If at First You Don't Succeed, Skydiving is Not for You.

It’s Sunday, and so far today, I have been muy productive. Are you totally impressed by my bilingual abilities? You should be, because they are dope. The other things I can say in Spanish are “en fuego!” and “el gato!” AND I can combine my three Spanish words/phrases to make the very impressive “el gato es muy en fuego!” which may or may not be grammatically correct but makes for a humorous phrase that hopefully won’t ever have to be used in real life. It would be a funny thing for someone to pop into a room, say, and then leave, all random-like. I would like that. That should be added to every sitcom ever, don’t you think?

So anyway, very productive. I’m having a visitor tomorrow so I did some housecleaning, which included the very classy and not-at-all disgusting tasks of spot-cleaning cat urine out of the hall carpet; scrubbing grime from the tub floor; and scooping the litterbox. I know! The Queen of England has NOTHING on my glamour, NOTHING.

I had two things I wanted to discuss today. I have to get prettified soon and go see a matinee of a show that one of my favorite local actors is in, and it’s at a fancy theater so I probably shouldn’t wear my jeans that are ripped out at the ass and my “Zombies ate my Brain” t-shirt, as much as I love them both.

First: there is a huge problem happening locally that needs to be addressed.

Suicide by skydiving.

Before I start, I just want to say that there is nothing funny about suicide. I am not making fun of suicide. Please let me repeat this in case you decide to get up-in-arms and all “AMY IS MOCKING MENTAL ILLNESS YO SHE HAS NO FEELINGS OR HUMAN EMOTION.” Nope. Not the case. Actually have more empathy toward people with depressive tendencies than a lot of other things in the world. THERE IS NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT SUICIDE.

However, two people in the past three years in my area have killed themselves by jumping out of a plane. ON PURPOSE.

This is very, very distressing.

First, in 2008, this young man pretended to be taking photos for a school project and went up in a small plane with people skydiving. He then LEAPT FROM THE PLANE WITHOUT A CHUTE before the other people in the plane could stop him and landed on a house. And died, obviously.

This was disturbing on a lot of levels and we talked about it at work a LOT. I mean, I get people who want to end it all. I do. Things get overwhelming. But in such a painful, scary, and over-the-top way? That boggles my mind. You can’t have been thinking, as you fell, “This was a very, very good idea!” I can’t imagine you thought that, right? I get pills. Or even cutting. But jumping out of a plane? That takes sincere dedication. Also, can you even IMAGINE being the people who lived in that house. “What was that NOISE on the ROOF, Harold?” “I’ll go check it out OH MY GOD RUTH IT IS A DEAD MAN.”

But you know, I was pretty sure this was a one-time occurrence. How often do you get suicide by sky-diving? And it’s not like I live in a HUGE area. I mean, sure, it’s a big area, but it’s not the sky-diving capital of the world, or anything.

Then, last week?

This happened. 

And this gentleman was an actual skydiver, who had jumped over 9,000 times! Who taught skydiving! And he went up, left a note, jumped, PURPOSELY UNHOOKED HIS PARACHUTE, and then fell to his death.

This is even sadder. I mean, this was a man who wanted, I think, to die doing what he loved. So awful.

I don’t even know what conclusions to draw from this. I can’t imagine wanting to commit suicide in what has to be the scariest way possible, other than getting eaten by bears. This is just incomprehensible to me. I suppose people who have actually skydived might have different opinions on this? Maybe it’s a lovely way to go. Maybe your adrenaline is so high that you wouldn’t feel a thing when you hit, I don’t know. But I’m scared of planes and I’m scared of heights and I’m scared of jumping off of things (including small things, like curbs or steps, because, as mentioned repeatedly, CLUMSY) so I know if I were ever in a skydiving situation? I would not even be able to jump. I would stand there in the doorway until someone shoved me out or they landed the plane. No way I’d jump out of a plane. And definitely not to my death. Eeesh.

Oh, and sidebar, eaten by bears. Remember that guy that WAS eaten by bears? Do most people find that sad or funny? Is it awful I think he totally got what he deserved and the only person I feel any sympathy for is his girlfriend? THAT GUY THOUGHT HE WAS A BEAR. And that the bears were SIMPATICO with him. Dude, you so deserved to be bear chow. No sympathy. Sympathy for your poor, deluded girlfriend you got chomped along with you, but not with you. YOU ARE NOT A BEAR. But you ARE bear FOOD. I didn’t watch the documentary about this because I don’t care to watch crazy people who think they are simpatico with wild animals. Wild animals are WILD ANIMALS. You are insane to think otherwise.

Second thing we have to discuss. Personal space.

So I was playing around on Wikipedia. Sometimes I get caught in a Wikipedia link situation and I get trapped and forget where I came from, like a maze. I honestly don’t know what brought me to this, but I found this the other day:

This is a graphic of the personal space with which the average American is comfortable with various people in their lives. This made me laugh until I almost choked to death.

OK, so first, I have total personal space issues. Yesterday, I went to a concert. It was my first outdoor street concert. I’ve been to outdoor concerts before, but this was a free street concert thing. I’ve always had to pay for outdoor seating before. So I went in expecting it to be insanity. I avoid free things, because usually free things are full of looneys and/or people who are badly behaved and/or people who are entitled because nothing brings out entitlement like giving someone something for free. I’m going to write a scholarly paper about this someday and it will win a prize. Is there a prize for awesome scholarly papers? What if I include many pie charts?

So, outdoor concert. Not as bad as you might think, but my personal space was TOTALLY VIOLATED. There was a guy pretty much humping his girlfriend in front of me (who, apropos of nothing, apparently thought he was Robert Smith from The Cure, what with the hair and the stench of emo desperation and black nail polish and such); there was this weird group of throwback Woodstock hippies in front of me, one of whom was a man smoking a cigar as big as he was and that smelled like burning hair perfume for an hour and fifteen minutes; there was some kid with a soul patch (heaven and saints preserve us from affected facial hair) who decided smoking a GIGANTIC joint in the middle of the street with all of the cops milling around was a good idea (and this just tickled the SHIT out of the Woodstockians – “OMG, do you SMELL that? Boy, THAT sure does take me back. Ha ha ha. Just like the old days!” Shut up, Patchouli Joe, there’s nothing awesome about smoking weed in the middle of a crowded street with adorable children with painted faces and balloon animals running around, it’s just douchey) and there was a guy who thought this was a mosh pit who kept smacking the shit out of my arm as he flailed around aimlessly to every single song. I love the band, I loved the concert, and I actually didn’t have a breakdown (I think I might have had a bit of a contact high, come to think of it), but I did go home and take a hot shower because PERSONAL SPACE ISSUES.

(Oh, also? I don’t have an issue with smoking weed, per se. So again, don’t be judgey. I just think probably there’s a time and place. Also, I think it makes you very, very stupid, giggly, paranoid, and a waste of space, in 99% of cases. I don’t care for drugs that make my amazing brain stop working as quickly and efficiently as it does. And yes, I am speaking from experience, so you know what? Suck it, haters.)

ANYWAY BACK ON TOPIC FOR THE LOVE OF PETE.

This graphic says that the only people we’re comfortable coming in our “intimate distance” bubble are “family, pets, and very close friends.” And that bubble is EIGHTEEN INCHES from us. That is only a FOOT AND A HALF. You know who gets that close to me? My cats. My nephew. And people who want to get punched. That is SO CLOSE. That is all up in my face. No thank you. One time, a person I know who was chemically altered decided he was going to lick my neck and ears because he gets away with that shit with other mutual acquaintances and apparently the chemicals he was on told him it was a good idea to try it with me, too. He’s very old and I almost broke him into a million pieces shoving him away and running to the bathroom to Silkwood scrub myself. GAH WHAT THE HELL.

“Personal distance” is 1.5 to 4 feet and is for friends and acquaintances. Since I’m reserving my intimate distance bubble for cats and nephew, I’m grudgingly allowing people I love into my personal distance bubble. BUT DON’T YOU GET ANY CLOSER.

“Social distance” – 4 to 12 feet; “Public space,” more than 12 feet. I want to create a final category: “Keep the frig away from me space,” 27.5 feet. I think at that distance I won’t have to smell your cologne, deal with your nonsense, have you make weird eye contact, have you touch my arm while we’re talking (what the hell? Get that off me! I don’t know that you washed after you peed! GERMY HANDS OFF JACKASS!) or various other things that I find upsetting and make me want to curl up in a ball and rock.

What? Yes, I’m totally fun in social situations. Why do you ask?

Alright. Time to be pretty. Christina Aguilera says I’m beautiful so IT MUST BE TRUE. I suppose it can’t hurt to brush my hair, though.

Dennis Rodman is to "The Mole" as the honey badger is to LIFE.

Well! It’s International Talk Like a Pirate Day. As much as I’d like to say I could write an entire blog post about this very exciting holiday, I’m pretty sure even I can’t stretch that out into an entire blog post.

Sort of on-topic, but does anyone remember that horrendous pirate reality show from a few years ago that was attempting to capitalize on the Pirates of the Caribbean craze and it was the funniest and most horrible thing ever? It was so bad they didn’t even show the last few episodes and you had to search online to find out who won. Sorry. “Won.” Pirate Master. Yeah, it was the worst. I remember laughing myself to tears over this thing. The best part was, at the end of each episode, the contestant who was voted out was “cut adrift” and put on a raft in the ocean and then the camera would just watch them float off into the mist. I assume we were supposed to draw the conclusion that they died out there. Not everything makes a good reality show, TV execs.

Oh, and also? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE MOLE. That was my favorite show. Well, no, it totally wasn’t, but it was really awesome. First, there was Anderson Cooper, so I got to ogle him. Yes, yes, I know I don’t play for his team, it doesn’t mean I can’t stare longingly. And as an aside, I totally want to be BFFs with Anderson Cooper. I think he would know the best stories and you would have the best time with him. Also I think he would send you the wackiest texts. “Just woke up with a tarantula in my $4,000 alligator loafer while on assignment LOL” or “So don’t have the mental stamina to hang out with Kathy Griffin tonight, call me in an hour & I’ll pretend you’re having an ER and I have to jet? You’re the best, XXOO.”

(And, aside the second, is anyone else a little disturbed by the new Anderson Cooper talk show? I always saw him as classy, and haven’t seen the show or anything, but it sounds like it’s corny and annoying. This worries me. How will I look up to my silver fox if he’s getting mud facials with Kathy Griffin or whatever? Sincerely worrisome. I feel like his mom is tsking him every time it airs. She seems like she’d be totally classy, right?)

Oh, just in case you didn’t watch The Mole (and, based on ratings, the only household watching it was my own), the premise was there were like 12 people, and one of them was the mole, who was working with the producers, and trying to sabotage the others, and if you could guess who the mole was, you won, but if you didn’t, the mole won. It wasn’t rocket science.

The part I liked best about The Mole was that there were all of these clues all through the season pointing the viewer toward whichever player was the mole, but they were so insanely obscure there was no way anyone could ever get them. Like, one year, they went into a storehouse full of burlap bags, and if you looked at the first letter of every word on every bag in the storehouse, it spelled out the name of the mole. Yeah, no one at home’s doing that. That takes a level of commitment no one really has. Also, they didn’t tell us, as home viewers, this clue-dropping was occurring. So in the final episode, when they started showing all of these very random clues, the conversation my roommate and I had went thusly:

Me: Did they even show all of those burlap bags?

Her: Even if they did, it would only have been for a minute. And we didn’t even know we were supposed to be looking for clues.

Me: There’s not enough Anderson Cooper in the world to make me ok with this clue fiasco.

Then, after the Anderson Cooper seasons, they had a couple seasons of Celebrity Mole, which was even MORE awesome, if you can imagine it, because you didn’t have to waste time getting to know people. You already knew who they were! And who they were was the bottom of the barrel of celebrities. Like, the people who would eventually turn up on Celebrity Rehab. The sad chubby Baldwin. Dennis Rodman. Those type of celebrities.

Dennis Rodman’s season was the best because DENNIS RODMAN DID NOT CARE. And, spoiler alert, HE STILL WON THE WHOLE THING. I think he was drunk or high the whole time, and he was hysterical to watch because they’d be doing a task and he’d just half-ass the task. So of course, everyone thought he was the mole, because of the sabotaging. But it wasn’t sabotaging. Much like the honey badger, Dennis Rodman didn’t care. Sometimes he’d sit out the task, sometimes he’d throw things, sometimes he’d wander off and talk to strangers. It was like playing a game with a toddler. AND IT WAS AWESOME.

How he stayed in the game as long as he did was a mystery that I don’t even think Dennis Rodman understood, but eventually, it was down to three people, and Dennis Rodman correctly chose the mole from the other two teammates and won. No one was more surprised by this than Dennis Rodman. But you couldn’t tell, because he’s pretty inscrutable. He just kind of nodded and wandered off to call someone on his cell or something. The host tried to interview him about his “strategy” and went on and on about “how brilliant it was! To make everyone think you were the mole! By sabotaging the games!” and Dennis Rodman asked him what the hell he was talking about. Because he hadn’t been sabotaging anything. He didn’t want to play their stupid reindeer games, so he did something else until they were done.

This made for really watchable television. It wasn’t Dennis Rodman in his wild-man wearing a dress days, or anything, it was just hysterical because the other players were driving themselves insane, taking all these notes, comparing theories, the host was all fired up, and there was Dennis Rodman! Sunbathing on a bench! Watching the birds! Bored with the task, so chatting with a cameraman! I loved to think of the producers playing the blame game in the editing bay. “YOU thought it was a good idea to get Rodman.” “No, YOU said he was good TV, I said he had a drug problem now.” “WE CAN’T AIR THIS RODMAN WON’T PLAY THE SANDCASTLE GAME AND EVERYONE THINKS HE’S THE MOLE.”

I also miss the show Murder in Small Town X. Now, I’m pretty sure no one but me watched this. It was ten years ago, and it was not very good. But it was the funniest mélange of reality show and murder mystery you’ve ever seen. They brought a group of people to a small town in Maine, and they had them do a combination of a dinner theater murder mystery and a reality show. They were all investigators into a serial killing, and at the end of each episode, two of them were chosen to go out to obscure locations in the town and investigate clues. One of them found a good clue that they could bring back to the rest and share; the other was brutally “murdered” by the serial killer, and that part was scary because the murderer popped out from behind something in the dark and I never liked that part.

This was one of those summer reality shows that doesn’t have to be very good because it’s the summer, and they know no one is watching it anyway, so they don’t try very hard. But it actually was kind of entertaining. They took over this village and peopled it with role-playing actors in the serial killing drama and the contestants had to go around town and ask people questions. It was like dinner theater that never ends. So that’s kind of a nightmare. I hate murder mystery dinner theater. I was forced into one of these years ago and will never go to another one. It was on a cruise ship (well, I wasn’t ON a cruise. The ship was docked. You’re foolish if you think I can afford a cruise. If I had the money for a cruise I’d buy something that lasts, like a new computer or a puppy) so you couldn’t escape. And you had to ask the actors things. So I decided I would not, and would just eat and read the book I’d secreted away into my purse. But apparently the actors are trained to deal with people that won’t play along and they get all up in your face. Well, that’s off-putting. What are you bothering me for, actor? Go pester someone who wants to solve your stupid boat mystery. Also, they kept coming over and bothering me when I had a mouthful of food, like waiters always seem to. Well, I can’t ask you where you were at 10pm last night with a mouthful of dinner roll, Lady Covington, so back the frig off, ok?

The sad thing about this show was that the finale aired 9/4/01, and the winner, a NYC firefighter, died a week later in the Twin Towers. I know. Way to be a buzzkill. But he seemed very nice, and he only had a week to celebrate his winnings.

The ratings were insanely low for this show. Like I said, it wasn’t very good. The best actors were the reality contestants, and they weren’t acting, if that explains anything. But it was actually really a fun watch. It was like watching community theater people put on a reality show. I sort of loved it. And of course it was gone after one summer.

For someone who doesn’t really like reality shows I watch more of them than you’d think. I like the game shows, is the thing, like the competition ones? It’s the dating and lifestyle ones that make me tired. Oh, and I’ve never watched any of those Toddlers in Tiaras-type things. Mostly because I’m pretty sure I’d get sucked in. They look terrible and wonderful all at once.

This post has nothing to do with Talk Like a Pirate Day, like, at all, does it. I’m a total disappointment. Sorry. I kind of went off on a tangent and didn’t stop. It’s Monday WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME. Fine. Arr! Scurvy! Walk the plank, matey! Pieces of eight! Avast! Poop deck! (Hee hee!) Redrum! Shit, that’s not a pirate, that’s the kid from The Shining. Sorry. Chester Copperpot! (FINE I know that’s not a real pirate thing but there were pirates IN The Goonies and I love it so much that I had to throw it in so LEAVE ME ALONE.)

Can we have International Watch The Goonies Day? I’d be down with that, please. Who do I talk to about that? Anderson Cooper? Can you help me out with this?

Fall Television: What Not to Watch. I Managed Not to Vomit While Typing this Post. You're Proud, Right?

I'm home sick today. Do most people enjoy their days home sick, I mean, despite the sick part, of course? I just lay around feeling guilty and worried that there are a million things to do at work and I left all of that work for my co-workers and that's just about the rudest thing ever. But then I realize I probably would pass out on the drive over because I just drove to Rite Aid for sick-person supplies and also chocolate because listen, I'm not spending an entire DAY in this place without any CHOCOLATE, are you INSANE? and on the drive over I got woozy and thought, huh, that would be an interesting way to go, less than a mile from your own home, because someone at some point really should have come up with a delivery service that brings sick-person supplies to sick people so they are not forced to go out when they feel like death. Fine, yes, I know most sick people have someone they can call in situations like this, like their husband, or a close friend, and say, hey, husband or close friend, please run over to the drugstore and get me some ibuprofen and a bag of those Halloween mini Reese's Pumpkins because they are the best things ever ever ever. But I not only don't have that, I would not ever ask someone to do that. I think that's overstepping. Everyone I know is at work! What, they're going to drop everything and run errands for me? Who do I think I am, the Queen of England? I don't have handmaidens! On a related note, how does one get handmaidens, exactly? You can send me an email if you don't want it to be public knowledge. I can be discreet about handmaiden-obtaining.

Um. Yeah. I'm kind of rambling. I AM VERY SICK AND ALSO IN PAIN DEAL WITH IT. Earlier I couldn't get out of bed for a really long time and I just lay there and lay there (maybe I laid there, now I have to look that up because it's one of those grammar rules that gets me every time, like the word "grateful" which every time I type I think it should be "greatful" because listen, someone did something GREAT for you! So shouldn't you be GREAT-ful? But you are not, you are grateful, which grates on my nerves. See what I did there? I AM AWESOME WITH WORDS.) OK, Google says earlier when I was in bed I was laying in it. So my first impulse was the correct one. Winner winner ding ding ding. Anyway, I have no idea where this was going. Oh. So I was in the bed, laying or lying or just generally hating life, and that's pretty much it, I guess. I have no idea what the point of that was. That I'm dying, maybe. Probably pretty much dying.

FINE! That is not what I came to talk about today. TODAY I wanted to talk about a very, very important topic: fall television.

OK, fall television is what I live for. It is my Olympics. I make lists, people. LISTS. I pro and con what is coming out; I make viewing plans; I am very, very organized about fall television. I know what I'm going to watch months before it's even happening.

This time around, though, let's discuss things that I will NOT be watching. Shows that seem, to me, to be a gigantic misstep. I'm only singling out the ones that I really, really, will HARDCORE not be watching. There are quite a few I won't be watching, but these I really will VOCALLY not be watching.

Last Man Standing

Description: A comedy about a man who lives in a world dominated by women.

Starring: Tim Allen, Nancy Travis, and some other people I don't know or care about

No, thanks! OK, first? I can't STAND Tim Allen. I see Tim Allen, I am immediately sucked back to when I was young and my household's favorite program was Home Improvement and I HATED Home Improvement but we always had to watch it and everyone would laugh because ha ha! So super-funny! But it WAS NOT FUNNY. It was STUPID. This looks stupid, too, even though I will always kind of love Nancy Travis a little for her role in So I Married an Axe Murderer. She's made some missteps since then, though. And I find Tim Allen very annoying and grating. The only place I like Tim Allen is as a voice in the Toy Story franchise.

I think it bears noting that I hate most sitcoms, especially ones with laugh tracks. I know I should try to get into both How I Met Your Mother and The Big Bang Theory but I just can't. Traditional multi-camera sitcoms and I just don't play well together.

Man Up!

Description: Do you really need one? Even this title makes me want to punch something. FINE. Three men who act childishly decide it's time to start acting like adults.

Starring: a bunch of people I've never seen before and Teri Polo from Meet the Fockers.

Ugh, Really? There are all these things all over the place that are saying this is "the next big thing." You know what's the next big thing? NOT WATCHING GARBAGE. This will probably end up being popular and you can all tell me to suck it but I'm not watching ANYTHING called Man Up! because I think that title sucks, this premise is hackneyed and overdone, what's with the exclamation point!, and honestly I'd rather be sneezed on repeatedly by a llama than sit through this nonsense. Man Up!? Really? OK, you're all aware that's offensive and people try not to say that anymore because feminists and, well, WOMEN find it offensive because it implies that whatever the behavior that the person is doing that is undesirable is feminine, weak, and therefore bad, right? Please research things with real test markets before putting them on television. Thank you.

Whitney

Description: An opinionated woman uses unconventional methods to keep the spark alive in her relationship with her long-suffering boyfriend. (I added the "suffering" part. If you've seen the trailers for this you know why.)

Starring: some comedian that people seem to know that I've never heard of before named Whitney Cummings, random people, and Jane Kaczmarek (poor Jane Kaczmarek)

This is in the death slot. There's always one show that's combined with the powerhouse group of The Office, Community, 30 Rock, and Parks and Recreation, and this year Whitney got the dubious honor. Two years ago it was that shitstorm of a show Kath and Kim, and last year it was the obnoxious and offensive Outsourced. NBC! Is there a method to your madness? Why put an awful show in with your good ones? Is it so I have a chance to go to the bathroom and do the dishes? No? Because that's what I do when the show airs. And that's what I'll do when this airs, too. The commercials make it look like it's possibly a joke the network is playing on us. There are a million commercials, too. And a million print ads! Why is there so much money being spent on this? I am very, very confused about this situation.

The X Factor

Description: HAVE YOU BEEN LIVING UNDER AN EFFING ROCK? It's American Idol for solo artists or groups with no age limit. It's where Simon Cowell went when he left American Idol in a huffy odd way.

Starring: wannabe Kelly Clarksons, Simon Cowell, and Paula Abdul. A Pussycat Doll. Some other judges that if I cared about pop music more, I'd probably recognize their names.

OK, here's a confession, and I'm pretty much the only person in America that feels this way, and so probably this makes me a terrorist, but I don't care about singing shows. I don't watch American Idol. I don't watch The Voice. And I won't watch this. I DON'T CARE. The winner of these shows is the person who DOESN'T win because once they do win, they have to sing whatever overdone crap the record company makes them sing and it is awful and embarrassing. I don't enjoy it; I can't judge who's good because I'm basically tone-deaf and I can pick who I like best but it's usually the person who gets sent home that week; and there are SO SO MANY OF THEM ZOMG. Why so many of these? Now there are three? Really? That seems like overkill! And it's such a time commitment to watch these things! Auditions, shows, results shows, they're on like three nights a week! No, thank you, Simon, you and your tight black tees will get a pass from me, thanks. Don't worry, I'm not watching any of the others, either. Just don't care.

There are shows I am excited about coming up, both new and returning; but those are for another post, as my ibuprofen has worn off and I am in a lot of pain and it's ALL FOR YOU, readers, I hope you are super-happy. I'm going to zone out on the couch now and make that noise that Harry made in When Harry Met Sally when he was lonely and didn't want Meg Ryan to hang up. Blergh.

Randomness Friday, Brought to You By the Letter (Not Enough) Zzzzz

I am sleepy.

Like, not just “I haven’t quite woken up yet, let me have a cup of coffee and I’ll be good to go” sleepy. Like, totally exhausted. Sleepwalking-exhausted. Zoning-out-while-getting-instructions-from-my-boss exhausted. Wondering-what-was-said-so-pretending-we-never-had-the-discussion-and-reading-the-newspaper-online-instead exhausted.

My show opens tonight, and I’m very proud of it. It’s lovely. It came together well.  It’s visually quite stunning, the actors really kicked it up that one added notch once an audience came in last night, and I’m very proud to have my name attached. If you’re local (I don’t know more than one local person that reads this, honestly, if that, because I don’t care to market this to people I know in real life – I know, that seems odd, I’m a weirdo, leave me alone), please consider coming, and telling people you know about it. First, I would love to meet people I only know in the abstract in person, second, it’s a good show for a good price, and third, everyone should see more live theater because I’m really worried it’s going to dry up and then where would I be. Wandering aimlessly through vacant lots lighting dogfights with a flashlight? Playing background music for people making out on bus benches with a boombox? It would not be pretty.

But due to the fact I've been spending every waking hour either at work or the theater, and then when I get home I can't sleep because I'm too wired - fried. I AM FRIED.

So today, because my brain is sleep-encrusted and not running on all cylinders (and those of you who say it normally isn’t can just SUCK IT I have a super-awesome-sparkly-Miss-Kitty-Fantastico Brain normally), you get Randomness Friday. Randomness Friday! For when your brain is not up to putting things together in a sequence of events that add up to a normal post. Sorry, “normal” post. Let’s not gild the lily. Not a lot of normal happening around here what with the ADD and the ooh sparkly and such.

• Last night I had a dream that Josh Groban was the world champion of Monopoly and was defending his title and I was his handler. I assume this was because I saw him in a PBS version of Chess and I’m not classy so my brain turned chess into Monopoly. Anyway, Josh Groban was awesome and funny (you know he has a sense of humor, he’s always willing to poke fun at himself or others), and we ate things out of vending machines together while discussing the strategy behind competitive Monopoly-playing. It was kind of the most fun. 

• Some goofball site came out with this list and said my alma mater is the “least rigorous” college. I take offense, because I worked really hard. Granted, I worked hard because I was taking a full courseload plus working on 3-5 shows at a time plus working 20+ hours at a part-time job plus extracurriculars like cute boys and whatnot, but the classes weren’t easy. It’s not a joke college. I didn’t apply from the back of a pack of matches. Also, as I’m super-tired right  now, I kind of want to punch everyone, so maybe tomorrow after a good night’s sleep I won’t care.

• If you attend a pay-what-you-will preview at a theater, maybe don’t act like a douchebag to the staff. No, we don’t provide free snacks and beverages to the pay-what-you-will audience. We actually don’t even do that for the paying audience. So don’t act entitled – we’re being nice by opening our final dress rehearsal up to the community, because we know times are tight, and the least you can do it be polite in return.

• The hint of fall in the air is like perfume from heaven. Fall is the best season. I will fight you if you say otherwise. AND I WILL WIN WITH THE POWER OF RIGHT ON MY SIDE.

• Did you ever have someone play an instrument for you? Isn’t that just the most awkward thing ever? Because you just don’t know where to look. Do you look at them? At the instrument? Away? If you look away does it look like you’re not paying attention? I mean, it’s nice you’re playing that for me, but I’m doing the awkward flutter, here, so let’s do something else like watch reality television or eat a bunch of cheese.

• How old exactly are you when you stop getting stupidly high-school-style crushes? I am being completely serious here. I would have thought they’d be over by now. Please don’t tell me I’m going to be 67 and still getting crushes on, like, the man who brings my Meals-on-Wheels, or something. Because they are stupid stupid stupid, and make me feel like my brain’s been removed and replaced with used hearing-aid batteries and old gum.

• I thought of a funny joke about Hurricane Irene but decided it was TOO SOON. Also, it probably wouldn’t be very funny to anyone but me.

• I came home last night and my cats had thrown up all over the living room carpet, as they do, and as I cleaned it up, I was really grateful that they help me keep it real. Because if it wasn’t for tasks like that I might think I was living a super-glamorous life and start getting cocky. Hard to get cocky when you’re covered in cat vomit.

• The new Ryan Adams song “Lucky Now” is the prettiest thing on the radio. You should listen to it because I said so and I know nothing next-to-nothing about music. His music gives me a lump in my throat, it’s so beautiful. I adore him.

• There is a teenager working on the play I’m doing right now and I love her to bits, because she reminds me how happy I am that I am not a teenager every minute I spend talking to her. Gem she said yesterday: “I am SO MAD all the pulled pork is gone. I LOVE pulled pork. But not bacon, because even though it’s good, I always feel bad for cute little pigs.” (If you’re wondering if I crushed her cute little adolescent heart by telling her the truth of the matter, then you’re obviously new here. OF COURSE I DID. We all should know where our meat comes from.) Also, she thinks it would ironically awesome for me to crochet her a hoodie with a unicorn and a rainbow on the front and a unicorn horn spiraling off the top. Which would be kind of badass awful, I do have to admit.

• Things I haven’t done in a long time that I need to do but I’ve been too busy: grocery shop, housekeeping, manicure, return emails of varying time-sensitivity, laundry, watch mind-numbing television. Things I’ve kept up on with amazing regularity: getting grumpy, snarking on things. Priorities I HAVE THEM.

• I did a poll on Twitter yesterday asking people to give me pros and cons about me attending a Lady Gaga-themed Halloween party I was invited to. I got one con and overwhelming pros, but you know I’m probably going to end up staying home. I think it would be something I’d have to go with someone to. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s 2011 and WE DON’T NEED A MAN. I don’t mean that, take it down a notch or two. A woman would be fine. I think I need a buffer-person. Because I’m going to be all weirded-out and out of my element, and going in solo = way too scary. I know people there, some better than others, but they’re going to be busy and I can’t ask them to spend the entire party talking to me, because presumptuous, you know? So if anyone either wants to travel here to be my Lady Gaga buffer-person or knows someone who’s just dying to be my sweet date to the party and also maybe talk this kitten out of the tree after a few hours, or at least call the fire department to lend a ladder for me, let me know. Otherwise, pajamas and television that night, I think.

• There was a bird outside yesterday, which made everyone in my office go into a tizzy because they were convinced it was a bald eagle. There was an expedition planned to check it out. They drooped in sadly a bit later with the news it was only a hawk. Oh! How sad for you. Probably you’ll need therapy, then?

ADD brain informs me it is TOO TIRED TO CONTINUE because no more ideas are forthcoming. So. Play! Come to it? I would like that. You get no blog tomorrow because I leave at 9am and get home at around 11pm, but all will be well, I just know it.

Monday, I’m sleeping ALL DAY. Like a hibernating BEAR. It’s going to be GLORIOUS.

You've Got a Problem, Yo, I'll Solve It

I was at a loss today what to write about. So, as you do, I asked Google. Everyone does this, right? I assume so, because sometimes when I am searching Google, really stupid questions come up. You can tell because the auto-fill shows you the most popular (I mean, I think it’s the most popular – it might be the most recent, it doesn’t really tell you that) searches like your own. For example: today I typed in “What should I blog about today?” Now, please note that I did it more for a laugh than anything. But after typing in “What should I” this is what the auto fill brought back to me along the way:

What is my IP

What is planking
What does my name mean
What to expect
What does smh mean
What should I do
What should I eat
What should I make for dinner
What should I read next
What should I do with my life

This is a microcosm of what is going on in our collective minds right now, right? My favorites are the existential questions. Because I don’t exactly know what I should do with my life, either. Or what I should do, period. Or what to expect. But these people think Google knows. And I kind of love that! Google has become our mom and our dad and our encyclopedia and our library and our therapist all rolled into a ball. Google! HELP ME! 

(Also, I asked Google not too long ago what “smh” means. Shut it. I am old and often don’t know what acronyms stand for. I don’t like smh. I’ve mentioned this before. I think it’s stupid. “A guy paid me completely in nickels and dimes for his purchase at work. Smh.” Were you? WERE you syh? Because that seems like a foolish response to that situation. I’d be choumb, honestly. You won’t find that on Google. That’s cussing him out under my breath. You’re welcome!) 

So! Anyway. (Are you wondering right now, return readers of my blog, if I am this easily distracted and off-on-a-tangent-y in real life? Yes! Yes I am. It makes for some fun conversations with me, let me tell you. Sometimes people give up, honestly. They come to me for a discussion about one thing and leave not only without the answer to that, but with a head stuffed full of nonsensical information about things like serial killers in Vancouver or the best quick-dry nail polish topcoats or how much I hate the constant and inane flirting that these two gross people I know keep doing and I’m pretty sure they are quite confused, but also maybe a little charmed. Nope. Sorry. Just confused. And maybe angry.) 

Google actually came back with a lot of answers to what I should blog about today. And guess what most of them were? Dumb. Yes! Really, really dumb. One guy told me to talk about how I use Facebook to increase my social profile. Well, ok, I’d be happy to. I don’t! There. Shortest blog entry ever! I use Facebook to keep in touch with friends, stalk people, talk to my book club, “like” crap, decline stupid game requests, delete passive-aggressive comments from people I don’t really like but have to be friends with because it would cause a huge brouhaha if I refused them, tell people Happy Birthday, and keep up-to-date with all of the theater goings-on in my area, because that’s a full-time job in itself. That was not a helpful blog idea, guy. Fail! 

Then there were a lot of lists with hearts and flowers and lots of stars and such? Which made a migraine almost start? Which said I should blog about things like “review your favorite magazine LOL” and “talk about your crush but in a secret way.” Oh. Um, ok. Let’s give that a go! 

My favorite magazine is Entertainment Weekly LOL. (Wait, I’m confused. Do I have to use LOL after the magazine title? Or after every sentence? Because I hate LOL with the fire of a million suns. Am I going against some sort of rule, NOT using LOL? I’m going to buck the system and not use it. Is the star and heart and flower brigade going to come after me? Oh my, I hope not. I don’t really have the stamina to deal with that today, or ever, really.) To review: it does not make me think too hard, but it isn’t as stupid as People. It tells me about upcoming entertainment, and has pretty pictures. Also, the book section is really quite good. And Stephen King used to be a guest columnist but stopped and that was a sad moment. And the bullseye in the back always makes me laugh. 

Listen, I don’t have a lot to SAY about Entertainment Weekly. It comes every week, and it is somewhat entertaining while being about entertainment. This is an exercise in futility. 

Talk about my crush but in a secret way? OK! Shhh. There is this…individual? And I think he/she/it is peachy? However, he/she/it has no idea I feel that way, because I’m a GROWN-ASS WOMAN AND THIS IS RIDICULOUS I CAN’T DO THIS EFFFFFFFFF 

Listen, I’m too old to have a “crush.” Do I have someone that I refer to as my “internet boyfriend” because he is someone I only talk to on the internet and we will probably never meet and if we were to meet nothing of a romantic nature would happen because when I meet someone I’ve been talking to online in real life I always sabotage it in some way? Yes. Yes I do. (A few years ago I went on a date with a very nice man I met online. Who, listen, was really seriously and not even being sarcastic very nice. And intelligent. And funny. But when we met in person it was like I was dead inside. I was not in the least bit attracted to him. At all. And also he had no chin. Like, there was his bottom lip? And then it went directly to his neck. It was off-putting. And of course I assumed he felt the same about me, so I was quite befuddled when, the next day, he sent me an email telling me how well it had gone and how much he wanted to kiss me but he’d held off because he could tell I was a lady. Aw. So nice, see! And, because I am a complete and total heartless bitch, I told him that I was not attracted to him in real life, but thanks, bye! And then people said, Amy! You can’t SAY that. You should have made something up! To which I replied, why drag it out? It’s not like I SAID “You have no chin.” I was vaguer than that. I’d appreciate if a guy was honest with me for once; I assumed this guy would appreciate the same thing. I mean, who would benefit from me saying “I’m not in a good place, romantically, right now, sorry?” No one. He’d probably just say, “Let’s keep in touch and when you are we’ll reconnect” or some such nonsense! And unless there’s a way for someone to surgically grow a chin, that wasn’t ever going to happen, and I didn’t want to get an email every few months asking “Ready? Ready now? How about now?” That would be worrisome. Isn’t it always easier to pull the Band-Aid off in one quick yank? Yes. I know. I know, it’s rude to not be attracted to someone because they don’t have a chin. All I can say is, you like what you like; and I like men with chins. I’m sorry. If that makes me superficial, so be it. Mutter under your breath that I’ll be forever alone with an attitude like that. I don’t care. I CAN NOT BE WITH SOMEONE WITHOUT A CHIN.) Also, do I have various and random “TV boyfriends” that vary depending on what program I’m watching? Yes. Who doesn’t? But do I have a “crush”? No. Not really. The last real crush I had spun out so spectacularly that I am not eager to have another. That was almost a year ago; I still feel like someone’s stabbing me in the gut with a rusty penknife when I see him, not so much because he was not interested, but because I put myself out there and he rejected me and also he was a tool and I am the worst judge of character ever and apparently THAT doesn’t change with age. So. Top-secret-like? Crushes are stupid and I am not in high school and if an opportunity were to present itself for a real, grown-up romance, that would be swell, are you listening, internet boyfriend who has no idea you are my internet boyfriend and most likely doesn’t even read my blog? Kickass. 

But now, here is the BEST BLOG IDEA EVER. Ready? I totally buried the lead, here. A blog that used a lot of pastels and swirly things told me the following which I am not even going to link back to them because their layout annoyed me and also I’m kind of mocking them so that’s mean: “What problem is your blog solving? Identify a reader’s – or a potential reader’s – problem, and produce a post to solve it.”

What have I told you all like a million billion times? I AM TOTALLY A PROBLEM SOLVER. This is a blog idea I can WORK with.  

A problem I believe many people have, based on my extensive research (“research” defined as “observations I’ve made as I go about my day”) is “How Not to Be a Douchebag.” And I would love to give you a list of areas in which you might have increased douchebaggery – or even worse, TOOLbaggery – and then you can STOP DOING THEM. Your problem – SOLVED. By extension – my problem – having to DEAL with your douchebaggery – ALSO solved. Win-win! 

FIVE WAYS YOU CAN STOP BEING A DOUCHEBAG TODAY 

1.   Get away from the goddamn copier when you’re done using it. (Alternately – the computer/fax machine/printer/binding machine, but mostly the copier.) If you’re done with it, go lean somewhere else to have a half-hour conversation with someone, or to collate a stack of papers as tall as your torso. Because I need to use it ALL THE TIME. And can’t, if you’re using it to prop yourself up. You’re welcome! (This may seem like a job-specific issue, but can also be used in a Kinko’s setting, or a library, or anywhere else there are more people than machines. Like an ER, for example. Or a chopshop. Or a sweatshop, for that matter.) 

2.   Stop being giggly. It’s like you’re sticking a sharpened chopstick into my ear and grinding it around. STOP IT. You are a grown woman. There’s no reason to act like a five-year-old. I know! You think the guys think it’s cute. And honestly? From the looks you’re getting, it seems it’s working. But I can guarantee you, your fellow women not only don’t respect you, they LOATHE you. You’re setting feminism back 100 years with that giggly shit. Cut it OUT. If the only way you can get a man is by acting like a minor, maybe rethink the kind of man you’re attracting, because do they have a van with blacked-out windows and a lot of lollipops and a bedside drawer full of restraints? 

3.   Don’t assume the world revolves around you. Because hey, news flash AND spoiler alert – IT DOES NOT. There are other people here! All of whom think THE SAME THING. If 50 people can make a meeting time of 1pm, don’t email the meeting organizer and ask him to reschedule it for 4pm because 1pm doesn’t work for you – you are in the MINORITY. Why are you more important than all of those other people? And what’s with the attitude, chumpy? You are not more important than anyone else. However! Bear in mind that I am more important than EVERYONE else. Then we’ll get along like gangbusters! (Oh, by the way, because we haven’t had a tangent recently, guess who’s the Mayor of both her local library AND her theater on Foursquare? THIS WOMAN. So yeah, I have an EMPIRE. Deal with it. It’s quite obvious I am very, very important.) 

4.   No one likes that much cologne and/or perfume. I mean, really. If I can taste the way you smell when you leave the room, YOU ARE WEARING TOO MUCH. 

5.   Just because you’re part of a couple now doesn’t mean you can stop using your brain. I get it. You’re totally in love. And really, even though I’m a complete and total heartless bitch, as evidenced by my “no chin hit the road Jack” story, I am really, really happy for you. But just because now you are getting sex regularly and someone’s calling you sweetheart and buying you stuffed teddy bear-like items and helping you with the dishes and whatever else happy couples do (I WOULDN’T KNOW DAMN) it doesn’t mean your brain gets to stop working. Return emails; have dinner with friends without your significant other along once and a while; start conversations without “Bobby and I think…” or “Betty and I went…” at least every fifth sentence; don’t use “sorry, you know how it is!” *giggle* *blush* as an excuse to get out of your duties and assume we’ll think you were busy being one-half of a committed couple, therefore we have to take up your slack and like it. As I said: love you. Love your significant other. Also? Love your brain. Miss it, actually. Can it come back? 

There. I have solved a problem. This is bound to bring many new readers to my blog, readers who have an issue with douchebaggery. It will fix them! I will fix them! I AM A GOLDEN GODDESS. 

I think I also might have answered what I should do with my life. Obviously, go around the country and fix and/or smite douchebags. What a momentous day! Someday we’ll be celebrating August 10^th as Douchebag Day, and who’s laughing THEN? Me, from my gigantic pile of cash money I’ve somehow gotten from this highly lucrative enterprise I just made up out of thin air! Google! You really saved the day, here.