by Jenny Lawson
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If I were a dominatrix I would force my submissive to do my washing up and clean the fridge and brush the cats and whenever he tried to say the safety word (“banana”) to make me stop because it wasn’t what he wanted I would chuckle softly and say, “No, Gary. That’s definitely not the safety word,” and I would tighten the leash and hand him a mop and I’d say, “So your wife won’t do this for you? That’s so sad. Now finish the floors and go pick up my dry-cleaning.” It would be ten years later and I’d still have someone to pick me up at the airport and do all the shit I didn’t want to do and then on his deathbed I’d say, “Hey, Gary? I was just kidding. The secret word really was ‘banana,’” and then we’d laugh and laugh.
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Whenever Victor and I are fighting, I like to pull out my phone and take a selfie of us together because that way when he tells me to calm down I can prove that I’m less mad than he is because “How could you think I’ve lost my temper? Look at me in this picture. I look adorable. You look like the one with a temper problem.” It’s also nice because when I’m taking the picture he either has to smile or he has to choose to look shitty. Either way, I win. Plus, I have a terrible picture of him I can threaten to tweet out if he doesn’t agree that I’m probably right about everything.
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I wonder if when birds are new they ever try to land on clouds? And if so is it like when you think you’ve gone down the last stair but there’s still another one and you step off and make that weird “oof” noise and everyone looks at you? That would suck. But at least birds are hidden when they fuck up and fall through clouds.
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I find it very confusing that people refer to good days as “the salad days.” No one wants salad. Is it because rich people always serve salad even though it usually gets thrown away? Does it mean that if you’re rich enough to serve food just to be thrown away then you’ve “made it”? Because that makes sense.
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Bruce Springsteen said you can’t start a fire without a spark, but you can start it with a magnifying glass. It ruins the rhyme scheme but at the cost of science. And arson. But maybe it’s still a spark even if it starts with a magnifying glass? Maybe the first flame is always a spark? But that’s like saying you can’t start a fire without a fire. That’s just sloppy songwriting. Bruce Springsteen is obviously not the boss of scientific accuracy.
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Do they call a crib a “crèche” because it sounds like “crotch” and babies come from crotches? If so, that seems very lazy, but it’s nice that they put an accent in it because it adds a desperately needed touch of elegance.
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Kids don’t use paper book covers anymore. Why is that? They’re missing out on the best part of school, which is doodling genitals and curse words and hiding them in flowery vines. There used to be advertisements on ours. Mostly for the cotton gin and the funeral home, which was weird because we were children and had no money or inclination for either. I never understood paying for burial when you could just let pigs eat your body. I mean, we were surrounded by pig farms and those pigs need to eat, so two birds/one stone. We’d just turn the covers backward (after we’d drawn an inappropriately erect man in a coffin) and use the fresh blank covers to practice future tattoo designs.
We also had leather notebooks at our school, which I’m told is not something everyone had. They were leather, zippered notebooks with your name hand-tooled on them by the local saddle maker. You used it to carry your homework and everyone had one but they were really expensive. I finally got one as a combo birthday/Christmas present when I was in eighth grade and was so excited. Basically, I got school supplies as a present and I was fucking ecstatic. These were simpler times. The salad days. Possibly.
My point is, kids get super excited about the stupidest things and then the stupidest things become incredibly popular. That’s why I now try to avoid popular things like school supplies, and instead I just lean toward unpopular things like being eaten by pigs. Conceptually, I mean. I’ve been around a lot of pigs and none of them have ever tried to eat me. The pig farmer next door told me that’s because pigs are picky and won’t eat people who are still alive. This seems odd because I think wanting to eat a corpse is sort of the opposite of being a picky eater, but I’ll defer to the experts on this one.
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Whenever Hailey tells me kids at school were mean to her I want to go find those kids and tell them that I’m them from the future and that they’ve failed miserably. And then I’d be like, “And look how fat you got.”
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Yesterday I was at the gas station and I saw a woman whose kid is in Hailey’s Girl Scout troop, but I was in my pajamas so I was hiding in the back until she left. There was a collection of cards and I perused them to look normal but the one I’d picked up was a can of beans with googly eyes and I thought that was weird, but turns out it’s one of those cards that sings and moves when you open it. So I’m standing there, holding a googly-eyed can of beans as it shakes and loudly farts the birthday song to me in a gas station. It was like I was competing for an award for being the most conspicuously uncool person ever. I waved weakly at the woman and said, “That wasn’t me,” but she wasn’t buying it. I should have slapped the card to the ground and yelled, “Witchcraft!” but you always think about these things too late.
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My blood test came back as low in magnesium and selenium, but instead of prescribing a vitamin my doctor prescribed “two brazil nuts a day.” I always thought that in the future food was supposed to be in pill form. Now I’m taking pills in food form. We’re going backward here. Also, it sort of sucks that the one nut I’m prescribed is the worst nut. The one everyone throws away. I need to start a fund-raiser where everyone in the world just sends me the two nuts always left at the bottom of the can.
I told Victor that I’d gotten my test results and “they’ve prescribed me nuts.” Victor says I’m confusing “prescribed” with “diagnosed.”
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Benedict Cumberbatch is like Alan Rickman Benjamin Buttoning.
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I don’t understand why people keep pushing that “Don’t be some random person. BE UNIQUE” message. You’re already incredibly unique. Everyone is incredibly unique. That’s why the police use fingerprints to identify people. So you’re incredibly unique … but in the exact same way that everyone else is. (Which, admittedly, doesn’t really sing and is never going to make it on a motivational T-shirt.) So none of us are unique in being unique because being unique is pretty much the least unique thing you can be, because it comes naturally to everyone. So perhaps instead of “BE UNIQUE” we should be saying, “Be as visibly fucked up as you want to be because being unique is already taken.” By everyone, ironically enough.
Or maybe we should change the message to “Don’t just be some random person. Be the MOST random person.”
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The amount of money I would pay for people to stop fucking up grammar is only slightly lower than the amount I’d give to ensure I never have grammatical errors in the statements I make calling others out on their grammatical errors.
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If you put a bunch of chameleons on top of a bunch of chameleons on top of a bowl of Skittles what would happen? Is that science? Because if so, I finally get why people want to do science.
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I should start the Museum of Missing Stuff. It’d be filled with empty glass cases of stuff that’s not there. Also, a giant room of stray socks and keys. And my sense of rationalism. And Victor’s sense of whimsy. And his patience. That place would be crammed. We might have to expand.
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People who think it’s so hard to find a needle in a haystack are probably not quilters. Needles find you. Just walk on the haystack for a second. You’ll find the needle. They’re worse than floor-Legos. And if that doesn’t work just burn some fucking hay. They should change “like finding a needle
in a haystack” to “like finding a pen that works in that drawer filled with pens that don’t work.”
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People wonder how Victor and I have stayed married for so long even though he’s Republican and I’m super liberal. I think it all comes down to communication and compromise. Like last week when Victor said, “If you renew your PETA membership I will run over a squirrel.” He’s bluffing though. Unless he was in someone else’s car.
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I’m allergic to latex and it makes me break out in a rash so most condoms are out for me because the last thing any of us wants is a vagina rash. The alternative is the ones made of sheepskin, but it always creeps me out because does that mean Victor and I are having sex with a sheep? A dead sheep, actually. So it’s bestiality and necrophilia. And a three-way, I think. I actually mentioned that to Victor and he immediately booked a vasectomy, which is sweet because it’s nice that he cares about me. He claimed it was less his caring and more “I’d rather have my nuts cut off than have to listen to you talk about having three-ways with dead sheep.” But now I have all these leftover condoms. They make great water balloons though and I bet they’d be really good for championship bubblegum-blowing competitions. Really chewy sheep bubblegum. That might be cheating. I don’t know the rules about bubblegum contests.
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My grandmother used to say, “Those are not the kind of underwear you want to get hit by a bus in,” but I don’t think the underwear has been invented that would make me want to get hit by a bus. Plus, when you’re hit by a bus I think your underwear is probably the last thing on your mind. In fact, when you die your bowels release and you shit yourself, so even if you were wearing clean underwear they would not be clean by the time your grandmother got there. That’s why I think they should make underwear with defensive sayings on them like “I swear these were totally clean this morning.” It’s the equivalent of those old-fashioned day-of-the-week underwear without having to remember what day it is. I can barely manage to get dressed in the morning, much less pass a pop quiz given by my underwear on what day it is. And besides, why am I taking advice on underwear from my grandmother when “granny panties” are the most universally reviled underthings in existence? When we were kids our great-aunt Olly used to give my sister and me a roll of dimes and a pack of granny panties every Christmas. They were so enormous that we’d pull them up to our necks and pretend they were strapless leotards while we mimicked the dancers on Fame. Just in the privacy of our own house though. That would be mortifying in public. And actually if someone saw me wearing granny panties that went up to my armpits while trying to do the robot I’d probably throw myself in front of a bus. Full circle.
“The victim was wearing a strapless leotard when she shit herself. A roll of dimes was found on the body. Her grandmother has been contacted to inform her how badly she failed.”
I Have a Sleep Disorder and It’s Probably Going to Kill Me or Someone Else
If you were to ask me, “How did you sleep?” I’d usually say, “Pretty well, all things considered.” But today it’s a bit more complicated because this morning I lost both of my arms.
On the bright side, it gave me something to write about, although it was of course impossible to write about at the time because I didn’t have any working arms.
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(Editor’s note: Start over. Sound less ludicrous.)
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Fine.
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This morning I got up at six a.m. to get Hailey off to school but then I went back to bed for a bit because I’d been up until three a.m. having a dead raccoon rodeo in the kitchen.
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(Editor’s note: You know what? Never mind.)
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The dead raccoon’s name was Rory. I fell in love with him the instant I saw him because he looked exactly like Rambo, the rescued, orphaned raccoon who lived in my bathtub when I was little. Rory hadn’t been lucky enough to be adopted by a small child who’d dress him up in small shorts sets and let him turn her sink into his own tiny waterfall.
Instead, Rory had fallen in with a bad crowd and ended up as roadkill, but my friend Jeremy (a burgeoning taxidermist) saw great potential (and very few tire marks) on the cadaver and decided that Rory’s tiny spirit should live on in the most disturbingly joyous way possible.
(Courtesy of Jeremy Johnson)
Rory the Dead Raccoon stood up on his hind legs, his arms stretched out in glee. He looked like he was the most excited member of your surprise party, or like a Time Lord in the process of regenerating.
His bafflingly enormous smile caused people to giggle (usually nervously and somewhat involuntarily) whenever I presented him. Or sometimes they’d scream and back away. I guess it depends on if you’re expecting an unnaturally cheerful dead raccoon to pop out at you.
Victor didn’t entirely understand my love for Rory, but he couldn’t disagree that Rory was probably the best raccoon corpse that anyone had ever loved. Rory’s tiny arms perpetually reached out as if to say, “OHMYGOD, YOU ARE MY FAVORITE. PERSON. EVER. PLEASE LET ME CHEW YOUR FACE OFF WITH MY LOVE.” Whenever I’d accomplished a particularly impossible goal (like remembering to refill my ADD meds even though I have ADD and was out of ADD meds) Rory was always there, eternally offering supportive high fives because he understood the value of celebrating the small victories. Victor might have refused to congratulate me on the fact that I hadn’t fallen down a well that week, but that dead raccoon always had my back and very few people can say that.
“Very few people would want to say that,” Victor corrected.
“It’s just nice to have unconditional encouragement and praise,” I explained to him. “Some people get all stingy with their high fives, but Rory never leaves me hanging.” In fact, it was physically impossible for Rory to leave me hanging and I momentarily considered having Victor one day taxidermied in the same happy, congratulatory pose, but then I realized that no one would recognize him and he’d probably just look sarcastic, like he was only offering me high fives when I slipped on things that weren’t there, or when the electricity was cut off because I forgot to pay it again.
Victor thinks taxidermy is a waste of money, claiming that “there are only so many things you can do with a dead raccoon.” But I have proven him wrong time and time again. Victor pointed out that what he’d actually said was “There are only so many things you should do with a dead raccoon,” and honestly that does sound more like something he’d say, but I still disagree.
When Victor was making Skype calls for work, I’d silently crawl up behind him and have Rory slowly and menacingly rise up over Victor’s shoulder until the person on the call froze because they noticed a mentally unbalanced raccoon was leaning in like a furry, eavesdropping serial killer. Then Victor would realize Rory was behind him and he’d sigh that sigh he does so well and remind himself to lock his office door. If anything, though, Victor should have thanked me, because the perfect test to see if your friends and coworkers really have your back is if they’re willing to say, “Hey, there’s a raccoon creeping on you.” It’s like the “Is-my-fly-down?” test, but times one thousand, because almost anyone can relate enough to clear their throat and raise an eyebrow at your junk until you realize you forgot to zip, but it takes a really concerned badass to interrupt a conference call and say, “WATCH OUT FOR THAT MOTHERFUCKING RACCOON, DUDE.” To their credit, most of Victor’s callers would mention something and I’d point out that they’d passed the test and then Rory would be like, “JAZZ HANDS!” Then Victor would lock us both out and I’d stick Rory’s paw under his office door and say in a small raccoony voice, “I’m trying to help you. Let me help you.”
When the mailman dropped off packages I’d open the door a few inches and have Rory peek outside. “Well, hellllooo!” Rory would say in a snooty British accent. “I hope you don’t need a signature because I seem to have misplaced my opposable thumbs.” Eventually the mailman just stopped ringing the bell and w
ould leave the packages on the porch, which was nice because it cut down on awkward small talk.
Sometimes I’d hide him under the covers (Rory, not the mailman) so that when Victor turned down the bed there was Rory on his pillow, as if to say, “SURPRISE, MOTHERFUCKER! THERE’S A DEAD RACCOON IN YOUR BED AND HE WANTS SOME SNUGGLIN’.” Then Victor would glare at me and make me switch pillows with him.
Victor can’t understand Rory’s frenzied kind of love, but I think he’s starting to accept that this is my love language. Other women might show their adoration with baked goods or hand-knitted slippers, but mine is channeled through animal corpses. Victor tries to interpret it as best he can but he is a guy who keeps his emotions close to his vest when it comes to dead animals in bed, so honestly it’s hard to know what that man is really thinking. He’s an enigma, that one.
Last night I realized that Rory was perfectly suited to ride on the cats (as if they were small furry horses and he was a rodeo star) but apparently the cats didn’t realize how awesome it would be and so they were incredibly uncooperative. I tried to create a photomontage of Rory the Rodeo Raccoon but they weren’t having it. (I suspect if my cats had Instagram they’d be all over this, but they don’t so they couldn’t be bothered.) I’d perch Rory on their backs and they’d stand still for a second but by the time I’d backed up and gotten them in focus they’d turn around like, “What are you doing? Why is there a raccoon on my back? Why do they even let you be in charge of things?” and then they’d just flop over on their sides like a bunch of ingrates who didn’t understand art. Rory would gently tumble onto the floor, which I suspect sent the cats mixed messages because he was still waving his hands in the air like he just didn’t care, as if he were celebrating the cats being assholes, and I was like, “You’re killin’ me, Smalls,” but then he just celebrated the fact that I was frustrated. Honestly, it is impossible to stay mad at that raccoon.