Category Archives: functions I shouldn’t be allowed to attend

I assure you, that was not my nipple.

So this week I did a keynote address at the Texas Conference for Women.  The other keynote speakers were all uber-professional and awesome, and one was a nobel peace laureate, and they all said very important, inspirational things.  And then I got on the stage and panicked and decided to do a reading from my book about the time I got my arm stuck up a cow’s vagina.  In my defense though, I’m me, so it wasn’t like they didn’t know they were getting into, and surprisingly few people actually walked out.  I suspect the few who did walk out probably just had cow vagina phobia (I feel ya, sisters) but then later I realized it might have been for another reason altogether.  Very sweet friends sent me photos of myself on stage and some of them made me look almost professional:

Pretend I was saying something profound here and not just explaining how easy it is to get your arm broken in a cow vagina.

Then my friend Laura sent me pictures from the back.  After the fifth one I had noticed they all had one similarity:

Do you see it?

You might not notice from the picture, but after looking at a series of them all I can see is what appears to be my right nipple escaping from my shirt.

No shit. It's in EVERY shot.

And I know it’s not my nipple because I’m about to turn 40 and my nipples weren’t that perky even when I was 20.  In fact, I’d almost be proud if that was an accidental nip-slip, because who wouldn’t be impressed with nipples that are so perky they seem to be reading the book along with me?  Answer: Professional conference attendees staring at a possible wonky nipple during a 20-minute diatribe about cow vaginas.

Let me assure you, it was not my nipple.  I suspect it was shadow of the circular microphone on the podium, but now I’m worried that thousands of women think I was intentionally showing off my one good nipple.  I would never do that, y’all.  Because I’m a lady.

And now that I’ve straightened that out (or possibly made it much, much worse) I’m going to change the subject to tell you that I just opened a box from my editor and it was filled with my book in Portuguese.  I think.  I’m not good with languages.  But as an early Christmas/Hanukkah present I’m going to give away signed Portuguese copies to a few random commenters.  Why would you even want this?  I have no idea.  But I guarantee that you’ll be the only one with one.

I shoved the cover in my cat's face and screamed, "HEY, CAT! YOU'RE TOTALLY FAMOUS IN BRAZIL," and then she ran and hid under the couch. Some people just can't handle fame.

 

I don’t think it’s even humanly possible to fart in front of Katie Couric.

This week I’ve still been in the last stages of recovery from one of the strongest bouts of depression I’ve ever faced.  Next week I’ll be on the Katie Couric Show.  Life is weird.

I taped it before I fell into the black hole I’ve been crawling out of, which is good because I would’ve looked exhausted and teary, but bad because I’ve actually lost some weight on my too-sick-to-eat-solid-food diet and might actually have fit into my clothes.  Regardless, it was awesome and you should totally watch it, in spite of the fact that my cat (Hunter S. Thomcat) totally steals the show.

I think I’m probably not supposed to give away the details of the show but I can tell you that Katie Couric is adorable and so tiny that I could eat her in one sitting and still want dessert.  Also, they put me in a (very fancy but quite tight) dress and a pair of heels I could barely stand in and when I wobbled out onto the stage I almost fell on Katie and crushed her.  Plus, when I sat down I heard a ripping sound and I knew it was my dress but I had this terrible feeling that Katie thought I’d farted.  Let me assure you, I would never fart in front of Katie Couric.  I have standards, people.

Will you watch?  The tv listing:

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13 – Katie’s 4th episode
As Katie embarks on a new adventure in her own life, she introduces viewers to two women whose personal stories inspired her. First, Katie’s conversation with Brené Brown, a research professor and motivational speaker whose new book, Daring Greatly, poses the question: can daring to make yourself vulnerable change your life, and be the ultimate key to happiness? And then, Jenny Lawson, author of the widely read blog, “The Bloggess,” whose decision to open up about her personal struggles on her widely read blog inspired the “Red Dress” phenomenon.

PS.  I looked like Snooki for the first hour of makeup…

…But in the end it worked out okay…

True story: They had another dress for me in a size 20. I couldn't get it over my left leg. It was an Italian 20. Because people in Italy like insulting fat people. Apparently.

PPS.  You should really buy Daring Greatly, and not just because Brene is one of my best friends.  It’s fabulous.

PPPS.  Need your own traveling red dress?  Check out the Facebook page for some beautiful donations or donate one yourself.  Also, I’m giving out three new traveling red dresses to the first three people who convince me you really need one.  (Just make sure you leave a good email address so I can contact you.)

PPPPS.  Thank you.  None of this would have been possible without thousands of amazing people who have donated, worn and passed on these red dresses.  I’m so incredibly lucky to be a part of this community.

It’s like a hoodie. But with fangs.

Last week my friend Suebob pointed me toward an enormous taxidermied wolf on Etsy THAT YOU CAN WEAR.

The girl who made it is actually INSIDE of it. And possibly about to get shot.

It was made of awesome, and I was able to verify that the wolf died of old age/kidney failure so I could buy it with a clear conscience and PETA couldn’t throw blood at me when I wore it at formal events.  I told Victor that I would name him “Wolf Blitzer” and that I would use him as a sleeping bag on cold airplanes (and also to menace anyone who took my arm-rest.)  Victor pointed out that airport security gets uptight about snow globes and nail-clippers so they probably wouldn’t let me bring a wolf on a plane as carry-on, but I was already formulating a plan to make Wolf Blitzer my service-animal-companion since I have chronic panic attacks, and airplanes have to recognize disabilities.  Like the disability of not being able to be relax on a cold plane without some xanax and a dead wolf snuggie named Wolf Blitzer.  Victor started to argue with me but then he gave up because Wolf Blitzer was very expensive and he knew I couldn’t justify paying that much for a blanket with claws.  And he was right.  Which is why I immediately went on Kickstarter to submit an application for a fundraiser to help me pay for a dead wolf to wear on plane rides.  I labeled it under “Performance Art” and promised to repay patrons by sharing photos of me wearing it to the Twilight opening.

**********

Kickstarter responded almost immediately:  “Thank you for taking the time to share your idea. Unfortunately, this isn’t the right fit for Kickstarter.”  Because apparently Kickstarter doesn’t appreciate helping people with disabilities.

**********

I was about to give up when I found out that the person I’d originally chosen to read my audiobook (James Earl Jones) was not responding to my emails and so instead I would have to read my own damn book, and I told my agent that I’d do it but only if I could be paid in dead wolf snuggies.  Then there was an awkward pause and I explained that I’d wear it while recording my book, and that way Wolf Blitzer would be a tax deduction, and she said she needed to go.  Probably because talking about tax law is super-boring.

**********

When I explained to Zhon (the girl who made Wolf Blitzer) that I needed him quickly (because I was Team Jacob and needed him for opening weekend) she didn’t even pause to question me.  Because she’s awesome.  And also because she once made a life-size Tauntaun to wear, so she’s really not in any position to judge me.

**********

me: I just bought Wolf Blitzer so that I can wear him to see Twilight-part-whatever, but you can’t yell at me because he didn’t cost anything.

Victor:  How the hell did that happen?

me:  I bartered for him in trade for narrating my own audiobook.

Victor:  AND THIS IS WHY YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO MAKE FINANCIAL DECISIONS WITHOUT ME.

me:  No way.  That was a great financial decision.  I feel all in touch with my 1/64th Native American heritage.  I just bartered a story for a dead wolf head-dress.  I’m like Pocahontas, but with an audiobook.

Victor:  My head hurts.

**********

Wolf Blitzer arrived.  And he was MAGNIFICENT.  But Victor refused to take me and my dead wolf to the movies because apparently he’s Team Edward.  Luckily, my friends Maile and Laura were willing to come along for the ride.  Laura dressed up as a member of the Volturi because we thought it would be funny to have some sort of West Side Story dance-fight at the theater.  Maile hadn’t actually read the Twilight books and so I tried to convince her to wear my Bigfoot costume, and I told her that Bigfoot totally played a huge part in this movie.  And then at the end I’d be like “I can’t believe they cut the Bigfoot part out!  He was so integral to the book!” but Maile has known me for far too long to trust me and so instead she dressed up as a very cynical friend who doesn’t understand how fun it is to wear a Bigfoot costume to the movies.

**********

We laughed.  We cried.  Maile saw some very conservative looking friends and casually  introduced Laura and I without explaining at all why we were dressed as werewolves and Draculas.  I took a picture with a very brave stranger who asked what my deal was.  I told her I was here to see the Muppet Movie.  She looked confused.

My work there was done.

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 You want pictures, don’t you?  Fine.  Here they are.  Because Wolf Blitzer and I love you.  Much more than Kickstarter does.  Apparently.

Buying my ticket. And yes, it was a little embarrassing. A women in her 30's going to see Twilight, I mean. Not wearing Wolf Blitzer. Wolf Blitzer is awesome.

"Holy crap, is that a Volturi? Don'tcomeoverhereDon'tcomeoverhereDon't - Oh shit."

It's fine. She's tweeting. Just keep your head down and she probably won't even notice.

 

Fuck. She noticed. Awk-ward.

Eventually they let us into the theater and we drank copiously.  Laura and I rooted for our respective teams and Maile photographed the debacle.  It’s sort of amazing that we weren’t kicked out of the theater.

Twilight movies are like the girl version of watching the Superbowl. In that they can only be enjoyed when really drunk.

And it was awesome, except for the part when all the werewolves started talking to each other WITH THEIR MINDS and then it got really stupid and I leaned over to Laura and Maile and whispered, “Okay.  Right now, for the first time all night?  I’m kind of embarrassed to be wearing a giant wolf suit.”  And they nodded sympathetically, because that’s what good friends do.

The magic of the theater. And friends. And Wolf Blitzer.

I think I just became a professional scientist. A dangerously unqualified one.

Yesterday I got an email from Scientific American magazine asking if I would be interested in submitting some ideas for science experiments for children.  And I was all, OF COURSE I WOULD.  After all, this is the same prestigious magazine that Einstein once contributed to.

My actual response:

Have you considered experiments regarding the proper combination of liquids?  Specifically, teaching children how to mix mojitos properly.

Technically, it’s basic chemistry (with a touch of biology if you grow the mint yourself) which ends in awesomeness. Plus, the parents would have to test the final product, so you have automatic parental involvement.  Personally, I would be very interested in becoming involved in that experiment.  Or anything involving Zombie Apocalypse preparations.  Maybe something with battle-axes.

Also, have you heard about these nuclear wolves?  Because they sound scary as shit.  Personally, I think we need to be concerned.  We may have over-planned for zombies, and under-planned for nuclear wolves.

Hugs,

Jenny

PS.  My spellcheck says “mojito” isn’t even a real word. I think this points out exactly why this sort of education is critical in America.

 

To be honest, I wasn’t actually expecting a response, but I got one:

If you really want to create an experiment on the proper combination of liquids (mojitos or otherwise), can you provide some more details like the objective of the experiment, the controls and variables that you think should be present, etc.? If our edit team features it as part of the next round of BSH experiments, we’ll credit you and link to your Twitter/blog. Suggestions from your blog readers and social followers are also welcomed.

And I completely agree about making serious moves to prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse. I don’t want to scare you, but zombie fungus ants might be the real thing we need to be worried about… At least for now.

Thanks again for the response. We look forward to discussing this and other end of the world conspiracies with you further.

Which?  Kind of a bad-ass response from a magazine that’s been around since the the 1850′s. Unfortunately, all I know about science is that if you flush a lit M-80 down the toilet it will fuck. up. your plumbing.  Really, I can’t stress that enough.  Also, you should not use roman candles to “burn away” the evidence.  It totally does not work at all and just makes things worse.  Plus, did you know that shower curtains are highly flammable?  Because I didn’t.

PS.  I have no clue how to write a proper scientific proposal and most of you are way smarter than me, so if any of you have any suggestions please feel free to leave them in the comments and I’ll have the Scientific American team come and check them out.  And then we all get knighted as Professional Scientists and then we can wear white lab coats with impunity and pretend to be very important doctors who can’t be bothered to pay their bar tabs because I HAVE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY TO ATTEND TO AND THIS COAT HAS NO POCKETS FOR MY WALLET.  I’m pretty sure that’s how science works.

I’m also getting a lot of spam insults from foreign robots. Which is sad, because this is probably going to put a lot of local trolls out of business.

Actual comment I just got:

“Your site looks very interesting to me. I found it doing a search for butt hairy woman.”

For the love of God, let that be spam.

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And now, this week’s Shit-I-did-when-I-wasn’t-here:

(Illustration courtesy of the lovely @MissMortis)

What you missed on Ill-Advised:

What you missed on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

What you missed on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a complete douche-canoe):

What you missed in my shop (tentatively named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on Shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

Of conferences and anxiety disorders

Sorry I’ve been MIA.  I was in New Orleans at the Mom 2.0 Summit where I spoke about the time I got crabs of the hand from a Japanese sex dungeon.  (FYI…when I got back to America I found out that it was just a rash from petting some rabbits but I never actually clarified that in my talk and afterward no one would shake my hand.  This is a helpful life-hack for germophobes.)

I only go to one or two conferences a year because it’s too hard with my anxiety disorder but I can usually push through it and come home with a lot of ridiculous, fun stories to write about.  This time, however, my anxiety moved to full-scale paralyzing panic and I spent more than half of my time in my room.  It was fine because the conference was wonderful and I still got to meets lots of amazing people and spend time with old friends but by the second day of spending 75% of my day locked alone in my room I started to feel like a gigantic failure and I may have cried the ugly cry just a bit.  Then my friend Karen called to say “You’ve been missing for days.  I’m coming to get you” but when she got there I was all “No, I’m fine.  I think I just really need to cry and sleep and I need someone to tell me it’s going to be okay” and then our other friend Maile called Karen and was all “I’m feeling overwhelmed and I just need to cry for no reason at all and for someone to tell me to calm down” and then Karen looked at me and wondered what she did to attract all the crazies to her and she was all “Okay.  We’re all three going to my room to have some wine and do a ridiculous photo-shoot with wigs and fake cigarettes and masks.”

And that’s exactly what we did.

And it was perfect.

But here’s the thing…  I’m a huge fan of conferences.  They are amazing and wonderful and everyone should go to one at least once, but I think what I finally learned this time around is that it’s okay to give yourself permission to stay in your room, or to not go to all the parties, or to skip the conference altogether and just have dinner with an old friend.  What I learned is that (for some of us) the best way to enjoy a conference is to not actually go to the conference.  And that’s okay.  And a few hours later when Karen and Maile got ready for the late night conference party  I decided to skip it and slip back to my hotel and order room service again.  But for once, I didn’t feel hopeless and I didn’t feel like a failure.

I felt lucky.

PS. I still adore conferences and I will probably always go to Mom 2.0 and Blogher but I think what I learned is that it’s okay to look at a conference as a buffet and you don’t have to eat everything on it.  It’s okay to go a party and a few panels and then to give yourself permission to spend the rest of the time relaxing in bed or exploring the city.  It’s okay to be alone.  It’s just as fun to spend a night in with one friend as it is to be at a fancy party with hundreds.  It’s okay to be a conference junkie and go to them all.  It’s okay to never go to one.  Either way?  It’s going to be okay. And that was all I needed to know.

There might be some sort of voodoo curse on me.

I’m three weeks behind on this but I actually do have a very good reason which does not involve drinking or taxidermied alligators, for once.  Victor got a really horrific infection in his broken arm and was in the hospital for so long that I forgot where I lived.  Then Hailey and I both came down with strep and when they finally let Victor come home they put him on an antibiotic that costs $2,300.  After insurance. Then all the corpses from the Indian burial ground beneath our house started floating up in our pool and I considered moving to Canada and investing in my own bone saw.  (FYI…only that very last sentence is an exaggeration.  We don’t have a pool.)

But after all of that crap I realized that I probably need to have a bit more in savings in case this happens again so I’m going to stop turning down graphic ad offers on my blog and start offering them in between actual posts (labeled as ads right up front, of course).  I promise they won’t be awful.  And I’m not using an ad network so if you see an ad it’ll be from companies/bloggers/artists who actually contacted me directly and are bad-asses who are cool with advertising on a blog which no sane company would ever be advertising on.

PS.  If you want one they start at $250.  Email me advertising@thebloggess.com if you want details.

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Let’s begin the weekly wrap-up, shall we?:

What you missed on Ill-Advised:

What you missed on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

What you missed on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a complete douche-canoe):

What you missed in my shop (tentatively named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

What you missed on the internets:

This week on Shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

The week’s wrap-up sponsored by my real-life friend, Stephanie Smirnov, who just started a truly fabulous blog about finding horsemeat in your refrigerator (among other things). I once found a sack of sheep intestines in my refrigerator. There’s a lot of that going around. Also, I just want to point out that Stephanie is in charge of a PR company that isn’t afraid to invite me to molest the hot, gay guy from Project Runway. She’s not paying me to mention that but I’m going to anyway because that kind of bad-ass PR-ness should be rewarded.

Dear internet: You have lost your damn mind. Never change.

If this is your first time here you should skip this post.  Really.  Go away until tomorrow.  It’s one long run-on sentence and makes almost no sense and it’s filled with typos.  I haven’t slept in two days.

The last 36 hours has been strange even by my personal standards.  First of all, after two years of turmoil and struggle I was finally recognized for my contribution in the field of politics when I was presented with a Shorty Award.  It was a big night for me and I may have screamed a bit, which was fine because I was actually watching it from home because I was too freaked out to go to New York alone and I think Victor broke his arm on purpose so that I wouldn’t walk up on stage in my panda suit to accept the award from that guy who does the Daily Show.  Also, I was told to submit my acceptance speech in case I win and I specifically asked them to have Jerry Stiller read it and accept the award for me, but when he came out on the stage at the beginning he looked so frail that I wanted to just put him in an egg container to keep him safe, and I silently prayed that they wouldn’t actually let him read my acceptance speech because I gave him stage directions that when he screams “WOLVERIIIIIIIIIIINES!” he should do it with victorious fist-pumping action, (ala Red Dawn) and I’m fairly sure it would have shattered all the bones in his body.  No one wants to be responsible for killing Jerry Stiller.

For those of you wondering what the fuck I’m talking about and why I even wanted a political award when I don’t actually have anything to do with politics, I will give you a short summary.  Part 1: 15 months ago I was somehow shortlisted in a political category for the Shorty Awards (it’s like the Oscars of Twitter) and I spent a lot of time telling The Shorty Award people that I’m not actually in government but it didn’t work because people kept voting for me ironically so I decided to run with it and took on NASA and the Mayor of New York.  Also, my personal hero (Author, Neil Gaiman) decided he’d run for the Customer Service category because the “author” category just seemed too fucking obvious, and also I think we were drawn to the idea of showing why voter-driven awards are fundamentally flawed.

Part 2.  I was a top finalist until the last day of voting when I was unceremoniously stripped of all of my votes because NASA paid them off.  I assume.  The Shorty People said it was because I’m not really a Government official.  They also stripped Neil of his Customer Service votes.  It was totally shitty but the city of Martindale Texas came to the rescue and named me as their official Czar.  I report to the stray cat that lives at city hall.  None of this is made up and I have pictures to prove it.

Part 3. I sent a strongly-worded email to the Shorty Awards demanding my votes be reinstated as I was now a Government official.  They told me I need a full year of service before it counts.  I think maybe the shorty awards don’t know how the Government works.

Part 4. The Shorty Awards hate ponies.

Part 5. The Mayor of Martindale traveled to Houston to present me with my crown, scepter, and a government proclamation (signed by the cat).  Then I was attacked on stage by a stray baby.

Part 6: In my duties as an official Czar of Texas I have judged and accidentally desecrated a beauty pageant (but forgot to write about it) and personally welcomed Neil Gaiman to Texas.  I planned to give him the key to the city but the only key I had on me was my mailbox key and I was expecting a package that week.

Part 7 (one year from ordinal update):  This is part seven.  It’s been a year of service and after many dedicated followers (thank you!) voted to reverse this travesty I found myself short-listed, and the finalist list went to the Academy to make the final vote.  It’s an Academy that includes MC Hammer.  This is all true.  Apparently MC Hammer is a fan of chaos and anarchy because I won.  They flashed my acceptance speech (recognizing Martindale, TX and the cat I report to) onto the screen and it was done.  It would have been more exciting except one of the other winners was a sandwich.  True story.  Winners include me, Conan O’Brien, and a sandwich.  I’m not sure what they’re going to do with my glass trophy since I wasn’t there to accept it but if they don’t want to mail it me I’m going to ask them to give it to a homeless person because homeless people deserve trophies too.

Then yesterday I asked everyone on twitter to paypal me 11 cents in the next 24 hours because I needed $1,000 to buy something incredibly stupid.  And they did.  Hundreds and hundreds of 11 cent paypal donation flooded in and I emailed out 450 thank you notes until my wrists seized up and I had to quit.  As of this moment people have sent in $402 in mostly 11 cent increments.  Which is completely insane.  And awesome.

Hard to argue with that one.

Sadly, this morning I was informed that the taxidermied pig (who died of natural causes) dressed as Scarlett O’Hara that I desperately wanted to buy was not properly preserved and is no longer a good investment because it’s “totally stinky”.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed but I shall persevere.  And instead of saving up for my the next stupidest thing on my list (Hannah the drunken squirrel pianist ~ “Cognac is her drink of choice, while silly little love songs are her song of choice. She drinks until the songs become sad, then stops“) I’ve decided to take this money and give back to the community in the most ridiculous way I can think of.

Remember a few weeks ago when Wil Wheaton sent me a picture of himself collating papers so I could use it to stop spam?  Exactly.  That was awesome.  And that’s why I’m going to offer Nathan Fillion $402 to send me a picture of himself holding twine.  Sexily, if possible.

PS. If Nathan does not respond then I’m going to use the money to buy a bunch of pigmy goats for my neighbor because then I won’t have to be responsible for the goats but I can still play with them.  Best idea ever.

PPS.  The very best part of the whole Shorty Award ceremony:  Amanda Palmer plays tweets of random celebs…fucking awesome.

UPDATED: It’s been several days and Nathan Fillion not tweeted anything remotely regarding twine.  He did, however, tweet a picture of a fake dead cat covered in ketchup and another one of him stand next to food.  In other words, Nathan Fillion has lost his damn mind.  Personally, I’m concerned and I think perhaps we need to leave him alone.   The good news though is that I told Alyssa Milano that I seem to have inadvertantly terrified Nathan Fillion and asked if she could stand in for him and she replied “I’m confused”, which is totally a fair response.  Then I explained a bit further and she said she would totally be happy to send us a picture the very next time she did something incredibly random.  I suggested a picture of her thumbwrestling Sarah Silverman or or possibly having a staring contest with an animal but it’s really up to her.  Personally, it doesn’t even matter if she never sends anything.  The very fact that she responded at all makes her fucking classy in my book.  This would have a funnier ending if I didn’t only have 9 minutes before my laptop battery gives out.  Just pretend I wrote something hysterically right here.

UPDATED: SXSW…sort of.

The SXSW festival is an hour from my house but I never go to it because crowds scare the shit out of me and also because it’s super expensive and I don’t have enough xanax and/or facial hair to fit in there, but last week I got invited to some kind of SXSW civility luncheon thingie and I had to go because 1) it was being thrown by some of my best friends and 2) someone invited me to a GODDAM CIVILITY LUNCHEON, y’all.  How could I not go?

I usually write down shit as it happens and quickly write a post that day so I don’t forget what my notes meant but then Victor decided to shatter his arm and I got distracted and now I just have a bizarre bunch of notes that are confusing even to me.  And now I’m going to share them with you.  Because then you’ll know what it’s like in my head and it will make you feel better about yourself by comparison.

Bizarre notes I wrote to myself while getting mildly sloshed at a brunch designed to teach me about “civility & mobile etiquette”:

  • Awesome idea for an invention:  Tin cup (worn on a piece of twine around your neck).  You could use it for olive pits, used-toothpicks and for panhandling.  A tin cup on twine is the new waterproof pocket.  That would be our slogan.
  • I could probably save a lot of time if I just made a t-shirt that says, “I’m sorry for disappointing you”.
  • I’m at civility party designed to teach me about not using Twitter in public. I’m the only person tweeting right now. Awesome. *I’m* the asshole at the bar. Except this isn’t even a bar. My god I suck at this.
  • I just spent 10 minutes convincing Helen Jane that James Franco’s severed arm probably tastes like buffalo.  Made a really convincing argument of it and I’m fairly sure she was impressed.  Then some new chick came over and asked what we were talking about and I was all “James Franco’s arm tastes of buffalo”, but I wasn’t sober enough to remember my reasoning so I just left it at that and the new chick looked vaguely frightened and wandered off.  This is why context is important.
  • This is a civility luncheon about the rudeness of using mobile phones in public and it has a hashtag assigned to it.  #deeplyconfused
  • Overheard: “Do you ever have to please your man while texting?”  And suddenly this shit just got interesting.
  • Overheard:  “Ringworm is going to happen, but if your baby gets pinworms you just walk away.  Start fresh with a new baby, I say.”  (Disclaimer:  Does it count as “overheard” if you’re overhearing yourself say it to other people?  How about if you’re only saying it to see how eavesdroppers will react?  I say yes to both.)
  • Overheard:  “This would make a great heroin spoon.  Right?  Do they sell these here?  Someone find me a waiter.”  (Again, see disclaimer above.)
  • me at our table:  “Ooh!  Pistachios!”
  • me, seconds later:  “Oh. Those are not pistachios.  Those are olive pits.  No one eat those.”
  • me, two drinks later:  “Ooh!  Pistachios!”
  • *repeat*

Seriously. They *totally* looked like pistachios.

  • Things I learned: SXSW is pretty cool if you don’t actually get anywhere near SXSW.    Pistachios aren’t supposed to be damp.  I shouldn’t even be allowed to have a phone and/or leave my house.

UPDATED: By popular demand, “Sorry for disappointing you” shirts for socially akward bloggers are now available in men’s, women’s and toddler’s sizes.  I’m buying two.

And this is *exactly* why I don’t trust PR people.

Okay, so last week I got an email asking if I was interested in interviewing Katherine Heigl and I ignored it because I’m irresponsible.  I also ignored the email I got on the same day asking if I wanted to interview the guy who plays Sportacus on Lazy Town (true story).  The Lazy Town person gave up after the first email but the PR chick from the Katherine Heigl interview sent me another email telling me that Katherine Heigl specifically asked for me to be on the call.  Then I realized it was one of those “interviews” where a lot of bloggers get on at once to ask questions and I never do those but I thought it would be rude to not send Katherine a question if she specifically asked me for one.  So I emailed the PR chick back:

Hi Adrienne,

I did get your email but I’m not actually free on the 24th.  I’m flattered though that Katherine reads my blog and I do actually have one question to ask.  I’m sure she’s swamped but perhaps you could pass this along and she could just email me back with her answer?  Here is my question:

Hi Katherine!  Can you please settle an argument that my husband and I are having?  In your last movie you call the baby that you have to adopt “Sofie”.   I say it’s probably short for “Sofa” but my husband says that’s ridiculous because it would be irrelevant to shorten “Sofa” to “Sofie” since they both take exactly the same amount of time to say.  I retorted that maybe her full name is “Sofa-Cushion” and he said that was ludicrous because “real people don’t have hyphens in their first names” because apparently he’s never heard of T-Pain or Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy.  He thinks “Sofie” more likely short for “Softball”.  Can you please settle this for us?

Hugs,  Jenny

Then Adrienne informed me that they would do the call another day and tried to get me to put up a widget or giveaway something.  I don’t know.  I wasn’t really paying attention at that point because I was drunk.  My response to Adrienne:

I might be able to do the 27th but I don’t do giveaways  or widgets on my blog so I’d probably just write about the call and put a link to the movie at most.  Will I be able to ask my question though or is this one of those calls where you just end up listening and never speaking?  Because I think this sofa-softball issue is one that movie-goers are wondering about.

Also, I have a follow-up question for Katherine about leaving my daughter to her in case of my untimely death because I plan on bestowing joint guardianship to Katherine and Oprah.  Can you let me know if Katherine and Oprah have any bad blood between them, because if so we need to work that shit before I put anything in writing.  Also, Flo from the Progressive commercials will be named as an adopted Aunt because I think she’ll be good at keeping things light-hearted whenever Oprah started taking herself too seriously.  And for my daughters adopted uncle I’m choosing Sea-biscuit, because who doesn’t want a pony for an uncle?  Fuck.  *I* want a pony for an uncle.  My husband isn’t totally on board with this yet.  Probably because of the hyphen in Sea-Biscuits name.  I’m not sure what his problem is.

I never got a clear answer from Adrienne but I went ahead and called in an hour ago to listen to the call AND THEY NEVER EVEN ASKED MY QUESTIONS.  Like, not even one, y’all.  Because apparently no one cares if my orphaned child is raised in a hostile environment.  Or maybe because Katherine Heigl wants to use the name “Sofa-Cushion” for her next child and didn’t want everyone else stealing it.

Conclusion: Katherine Heigl is a little bit selfish and Sportacus needs to find more aggressive PR people.

PS.  I’m totally renaming all of my cats “Sofa-cushion” out of sheer spite.

PPS.  Katherine Heigl is really very nice and now that I’m thinking about it I’m sure she probably did not intentionally kabosh my questions because that would be fucking insane. More likely Adrienne decided to steal my questions and submit them to Katherine as her own so that Katherine and Oprah would adopt her child.  And this is exactly why I never trust PR people.