family portrait ~ 2005.

  About the Author

  Author Jenny Lawson relaxes at home. Her husband glares off camera and asks whether that’s his toothbrush. Her husband should probably get his priorities straight. And go get her a margarita. Even if it’s three a.m. Seriously, Victor, go get me a margarita. Also, the people who published this book probably shouldn’t have let the author write her own biography. Poor planning on their part, I’d say.