Tag Archives: humor

Winter Solstice: Celebrate Another Year of Not Going Postal (Yet)

It’s the day after the winter solstice, which — if you’re anything like me —traditionally represents the height of your winter madness and the rock-bottom of your deeply-dug “I-Hate-People” hole.

But I feel pretty ok. And it’s not because something particularly glittery or exciting has occurred in my life. Life keeps pooping along like it always does. And I’m not feeling joyous or running through the streets of Boston throwing tinsel and anything that can be tinseled. I’m still anti-tinsel. It’s not holiday mania, in other words. But I feel ok, and that is kind of remarkable.

For the last few years, I have faked my way through the holidays like a champ. I was still working on getting myself settled and divorced and yes, probably hoping that by the next Christmas my cup would run over with joy. And now I’m here. My cup runneth over with “just ok.” Or maybe my cup just runneth not with misery. My cup is legitimately fine, thank you.

Enough about my cup.

This perfect little illustration describes how I feel right now (Not mine, but borrowed from Hyperbole and a Half — a wonderful blog that I can’t recommend enough).

hyperboleandahalf

I’m feeling empowered by my state in life. Which is weird because I don’t have a lot of the stuff I’m “supposed” to have locked in. (relationship, mortgage, kids, clear sense of exactly what the rest of my life will look like, an unbroken door handle on my car, etc.) I feel like I either:

A. Accidentally stumbled upon the secret to happiness, which is to fail at life and figure out what you want.; or

B. Hit my head and am in a drug-induced coma, so none of this is actually real.

Either way, I’m just going with it. Next week, life will probably kick my ass just for being so damned cocky.

How are you all? Doing ok? 

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Shitty Holiday Card Messages I’d Like To See

For the folks who find carols and mall shopping overwhelming. For those of us who do not enjoy the smell of peppermint and pine and eggnog. Or for those who sort of enjoy the season, but still enjoy a wry giggle.

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Life Prize! It Could Happen To YOU!

I found this idea in the Notes app on my phone, dated November 5. I only vaguely remember writing it. I was either drunk and in a cab or falling asleep and away from my computer, so clearly I’m not really in the contention for Life Prize.

Life Prize! I spend a certain amount of time eating fruits and veggies and jogging and not drinking. I cancel cable. I apply positive psychology principles.

krispies guysAfter I pass a certain threshold, the Rice Krispies guys come alive and congratulate me. Life Prize!

It’s like Scientology: Secrets will be revealed. I’ll get to meet celebrities who’ve also achieved Life Prize. None of them are super interesting, except maybe Paul McCartney. Turns out he’s a bit of a tool.

Then I do something to fuck up my Life Prize, maybe on purpose. They have to drug me so I don’t remember that there’s a better life out there. I stare at the TV and eat Mac & Cheese with a serving spoon.

And when she was bad, she was HORRID

horrid

When I was about five years old, I had a book of illustrated nursery rhymes. A favorite was The Girl with the Curl :

There once was a girl, who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good, she was very, very good.

And when she was bad — she was horrid.

Imagine that rhyme read by a child in a creepy sing-song whisper. Gives me chills as an adult.

But at five I found that word — Horrid — fascinating for some reason. I think in part because I was unsure how it should rhyme with “forehead” in the rhyme. But also because it had a delicious mouthfeel, a sort of woody British caramel of a word. Horrid. Horrid. Oh, that’s simply horrid. Horrid.

Here’s where my actions become less clear to me.  I made the decision to pick up a black ball-point pen and write the word “Horrid” on my pillow. This was a one-time event. The only thing I have ever written on a pillow was the word horrid. Maybe I wanted to look at the word each day when I went to bed? I don’t know. All I know is that when you scrawl a word on a pillow with a ball-point pen in a child’s handwriting, the result is terrifying, especially if the word is Horrid.

My parents must have been secretly petrified of me.