Too much inspiration
I just checked email. Sitting in my inbox, just waiting to suck, is an email with the subject heading Adage of the Day. I could just hit delete but of course I'm going to read it, as I always do, so that I can spend the next half hour complaining to whoever happens to be close by about how stupid this particular day's adage is and how much I revile getting these every week.
This has been going on for three years.
Back in 2001 I worked with a very sweet woman who was a big fan of the power of positive thinking. Whenever I seemed down she would try to pep me up with an inspirational story or sometimes even take me to lunch with her "life coach." (What she didn't know is that I was usually just hungover and the only inspiration I needed was some Advil and a nap.)
One day she bounded up to my desk to announce that she had just the thing for me. A friend of hers who was part of her prayer group and also a client of her life coach had started sending out regular emails to his friends with inspirational parables and adages, and she had taken the liberty of adding my email address to his list. She noted that she'd made sure to give him my permanent email address in addition to my work account, so that there wouldn't be any interruptions. Ever.
For three years I have been trying to figure out how to get off this thing. The first Adage email I received was a personal note from the list's owner, telling me how wonderful it was to have a new person join the gang and how much it meant to him to be able to share happiness and good cheer with positive-thinking people like me. I thought about just replying with "Unsubscribe" but instead found myself writing a few sentences about how much I looked forward to receiving his emails.
So, every few days for the past 1,095 days, I have received little tales that dispense wisdom through the madcap adventures of bunny rabbits, little children, angels, and various indigenous peoples like the Navajo and some tribe in Africa with a lot of vowels in its name (I swear they made that one up). One was told entirely through animated gifs. Many are clearly one person's thinly disguised attempt to come to terms with some major issues, like the one where the Ribby the Tree Frog learns that it's always better for alcoholics to get professional treatment for their disease immediately, otherwise they will end up in a mutually destructive codependent cycle of mental and physical violence and their spouse will end up resentful and bitter.
A couple of my friends who I also worked with at that time are familiar with the story, so I always forward each adage on to them with some comment like "Look how much this one sucks!!! A puppy angel???" or "AAAAAH! I'm still on this thing! I can't unsubscribe!!!!" So, in a sense, they are subscribed to their own Adage of the Day/Why the Adage of the Day Sucks list that they also cannot escape.
I'm starting to think that I will just always be on this list. I'd have to send the owner, a guy named M., a personal email to have him remove my address, and there's just no polite way to put it. I've started many times but have never found the right words.
"M. - hey, you know what, these things are just TOO inspirational for me!" No. Doesn't work. How about: "AUTO-REPLY: The person who you are trying to email is deceased. Please never email this account again." Hmm, that could backfire. He'd probably organize a memorial or something. "M. - that last story about the mouse who was in love with the sparrow was a bit too risqué for me, I'm going to have to unsubscribe now." No...
Anyone have any ideas about how I can gracefully get off this thing? I just don't think my inbox can handle any more inspiration.
Foiled by the spam filter, once again
To understand why my blog wasn't updated for 14 days is to understand my life. It wasn't because I didn't have time, had nothing to say, or didn't have internet access. No, it was because I screwed up my server so that I couldn't log in to Movable Type, then couldn't get in touch with my sys admin because I used profanity in the subject line of my email to him. Those of you who know me will find this situation completely unsurprising.
My admin's spam filter judged from the language in the subject line of my email that this message could not possibly be discussing anything other than a porn site or possibly one of those aggressive penis enlargement ads, and it dutifully kept such vile content from soiling his Inbox. And, thus, my rants about The Swan and The Bachelor, my etiquette faux pas at a friend's wedding, my trip to my mother-in-law's house, and my first experience hanging out with really, really drunk people while pregnant all went unblogged. All because, not only could I not describe a simple technical issue without cursing, but I couldn't even wait until the body of the email to do it.
I've often thought that this is why it is very unlikely that I'd ever be able to hold public office or be any sort of pillar of the community. My tendency to express myself with all the eloquence of a drunk pirate is quite off-putting to people of class, so pretty much anything I say, like my email to my sys admin, tends to get caught in the great spam filter of life. For example, when discussing politics at a social gathering I might have some keen insights into the fiscal policy of a certain candidate, but it comes out as, "That thieving ***** needs to look at where the money from that ***** ******* tax is really going. You might be surprised to hear that only 12-*******-percent is actually going to the ***** schools." At this point my audience has missed my message entirely; they're still reeling from my creation of a new compound word that combines a little-known body part and a verb.
I'm hoping that having a kid will inspire me to clean up my language. If not, the results could be disastrous. I don't think it would go over too well with my husband if our child told him what he could do with that bar of soap in graphic detail when it was bath time. Of course I would try to say the kid picked up the language from "Sesame Street: The Director's Cut" or something like that, but I don't think he'd buy it.
Another $1,200 bottle of nail polish
I stopped by the mall to get some self-tanner to cover up my glowing white legs today and somehow ended up walking out with a new bottle of MAC nail polish. I cannot believe I did that. The last time I bought a bottle of MAC polish it ended up costing me $1,200. Unfortunately I know a girl who works at the MAC counter and, despite my best efforts to avoid eye contact with her, I ended up running into her and therefore feeling obliged to buy one of her products. (Yet another bold, self-assured move from Jen.)
Never do this. Never, ever, buy MAC nail polish for any reason. Not only is the quality of the polish itself mediocre, but the bottles are IMPOSSIBLE TO OPEN once you've used them once. It's like Excalibur. Unless you are the gifted one, touched by the the fashionable makeup gods, you are not going to be able to wrench the lid off of the damn thing.
One day a couple of years ago I had the final showdown with my bottle of polish in a bright red hue called Vixen. I was running late to meet friends when I realized the polish on my toenails was badly chipped. I grabbed the bottle to do a quick touch-up but, as usual, it would not open. Usually I could pry it loose by running it under hot water or using an industrial wrench, but this time it wouldn't budge.
It was time to teach it a lesson.
I decided that pounding it on my desk was the best course of action. It might not get it open, but at least it would think twice about not opening on me next time. Upon impact with the desk it did, indeed, open. The bottle shattered and splattered all over everything. Everything. The bright red mixture of paint and shards of glass got on objects I didn't even know I had in my room. The desk, the walls, my bed, the carpet, my nice new khaki pants, and, somehow, even the underside of my chair were all covered in red spots and spatters.
In addition to replacing all the miscellaneous objects marred by Vixen, I ended up having to replace the carpet for the entire upstairs area of my condo for the cool sum of $1,200.
So, there are a few lessons that you can take away from my experience: 1) NEVER buy Mac nail polish. It is insanely annoying that you pay $20 for a little bottle and then can't even use the damn thing. 2) If you do happen to have a bottle of Mac and can't get it open, smash it. It will make you feel so much better. It may cost you $1,200, but that's a small price to pay for teaching a surly inanimate object a lesson.
Was it something I said?
Last month the British magazine The Face bought and published two of my Buttafly articles. One was an insightful treatise on Friendster in which I reference obese bisexuals and "keepin' it gangsta." The other is an analysis of Friendster profiles in which I accuse users of being pirates, unemployed, or hirsute based on their photos.
This month The Face was shut down after 24 years of publication.
Coincidence?
The most embarrassing moment from my wedding
I’ve finally had a chance to sit down and look through all the hundreds of photos from my October wedding. Seeing the images of everyone having such a wonderful time brought back great memories. I spent time happily gazing at each shot to relive the moment, with one notable exception. One picture captured a scene that I had completely forgotten about. My merciful subconscious must have blocked it out. It’s a photo of my cousin Jason and I standing awkwardly next to each other on the dance floor with his mother, my aunt, looking on and pointing excitedly at us…
Continue reading "The most embarrassing moment from my wedding"