The Pursuit of Happiness. Where do you think you're going? GET BACK HERE HAPPINESS.

I was informed recently that someone is no longer going to read my blog because “you’re so angry.” At first, this was kind of sad, and I thought, probably I should start posting rainbow unicorn kitten toddlers or whatever it is that society deems “cheerful.”

This came up when I Googled “pictures of something cheerful.” This is a PHOTO FAIL. No one wants cupcakes or cookies like this. Why would you do this to cake? Cake means no one any harm. Cake is your friend. Cake just wants to love you! Well, I suppose if you ate scads of cake, you would get fat, but that’s not cake’s fault, that’s your own fault, don’t go blaming cake for that. Cake doesn’t want to be turned into something evil like this! Mean! This is just mean! And full of trickery! Like, you’d say to someone, “hey, want some cake?” And they’d be so excited! Cake! And then you’d give them this? No. That’s a betrayal. The worst kind, too. A dessert betrayal. You don’t just bounce back from one of those.

First, let me just address one thing. If you think every single thing I say on here is completely true, well, that’s so nice! And how do you manage to make it through every single day without falling victim to various tricks and traps that the world has set for you? I don’t know that anyone, anywhere, is 100% truthful on their blogs. There are things I leave out, because listen, I don’t think most of you are looking for a trail of breadcrumbs so you can find my place and be waiting for me one night under my bed with a straightrazor? But who knows, really. So I’m not giving you directions to where I live, you know? Similarly, I’m not using people’s real names, because that’s rude and I can’t afford any sort of lawsuit. And, finally – and take a deep breath, because this one’s going to hurt – are you ready? Really? Are you sure?

Sometimes I exaggerate for effect.

I know. I’m sorry. Did I just blow you mind a little? Here’s the thing. One of the things I hate most in the world is being bored. Therefore, I assume you hate that, as well. Be honest: if you had a choice between a blog entry starting with one of these two sentences, which would you choose?

“I was driving home from work today and I saw they’d started construction on the new police barracks”

OR

“I was driving home from work today and I saw they’d started construction on the new police barracks, which made me wonder if my drive home from work was going to be fraught with po-po on every corner from now on, and listen, sometimes I’m not on my A-game on my drive home from work, and I’m a little distracted what with being sprung from the fifth circle of Hell, and awesome after-work tunes on the radio, so I’m bopping along in my sauna of a car that’s been sitting in the sun all day looking like a deranged sweaty escaped lunatic, so probably I’ll be writing this from jail once the barracks is completed, please send cigarettes and stamps.”

I guess some of you might choose the first sentence, although I do have to wonder why those people are reading my blog, because there aren’t too many sentences as straight-forward as that here. The second sentence (despite being a run-on – yes, I know it’s a run-on, I majored in English, thank you very much, it’s a run-on for dramatic effect, that’s a thing, it’s allowed) is more fun. And it’s more me. I go off on tangents. Sometimes they’re angry tangents. Am I really as angry as I’m portraying? Well, yes, sometimes I am, I suppose. But sometimes it’s funnier to say “I wanted to use my ninja skillzzz to punch him in the neck” as opposed to “he mildly perturbed me.” So listen. Not to send my meeeeeellions of readers off in a tizzy of “liar liar,” here, but I exaggerate. ‘Tis true. And I’m pretty sure you’ll find most of the humorous blogs you read do the same thing. Because as much as we wish a clown car of awesome would unload blog content in front of us on a daily basis, it just doesn’t happen. (NOT REAL CLOWNS. METAPHOR CLOWNS. UGH.)  Sometimes? You have to use your brain and come up with some of your own.

But! Out of respect for those of you (if there are any still here, I suppose) who are upset I am too “angry,” I went to a very nice website today called 1000 Awesome Things. You know it is nice because there is a pretty landscape photo on the top. These are things that make people happy! And so I thought we could discuss them! Won’t that be nice? I TOTALLY CAN BE NICE. AND ALSO HAPPY.

#995 Finding money you didn’t even know you lost. OK! This is a nice way to start out. This makes me happy. This often happens to me when I put on a winter coat for the first time when it’s started to get cold out again in the fall. I’ll pop my hands in the pockets and bam! I find a dollar bill, or something. That’s nice! A nice, happy thing.

#964 The day when you first realize you can drive. Happy! Although I was given permission to drive before I could actually do so in a safe fashion. I obtained my driver’s license through trickery. I failed the first time, because I cannot parallel park. Also because the guy giving me my test was an ass and mean and took points off because I drove too slowly in a 30 MPH zone. I drove 28 in a 30 and he was so up-in-arms about that. Seriously? I would think that driving slowly and cautiously though an AREA where CHILDREN ARE is a GOOD THING. So the next time I went back, I wore a very low-cut top and a mini-skirt and I giggled a lot and had a different test proctor and I bent forward a lot so he got a good look at the girls and poof, I passed. Sure, this is not something a person should technically be proud of? But I got my license. There’s no rule on the books that says you can’t use all of your assets to your full advantage when you’re a nubile 17-year-old. (Side note – I still can’t parallel park. I will seriously park a mile away from where I need to be and walk rather than even try to parallel park. I have depth perception issues. But you know what I rock? Three-point turns. Bam! ONE! TWO! THREE! Awesome at them.)

#841 When the categories on Jeopardy are right in your wheelhouse. I love this. This is the best. My favorite is when there are, right in a row, categories like “Broadway Musicals,” “Horror Novels,” “State Capitals,” “Commonly Misspelled Words,” “Pork Products,” and “Saturday Night Live Actors.” Because this I can do. Not a sports or history or date category in the bunch. I’ve GOT this. An addendum to this: this is even better when you happen to be watching it with people who don’t know you very well. You look BRILLIANT. They look at you like you are a GOLDEN GODDESS. (Side note: I will, one day, be on Jeopardy. I’ve auditioned three times, once in person, twice online. And dammit, I’m not going to die without having the chance to face down Trebek. I refuse.)

#828 Remembering what movie that guy is from. I’m excellent at this. Even better, I’m excellent at it with very little info. I delighted my coworker the other day when she said, “That guy! You know. The one? With the scar. Who I like? Adventurous.” And I said, without hesitating, even though we’d never discussed him, “Harrison Ford.” I like figuring it out, and I like helping others do the same.

#709 Waking up to the smell of sizzling bacon. There is nothing that is not perfect about this. NOTHING. You know what would make it more perfect? If you didn’t have to get out of bed to eat it, and if your current flame brought it to you while you were still all comfy-cozy under the covers. Bacon & blankets & boyfriend. And then maybe some boning, because let’s be honest, bacon in bed is a total aphrodisiac. Yes, please.

#691 When you flip to a radio station just as a song you love is starting. Coincidentally, this happened just last night when I was driving home. For some reason, my favorite radio station during the day turns into crazytown at night. Like, experimental jazz, and one time, some song about candy bars that was dirty, like “I put my Baby Ruth into her Kit Kat and she said Oh, Henry.” I can’t listen to that without wanting a shower or to gouge my eardrums out with paperclips, so I flip around aimlessly on my drive home when I’m out at night. Sometimes I find Delilah. I like Delilah because her callers are sad sacks and she is clueless to their needs. “I have 14 kids and we live in a shack and have no running water, can you play something for me, Delilah?” and then Delilah will play “Groovy Kind of Love” for no apparent reason. But last night, the retro station, when I flipped there, was playing the New Kids on the Block’s “Hangin’ Tough.” And you bet your ASS I turned that up and rocked out. I know ALL of the lyrics to that. My first concert was the New Kids. Before that NKoTB crap, too. With my first real boyfriend. I know! Totally romantic. Until he broke up with me just before Valentine’s Day because he thought one of my best friends was interested in him and then she wasn’t but we were still broken up and that kind of sucked but was best in the long run because that growth spurt I always was hoping he’d have? Didn’t. He’s still like 5’4 and I’m pretty sure that you don’t get a growth spurt when you’re in your mid-thirties. This story wasn’t really going anywhere so if you’re hanging on for some moral or something, you’re kind of out of luck. “Don’t cross our path ‘cause you’re GONNA get STOMPED!”

#412 The air just before a thunderstorm. I’m 99% sure, in another life, I was someone who worked outdoors, because I am like a barometer, and I just come alive when there’s about to be a storm. When I lived out west, the best thing ever was monsoon season. Sideways rain. The sky turned maroon and mauve and orange and pink and purple. The air was just charged with electricity and excitement. And it smelled so goddamn good you just wanted to go outside and eat it all up.

#366 Little kids showing you their muscles. A kid I knew once came up to me and asked me, in perfect seriousness, if I had purchased tickets to the gun show. (Shut up if you know where this is going. I didn’t at the time.) I of course said, “What gun show?” And he made a muscle and said, “This gun show! You’re gonna need a ticket to look at THESE guns!” I laughed so hard I snorted. Yes, it’s kind of dumb. But that kid SOLD it. Props, kiddo.

#328 The smell of a library. If they could bottle this (minus, I suppose, the sweaty smell of some of the people standing in line sometimes – please, please, deodorant? It’s not too much to ask, and there are coupons, often. Here! I will give you one. It is MY PLEASURE!) I would wear it like perfume on a regular basis. Old paper and history. That is the smell of the library.

And I’m adding one of my own – sorry, list, but if you think “All of the things that come out of a pig” and “Pain” are things that are awesome, and this isn’t on there, well, maybe you’re not as awesome as you think you are? Hmm? Think on that awhile!

#Eleventy-oneth: The feeling in the pit of your stomach right before a show you’ve worked on starts. You put a lot of time into it; you know it’s good; now it’s time to share it with people. It’s a completely indescribable feeling. It’s a little like the butterflies you get when you realize you’re falling in love and a little like the nausea you get when you’re about to move to a new town where you don’t know anyone but you know it’s the best thing you can do.

There. SEE? I am not completely and totally filled with hatred. Also? I really, really like cheese. Almost all types of cheese. And office supplies, especially pencils. And snapdragons. And how my nephew says my name, now that he relates my name as an abstract to me as a person. And you! And you, blog reader. I totally dig you. Except if you’re annoying, or one of those people who has no respect for personal space? Then we’re through.

You've Been Swell, But I'm Not Getting Married

I could never, ever get married.

OK, I suppose that’s a bit of an overstatement. I could. I mean, physically. There’s nothing stopping me from getting married. There’s not like, a statewide ban on me tying myself to someone for all eternity, or anything.

I started thinking about this in earnest last night when I got a very nice third-party imaginary internet wedding proposal. Yep! I am the fanciest. So just check your inbox for the invites for my imaginary internet wedding! (I will expect many imaginary internet wedding presents, by the way. I'm registered at many imaginary internet locations!) I just highly suspect that the strain of planning and actually going through with something of that magnitude would cause either a Bridezilla-style breakdown, with screaming in operatic tones, or me to crawl up in the corner of my closet and rock and weep. And I have really, really tiny closets. Like, dollhouse closets. It would be very uncomfortable in there. But somehow I’d make it work. And I’d rock and weep and everyone would be at the church but no one would really be all that surprised, because I think the main surprise would have been that there was a wedding at all. I think the main surprise would have been when they got the invitation in the mail in the first place. “What? AMY? Getting MARRIED? This can’t be right. Another Amy, maybe? With the same name? Who thought THIS was a good idea?”

I like weddings. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been to some. They’re nice! They’re so optimistic, what with the white dresses (yeah, right, you’re not fooling anyone, but whatever) and the smiling and the vows and the wee little ring bearers with their tiny little tuxedos and such. Yes, yes, they make me cry. That kind of unbridled optimism, that’s worth a few tears, I think! I mean, you kind of want to applaud the fact that these people, in spite of the odds being stacked against them, have decided, hey! Let’s do this! We’ll be the exception to the rule! WE WILL LIVE OUR LIVES HAPPILY EVER AFTER!

Well, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? But I’m not all merry sunshine, and all I can think (quietly, in the back of my head, I don’t ruin people’s weddings, I’m not that much of an ass) is “Man, that’s a HUGE pile of gifts. How are they going to divvy those up when this all goes to hell in a handbasket?” 

And the ceremony itself – ok, I would be the worst bride. Ever. EVER. Seriously. Like, you’ve seen Bridezillas, right? I wouldn’t be all screamy-yelly-“you didn’t get the RIGHT COLOR HAIR EXTENSIONS!” like that, or anything, but there are a lot of things that I take exception to in the wedding ceremony and in the celebration afterward. So much so that I think the only solution would be to elope. But I do like the idea of having a celebration in front of people. So I’m torn, really – on one hand, it would be nice to celebrate this unmitigated optimistic insanity in front of people (especially people, who will remain nameless, who have said, and I quote, “It’s ok if you’re a lesbian, you know” because I’m not married yet. Yes. I know it’s ok. Thank you for your permission. I’m not a closeted lesbian, I’m just FOREVER ALONE. Thank you for that), but on the other hand, the logistics of getting what I want are so insurmountable, I think that possibly it couldn’t happen. 

For example: 

Church wedding vs. civil ceremony: I have issues with the church so I don’t think I could be married in one. Also, the church makes you take marriage classes, and I don’t have time, energy or patience for that. And I think if I stepped foot in one at this point, I would go up in flames, and poof, there goes the very expensive fluffy dress. But I have family members who would not be in the least bit pleased (and I think would most likely think it wouldn’t count) if I were married outside of the church. So then there would be a war. And who wants to start their wedded bliss on a battlefield? I’m already getting acid reflux and this is just hypothetical. 

The dress: I look like death warmed over in white. So no white. But then does everyone think you’re a whore? Because I’m not really a whore, per se, just really pale, and white makes that look worse. Also, I don’t like wedding dresses. They all make you look weird and matronly and frilly and bedazzled and like you’re trying too hard or they’re too casual or they’re too tight. Can I get married in pajamas? I’m the most comfortable in those. And that would be pretty! So, so pretty. But I totally get a veil. VEILS ARE AWESOME. Everyone looks better in a veil. That is a proven fact, buddy. 

Bridesmaid dresses: WHY THE HELL ARE THESE ALWAYS SO UGLY. Listen. Is it a thing? Like, you don’t want your bridesmaid to look better than you so you get them the most god-awful dress in America? And they have to PAY for it! And they’re never going to WEAR it again! As long as they’re all respectable, any woman who I like enough to ask to be a bridesmaid can wear whatever the hell they deem appropriate. And, since I picked the women, I know it will. Don’t pick jerks to be your bridesmaids and they won’t pick stupid clothes like tube tops and red satin hotpants. 

Bridesmaids, ushers, maids of honor, etc.: Listen. There is one person I want to stand beside me when I get married (well, other than the imaginary groom.) And he’s male. And that’s not negotiable. The person I feel closest to (I hesitate with the “BFF” thing because I’m not a tween) is a guy. So, is that allowed? No, right? Because it’s like a slap in the face if he’s just an usher and one of my other friends, who are great and all, are my maid of honor. Because when I’m having a meltdown, he is (I absolutely guarantee you this) the only person who will be able to get me to calm down from it. He is the Amy-whisperer. And if he’s ushering, how is he supposed to calm me down? Too busy seating Aunt Isabelle and her huge hat! BAM MELTDOWN NOW THERE’S NO WEDDING I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY WEDDING ETIQUETTE. 

Ceremony nonsense: There are two things in the wedding ceremony that would make me walk out and not come back. First: “giving the bride away.” Because I’m property! To be gifted to a man! That’s awesome. No, seriously. “Who gives this woman?” “Her mother and I do!” Here is our daughter! Our gift to you. Now you feed and clothe her, as she is unable to do these things herself! Stupid useless women! I HATE THIS SO MUCH. I assume it still happens. It did at the last wedding I went to. I know, I know. It’s a custom. Well, it’s an outdated and sexist one. And I flat-out refuse. I already told my father that if I ever get married, he was more than welcome to walk me down the aisle, but when the officiant said “Who gives this woman,” I would have a speech prepared that went along the lines of “Actually, this woman gives herself, as she belongs to herself. And she gives herself freely! With the understanding that she is not giving up any more of herself than she feels comfortable giving, and can, at any point, take back anything she has given, as she is a person, and not property. Thank you all for coming.” (My father’s response? “It’s probably a good thing you’re not getting married anytime soon.”) Second: “honor AND OBEY.” Ha. HA HA HA. I haven’t “obeyed” anything since I was old enough to crawl. You think I’m going to start now? Nice try. First you give me away, then you tell me to obey? What they hell am I, a runt puppy that wouldn’t sell so I’m up free for a good home in the Pennysaver? 

Money: I don’t like that the bride’s family is expected to pay for everything, based on the outdated practice of a bride price. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think the price should be split between the parents of the bride and the parents of the groom, either. I think, if the bride and groom can’t pay for their own damn ceremony, they don’t deserve a big shindig. Sorry. You get what you work for in this life, and why should you get a huge party you didn’t pay for yourself? 

Vows: I like the idea of writing your own vows, as long as it’s done well. I do not like things like “Baby, I knew from the minute I met you, you were the one. I can’t wait to start our journey together.” Did one of the contestants on The Bachelorette write your speech? No. If you can’t improve on the vows as they’re written, stick to the vows that are already there. 

Cake-smushing: If you smush a handful of cake into my face I will most likely slap you and walk out of our reception. Seriously? This isn’t funny. This isn’t cute. This is messing up a really pretty and well-done face of makeup and nice hair and possibly getting on a very expensive dress. And it’s demeaning. And – worst of all – YOU ARE WASTING CAKE. Which is a capital offense in 14 states. No, don’t look that statistic up. I’m telling you it’s true. WHY DON’T YOU TRUST ME. 

The dollar dance: I went to a wedding where they did this when I was young, and I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t. Because it’s a little like begging and a little like prostitution. Both things you absolutely want at your wedding, right? If some man came up to me at the reception waggling a $20, I’d knee him in the balls. I’m not a pole-dancer, Uncle Mervin. Put the $20 back in your pants and look for someone who’s showing too much cleavage on the waitstaff or something. 

Whatever that shit is that’s going on with the garter: This is an excuse for someone to cop a feel, pure and simple. And who the hell even wears garters anymore? And that garter isn’t even holding anything up. It’s a scrunchy. It’s a fancy wedding leg-scrunchy. I have no interest in this and I think it’s gross and tacky. 

Brides and grooms who are weird about the gift registry: You are lucky anyone gave you anything. If you don’t like it, return it. Stop complaining about free stuff. Do you think pirates ever complained about their booty, arrr? They did not. And they RULED the seven seas. Yes, it’s annoying that you got two toaster ovens. You know what’s more annoying? Waking up alone and cleaning cat vomit out of your shoe. SUCK IT UP Whiney McUngratefulface. 

Animals: Releasing animals after a ceremony annoys me. Yes, yes. I know. It’s all done with the utmost care. Listen. I don’t think those butterflies or doves want to be raised and then shipped somewhere and then catapulted into the air to celebrate your love, I really don’t. How confused must they be? You know what I think you should release on your wedding day? 43,000 carpenter ants. A celebration of “building” a life together! And the gift that keeps on giving for the owners of the place where you got married, huzzah! 

Things I don’t have a problem with and actually think are kind of cute, surprisingly: when people clink on the glasses for you to kiss (I know, you’d think that would annoy me? But it’s honestly kind of adorable); throwing the bouquet (but women catching it, please show decorum, this is a wedding, not a barroom); decorating the back of the “getaway” car with stuff (but if you put anything vulgar or stupid or scratch the paint I’m going to hang that crap plus more all over YOUR car one night WITH SUPERGLUE and see how you like it.) 

See? THIS IS A HUGE LIST. There’s no WAY I could get away with all of these things without looking like an anal-retentive Bridezilla feminist shrew. So no wedding for me. Sorry, people who were planning on coming to my super-awesome wedding in which I was pretty guaranteed to throw the tantrum of the century. You’ll just have to wait until it happens organically. I’m sure it will. Just be patient. For example, I’m pretty cranky about seeing someone misspell “Bethlehem” (BETHLEHAM? Really? IT’S A TOWN NOT A PORK PRODUCT) on an envelope today. Fingers crossed!

The difference between a boss and a leader is that leader = synonymous for PANSY.

Since a lot of kids graduated from college in May, and it usually takes a few months for people to find a job in this constipated economy, quite a few fresh-faced twenty-somethings are entering the job market right…about….NOW. I thought this morning, hey! I have been in the job market for almost twenty years, and I have many, many helpful tips to pass on, gleaned from the behavior I have experienced, first-hand, at my many jobs over the years. And, as my repeat readers know, if there’s one thing I am, it’s super-helpful. (What’s that? You were going to say long-winded? And one of you in the back was going to say bitchy? Suck it, haters!) 

So! For the class of 2011, here. With my compliments.  

HOW TO BE A MEGA-HELPFUL PRODUCTIVE EMPLOYEE AT YOUR FIRST JOB AND MAKE SUCH A GOOD IMPRESSION THAT THEY WILL ALMOST IMMEDIATELY MOVE YOU UP TO SUPERVISOR, THEN BOSS, THEN GRAND MASTER OVERLORD POOBAH 

1.   Take whatever you want from wherever you want. It’s your right, you’re entitled to it, you need it, and dammit, you’re special! Didn’t your parents drum that into your head all while you were growing up? Example: you are stapling, and your stapler runs out of staples. You have a full box of staples in your desk, but filling a stapler, well, that’s for mooks and peons! Your co-worker across the way has a stapler! It is full of staples! TAKE IT. You deserve it! I mean, it’s not like he’s using it or will ever use it, right? Or, you need an envelope. And you’re out of them. But your co-worker has a bunch on top of her desk. Take one. Hell, take them all. She’ll get more! It’s obvious she has nothing better to do than to refill her envelope supply. She’s going nowhere fast, while you, my friend? You are on the FAST TRACK TO THE TOP. You can’t get there without using your grabby hands to your full advantage. 

2.   Take a lesson from toddlers: when you’re done with something, drop it like it’s hot and walk away.  Remember that stapler you borrowed above? You don’t have time to walk it two steps over to the desk you borrowed it from. You are a BUSY BEE. You have PLACES TO GO and TASKS TO COMPLETE. Drop that stapler wherever you stand and MOVE ON. You’re on the ladder to success, my friend! Keep a’climbin’! No time for tidying up when you’re on the ladder to the stars! You know what they call people that clean up, don’t you? MAINTENANCE STAFF. And you didn’t go to college to be Groundskeeper Willie, no sir, not you. So leave that stapler wherever. I suggest somewhere no one would ever look for it, say, behind the X’s in the file room, or on top of the refrigerator in the break room. Take the only pen from the sign-in desk and drop it behind the copier where it’s irretrievable, and forget it ever happened. Finish the paper towels? Don’t you dare refill the dispenser. Overflow the toilet? Too bad, losers. You’re really too busy to care, and there are shinier rings to reach for. 

3.   Repeat after me: “it is not my problem.” You loaded your assistant up with a metric ton of work at the end of the day and she told you weeks ago she has to leave on time for once today but you need it before she walks out the door? “It is not my problem.” You forgot to tell someone working on a team with you about a sensitive email you received and it reflected badly on them, but you came off looking smelling like a rose (and/or Axe body spray?) “It is not my problem.” Your secretary has laryngitis and can’t come to work today but you don’t have anyone else to answer your phones because you forgot to train anyone else? “Get in here. That is not my problem.” It’s a state of emergency and the radio’s telling people to get home because they’re going to start shutting down the roads due to the gigantic snowstorm outside and you have employees waiting for your go-ahead to leave? “Too bad, we have work that needs to be done today. It is not my problem.” Don’t you just feel more powerful even saying the phrase? More barrel-chested, manly/womanly, strong, virile, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? It’s a power phrase. It’s a mantra. I suggest saying it at least once a day, and making sure it’s said in a situation where tears are most likely to result, therefore tipping the scales even more in your favor. 

4.   Practice condescension and braggery wherever possible. Who cares if these two things make your co-workers shy away from you? You’re catching the eyes of the big boys. There’s no crying in baseball and there are no friendships on the way to the top of the heap. Really, there’s just you, and the garbage. You don’t want to be garbage, do you? WHO WANTS TO BE GARBAGE? Not you, that’s who. Then use one of these, or a combination of them, or something similar to them, adjusted for your particular situation, at least once a day: 

“I was at my vacation home on the lake the other day, thinking about taking my boat out for a spin, when my supermodel wife came up to me and told me no man had ever fulfilled her like I do. How was your weekend?” 

“I just spent your year’s salary on this tie. No, seriously. You won’t be getting paid this year. What’s good in the vending machine today? My, but those SunChips look tasty! But all I have is this $100. Do you have a dollar in quarters I could borrow?” 

“Your hair looks really…interesting today. Did you see that in a magazine? Was it Popular Mechanics? I get mine cut by a swami in Tibet. It costs $1,000 a snip but the results are, I think we can both agree, worth the price.” 

“Did I see you at Walmart this weekend? No, ha ha, I wasn’t at Walmart. I was driving by in my Cadillac, chuckling richly at the plebeians. I do that for kicks sometimes. You all look like little ants to me, up there in my Cadillac. Ants, shuffling around the parking lot. Zombie ants. Do you like my ring? It’s the Pope’s. I just had to have it, and when he realized who I was, he just handed it over. It was a wise choice.” 

5.   Eye contact - it’s not recommended. Don’t make it. It just makes your underlings think they “know” you, and that you’re “relatable.” And do you want that? Really? No. No, you don’t. Always look just over their head and to the left a little. Like you’re looking past them for someone that’s more interesting and important to talk to. Or like you’re looking into your future. If your backstory is that you’re looking into your future, smile a little, vaguely. Because your future is bright. Really, really bright. And they need to know that, so they’ll be properly jealous. 

6.   Don’t return phone calls or tell people where you’ll be. This is an important one. If you return phone calls or tell people where you are, it implies you are not busy. And everyone knows, the most successful people in the business world are those you are unable to reach or make an appointment with. So leave at 10am on a Tuesday. Don’t tell your secretary where you’re going. Drift back in around 3pm, and when you see you have a number of voice mail messages, just ignore them. When your secretary tells you the callers are calling back, irate there’s no callback, just smile and nod and say you’re unavailable. Eventually, the callers will start yelling at the secretary, because callers always assume it’s the secretary’s fault they’re not getting through. That’s what you want. You’ve got your clients in the palm of your hand, now. Wait a few days, and THEN call them back. They’re going to feel special. Like they are the only one in the universe, because you, very special, busy you, took the time to call them back. You made them feel like a special snowflake. Congratulations! (Note: This is exhausting work, which will require that you take more time off to relax.) 

7.   Take away happiness. The time for happiness is not in the office. Do your employees enjoy chatting? Separate them. Do you employees enjoy surfing the net? Take away their internet access. Do you your employees enjoy making personal calls? Take away phone privileges. Do your employees enjoy having a cigarette? Turn your entire office area, inside and out, into a smoke free zone. If they complain, ask them if they enjoy their paychecks. They should say yes. If not, well, there’s the door. We don’t need whiners here. Only winners. (See what I did there? Wordplay. It’s what winners do.) 

8.   What to do when an employee asks for a raise. This is a touchy subject, so I’ll break it down for you. The employee will come to you for a raise with some sob story about “cost of living increases” or “medical bills” or “mother with dementia” or “inability to buy groceries.” Pretend to listen; what they’re saying really isn’t important. What they’re doing is begging. And what do we do with beggars? We don’t give in. That’s like negotiating with terrorists. First, tell the employee everything they’ve done wrong over the past year. Even if it’s not true. Keep it vague: some employees fancy themselves investigators and will ferret out the source of the complaints like little gumshoes. Say things like “there have been complaints about your work ethic…” and trail off. Vague, and sort of worrisome. Look stern. Say “I think we both agree you could be giving a little more.” This is vague enough to cover a lot of ground. Once you’ve made up some things about the filthy beggar, tell them, in your best “I really empathize with your plight” voice (you might want to practice this in front of the mirror first, as there’s no way you can empathize with a poor person so you run the risk of coming off like a robot who just learned human speech) say “I’m sorry we’re not able to increase your pay at this time, but let’s revisit this conversation sometime in the near future. You’re a valuable asset to our team, Tammy.” (Note: please don’t quote this verbatim unless the employee’s name is really Tammy. For some reason, it really irks underlings when you can't remember their names.) The employee, now disheartened and possibly starving to death, will wander back to their cubicle, and you are free! To celebrate, ask Tammy to book you lunch at the most expensive restaurant in town, and when you get back, make sure she types up your expense report. She’ll really appreciate seeing how much a winner spends on lunch, and it will give her something to aspire to. 

9.   Remember: shit rolls downhill for a reason. This is a saying I like to tell young people just starting out. Shit rolls downhill. It is a metaphor. Well, unless you really didn’t report that stopped-up bathroom and your restrooms are uphill from your office. But that’s not your problem, winner! Which, anyway, is why you want to be uphill. Also, make sure to treat those below you poorly, and they will pass it down and down and down and DOWN until it all rests on the shoulders of the lowest man or woman on the totem pole – and that person deserves it, because that person just DID NOT TRY HARD ENOUGH AND IS A TOTAL LOSER. No room for less than shining stars here! 

This is not an all-inclusive list, but it’s enough to get you started. You’re on your way to the top, baby! Nothing’s going to stop you! And once you’re King Shit of Turd Mountain and lord of all you survey, look around. Isn’t the view from the top nice? Isn’t it nice to be king? Fancy? Yes. Yes, it is. You are so welcome. Remember, it all starts with you – don’t be afraid of success. And you can’t spell success without SUCK. Well, minus the K. But it’s not funny that way.

I Will Not Pretend; I Will Not Put on a Smile

I wasn't going to blog about this. I talked about it on Twitter; I talked about it on Facebook; I talked about it in real life to pretty much everyone I've encountered over the past couple of days. But I am really kind of pissed off. And it's Sunday, and what the hell else am I going to talk about, the fact that I grocery shopped today? The fact that as soon as I'm done blogging, I'm going to read the paper and watch television in a happy lazy Sunday haze?

And I know, you probably are going to read this and think, this isn't funny! Amy's not funny! What the hell? I AM HERE FOR THE FUNNINESS. OK. Well, listen. Sometimes? I am not funny. Sometimes I am ROYALLY PISSED OFF. Deal with it, goober. I'll dance for your enjoyment tomorrow.

This week, I went to see a play that four of my friends were in. They've moved from a crappy little theater that echoed when they walked and made the props on the stage jiggle and the building was shared with a bunch of children's gymnastic groups so you'd constantly hear children screaming and running in the halls like little hooligans when the play was in a serious scene and it was very distracting to a lovely theater on the campus of one of our local colleges. They were able to have a real cast and a real set for the first time. The play had missteps, sure, but overall, it was just joyous and loud and fun and they'd put a hell of a lot of work into it. I was so happy for them. I was so proud of them. And it was a comedy, too, so I laughed, when appropriate. I went alone, as I do for most things, and very few people attended the show, so I had a whole row of seats to myself, with two people sitting ahead of me and to my left and a group of three sitting behind me, two rows behind. I watched and I laughed and I clapped and I had a very enjoyable first act.

When the lights came up for intermission, I was waiting to leave go into the lobby and the people behind me were talking. "Girl by herself ahead of us," I heard. "Embarrassing," I heard. "Too loud," I heard. ""Fat girl with the annoying laugh," I heard. Then they laughed - the mean troll-like laughter that haunts my dreams from high school.

At first, the high-school me wanted to run and hide and go home. Because that's what I used to do - back down. Hide in a corner with a book. Not do anything. Not say anything. Let people walk the hell all over me. But I'm not that girl anymore. I'm a woman now. And I'm very often pissed. I'm fueled by a fiery rage pretty much every waking hour.

They saw me walking past them and immediately stopped talking and averted their eyes. I said, "Can you imagine saying something like that about someone? Being that judgmental? What kind of person would do that, I wonder?" And walked out of the theater. Was it embarrassing? Yes. Could it have been worded better? Probably. Was it also a little exhilarating? Yes, yes it was. 

Here's the thing. I am a huge presence. No, that's not a fat joke. Although, I'm allowed to make them, but you sure as hell aren't. Who do you think you are? Seriously? It's 2011 and you're going to make a fat joke? Wow. Original! I can come up with about fifteen comebacks that are a lot more cutting than talking about your weight, and I can do that half-asleep, with most of my mind taken up by more important things. No, not weight-wise. I'm not "fat." I'm not thin, either. I'm somewhere in the middle, and screw you very much for that comment, because the last thing I need is your judgement on my weight issues, not like I've had to deal with those my entire life. I am a huge presence life-wise. I'm not a shrinking violet. There are not many times in my life that people haven't known I've entered a room. I'm not quiet. I'm not polite. I'm not dainty like a goddamn Spode china teacup with a little gold rim.

I have weight and heft. My thoughts matter. I talk and laugh and cry like I mean it. I don't say things I don't mean; I don't do things I don't mean; I am a fiercely loyal friend, once I love you, and would do anything for you if you asked. I'm loud. I'm obnoxious. I'm bossy. I'm smarter than most people and I'm not shy about it. I get shit DONE. I'm a bitch. I'm organized. I'm stubborn. I'm proud. I'm strong. I'm a fighter. I'm opinionated. I'm vulgar. I've been through more shit in my life than most of you can even imagine and I'm still goddamn here. I use a LOT OF CAPS and a lot of italics and a lot! of! exclamation points! I think every story is better with a little exaggeration thrown in, as a garnish. I don't deal well with rejection or betrayal. I do everything ferociously. I am a goddess, and I am ravenous and I am as often deliriously happy as I am furious. I think anything that's worth doing is worth doing passionately. I refuse to be a spectator in my own life.

Don't tell me to be quiet. Don't try to silence me. Don't try to minimize me with your words or your laughter. Better people than you have tried, and have failed. You'll just be one in a long line of people who have counted me out and have been wrong. I wasn't laughing loudly enough to be disruptive. I wasn't being rude. I wasn't making it so the people around me couldn't hear the show. I was enjoying myself, and I was showing my appreciation to the cast and crew. Did seeing a woman alone having a good time scare you? Did it make you want to make her feel as small as possible, put her in her place, make her know that is unacceptable? Bullshit. I call bullshit all over that. You don't get to do that. The only person who can make me feel inferior is me; and I don't choose that path today.

I came marching back for Act II and when it was funny, I laughed. Just as loud. Maybe louder. And when it was sad, I cried. And after the show, my friend came up to me and told me that she'd been proud that her friend was the one laughing in the audience; that she knew it was good by the sound of my laughter backstage. Other cast members thanked me for laughing, because, and I quote, "there were only two people in the audience tonight that reacted at all; I'm glad you were there." Listen, I know theater people. I AM THEATER PEOPLE. We feed off of laughter like leeches from blood. If there's no laughter in a comedy, we aren't getting our fix.

I'm not asking anyone to like me. Quite the opposite; I'm perfectly happy if you don't. Is it nice if you do? Sure. Being liked, being validated, having mutual-minded people accompany you on your journey through life is always a good thing. But I refuse to change who I am to make you like me. It took me over thirty years to get comfortable with this person, and you think I should just like that, *poof*, be someone else? Someone quiet and cute and giggly and frilly and useless? Go somewhere else for that. You're not going to find it here. I'm going to my grave as this person. This flawed, loud, amazing, wonderful person. I love who I am. I love myself, and just fuck you very much for thinking you have any right to make comments within my earshot about me. You don't get that right. I don't extend it to you, and you sure as hell don't just get to take it without an invitation.

If you're looking for a paper-doll cookie-cutter person, please move on. There has to be a place you can get that. It's not here. And I'm not going to apologize for that. 

I'm leaving you with this. This is one of my favorite bands - I was lucky enough to discover them this year, thanks to one of my friends. They closed their concert this summer here with this song, and it wrecked me, because the refrain sums me up nicely: I will not go quiet. I will not stay silent. And if you don't like that, well, bye, I guess. Best of all possible things to you, in your boring eggshell world.

"HE SEES YOU WHEN YOU'RE SLEEPING." This is NOT OK.

I don't trust people who dress up as other people and/or cartoon characters for children's amusement terror some twisted reason I can't even begin to fathom.

My kick-ass friend Cara blogged this week about her (mis)adventures with the fox from Pinocchio.  This made me think of one thing:

Santa.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Santa? As in, Claus? The jolly old elf? Who brings you gifts?

Sure. You could think of it that way, if you wanted to. You could think of it as a benign old man with twinkling eyes who sneaks in and leaves you your heart's desire under the tree every year.

Or, how about as a housebreaking kidnapping pervert? Because that's what I've always secretly thought he was. Or, not-so-secretly, really.

Listen, I know some children are well-adjusted, and like the idea of sitting on some stranger's lap and telling him what they want for Christmas, and waiting impatiently for him to arrive, and whatnot. 

I DON'T LIKE THE IDEA OF SOMEONE BREAKING INTO MY HOUSE.

I believed in Santa (oh, yeah, um, I guess, spoiler alert?) until kindergarten, when the boy I had a crush on told me he didn't exist. Until that point, I'd bought into the Santa hype hook, line and sinker. But as my first crush object (doomed, as they all are, to fail miserably) (oh, spoiler alert again!) gleefully told me, "There's no Santa! IT'S YOUR PARENTS!", one thing flashed across my mind.

WHO THE HELL'S LAP HAD I BEEN SITTING ON???

OK, so listen. I don't like people. I've said this. Over and over. This isn't a new thing. It's something I've come to embrace - and something those close to me have come to grudgingly accept - but as a kid, I didn't have a lot of control over my life. Because you don't, as a kid. You can have these super-strong convictions, but you're little. And you can't drive, vote, or buy things. So your parents make you do things, and you really can't stop them. I mean, you could throw a tantrum every five minutes, but where does that get you? In the counselor's office. And he was creepy. He talked in this very hushed "you're about to kill someone I'd better not spook you" voice and he had a perm. I did NOT want that stigma. So I went along. But I do not now, and did not then, like people. I really did not like strangers. I mean, how hard did they hammer that goddamned stranger danger shit into our heads? I was PETRIFIED that everyone was going to offer me candy and sweep me up into a van. I STILL think that might happen. IT IS THAT INGRAINED INTO MY PSYCHE. I DO NOT WANT YOUR CANDY.

(Side note - it is a treasured family anecdote/something that should probably be delved into in therapy that when I was young, my father went to hunting camp for a couple of weeks. When he came home, he had grown a beard. A big old scary woodsman's beard. I heard a voice in the kitchen and it sounded like my dad. And I was a total - and still am - daddy's girl. And I hadn't seen my father in what seemed like 76 years. So I ran in the kitchen and this bearded stranger was standing there grinning and holding out his arms to hug me and I took one look and immediately ran out of the room. He and my mom found me later hiding in the tiny space between the clothes hamper and the wall in the back of the bathroom closet. Because, you see, a killer was in my house, who talked like my dad, and he may have fooled my mother, but not me, no sir. I was hiding until my REAL dad came home from hunting. And my father, because he is the best thing since unicorn kitten rainbows, immediately shaved the beard off, so he would not be a scary killer doppelganger anymore and I would come out of my hidey-hole.)

So four-year-old me discussed this with my parents, who told me I had to keep my new knowledge top-secret until my baby brother found out on his own there was no Santa. And they told me the people who were dressed as Santa were just nice men who were helping to keep the Christmas spirit alive for children.

"STRANGERS?" I asked, horrified. "I TOUCHED STRANGERS?"

My parents, at this point, probably opened up a savings account with "Amy's Future Therapy Bills" printed on the passbook.

So for the next five years or so, I had to pretend to believe in Santa. And my brother BELIEVED, man. I didn't get off easily. I had to sit on Santa's lap, otherwise he'd question why. And my parents didn't want him questioning - he was their last baby who believed. So I had to grit my teeth and sit on Santa's lap when the opportunity presented itself. However, my face is an open book. Was then, is now. So, here I present photographic evidence that little Amy had Santa-phobia:

OK, FINE, let's talk about the elephant in the room, here. MY GLASSES ARE HORRENDOUS. And really, really big. I'm what, probably 7 here? So it's the early 80s. This is what glasses LOOKED like in the early 80s. Leave baby Amy alone. Also, I am totally rocking the gym shorts. And there seems to be an iron-on kitty on my top. And if you're wondering why I'm wearing summer clothes while we're seeing Santa, it's Santa's Workshop in North Pole, New York. It's open year-round. Just when you think you're safe from Santas when the weather gets warm, something like THIS happens. The only good thing about this place was that there were reindeer and it said you couldn't touch their fuzzy antlers but my father totally let me when no one was looking.

Now that we have my fashion choices out of the way (I notice you did not mention how amazing my pigtails are, possibly because YOU CANNOT HANDLE HOW CUTE I WAS) let's talk about the body language here. First, I was supposed to be on Santa's lap. I refused to be. This Santa creeped me out. I think it was because it was summer. There wasn't supposed to be a Santa in the summer. Summer = Popsicles and bicycles and staying up late, not Santa. Second, the three things that really stand out for me in this photo are:

1. My stubborn outthrust jutting lower jaw and "smile." Good gravy. It looks like I'm being marched to prison camp.
2. My obvious in-motion-ness. The left arm angled ready to flee. How goddamn tense do I look?
3. Santa's arm - not quite touching me, but either about to, or to make sure I don't run off. GET YOUR ARM AWAY FROM BABY AMY SANTA.

Something that makes me feel better right now: this Santa is most likely dead or senile right now. Ha ha! I outlived you, Santa!

Another "fun" Santa story is that one December, I heard loud talking in my living room and when I went to investigate, SANTA WAS IN MY LIVING ROOM. Now, I didn't like Santa, but in his place, I could deal with him. Summer Santa had me off-guard, but mall Santas weren't as bad because I knew they'd be there so I could mentally prepare myself for the creepiness. But Santa! Was in my living room! No no! Not supposed to be there! STRANGER DANGER!

Santa was the neighbor from up the street who thought it would be adorable to dress up and show up unannounced at his neighbor's houses. Ha! So adorable! So unable to prepare for this utter lunacy!

I have mentally blocked out what I did that night. I seriously remember nothing other than him arriving. Oh, and the neighbor? His last name is Manson. No, I'm not even kidding. 

And before you get all judgey, there is AN ENTIRE GALLERY OF CHILDREN HORRIFIED BY SANTA. Seriously. IT IS A THING.

I also don't approve of (not an all-inclusive list):

• people who dress up as cartoon characters at amusement parks (because I feel like I don't know what they're doing with their faces inside of there)
• people who dress up in creepy masks out of the Halloween season (exception - people who cosplay, because I love my geeks and that's not in the least bit creepy to me)
• furries (THIS IS NOT SEXY)
• clowns (no no no no no)
• any situation where I cannot fully see the person's face and/or they are pretending to be someone they are not in a weird, shady, or off-putting way

Let's talk about furries for a minute. Listen, I'm pretty live-and-let-live, here. I don't have much of an issue with a lot of things. I very much follow the Wiccan "and it harm none, do what thou wilt" philosophy. 

BUT THERE IS SOMETHING INNATELY WRONG WITH THIS:

Because it reminds me of this scene in The Shining which I watched when I was wayyyy too young to be watching something like this and I was just horrified wondering "What is that man doing to that dog or that dog to that man WHAT IS HAPPENING?"

This photo still gives me the shrieking willies. That is the most horrifying mask in the world. That is going to haunt my dreams tonight, I just know it.

I know. I KNOW. Consensual sex. All is well in furry-land. Don't knock it until you try it. LISTEN. I am 99% sure that inside of furries are creepy people who are also serial killers because they could totally kill you and then escape BECAUSE YOU LET THEM IN ALREADY WEARING THEIR DISGUISE YOU DUMBASS NO ONE HAS SEEN THEIR FACE.

This blog post is really upsetting me. I am going to eat some Popsicles and watch television or something. Gah. Furries and Santa Claus. What's next? The clown from It shows up in my shower drain tonight OH GREAT NOW I CAN'T SHOWER EVER AGAIN. Dammit.

Dear Lucy, Volume One. SHUT UP I AM VERY HELPFUL.

Today I woke up and bounded out of bed with a smile on my face. “Hello, world!” I chirped, like a happy bluebird. “Here I am! Today is the day I make a difference! Today is the day I help people! Today is MY DAY!”

Then my alarm went off and I realized that was all a dream, I only got a few hours of sleep last night, I feel like shit warmed twice over, and the only chipper thing about me is the daydream I’m having about putting every single person I encounter into a wood chipper.

That will not stop me, however! Today I WILL make a difference. Listen, there are a lot of people out there that need advice. A lot of them. I mean, you type “advice” into Google and you get a ton of stuff. For example, if you type “Yahoo answers” into Google, do you know what the first thing that comes up in the auto-fill is? I bet you don’t! Because I didn’t! There is no way you can prepare yourself for this!

“I killed someone.”

Yes. Someone (or a number of people, because I assume that it is a popular question, otherwise why would it be the first thing that pops up?) went on Yahoo Answers to ask what to do POST-MURDER. Um. You are aware that the cops can track you, right, Killer?

OK, well, I’m not going to help with things like that. Because honestly, I have no idea what to do post-murder. I mean, I talk a big game, and believe me, there are people in my life that if they stopped coming around, they would NOT be missed. But I’m really not a go-to person when it comes to advice in covering up a capital crime. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I feel like I would immediately be discovered. I can’t even hide my emotions when I hate someone – so obviously an entire dead body is going to be a little more difficult than that to hide. So no, Murder Person, sorry, not your place for advice today, sorry.

What do you need, when you are about to start your very fabulous career as the next Dear Abby, only you are going to, of course, be Dear Lucy? Questions! You need questions! So of course, first, I went to Twitter. And Twitter…was not helpful. I got four questions. FOUR! This could be due to the fact that I phrased my request as “I would like to give you advice. It will not be good advice. So send me questions.” One person, who I don’t even know, said if she wanted bad advice, she’d ask her ex. Yes, sure, you COULD do that, complete and total stranger, but would your ex snark at you in a lovingly helpful and hysterical way? I THINK NOT, PERSON I DON’T KNOW. I THINK NOT. Your loss, stranger I will never talk to again.

So next, I went to my partner-in-crime, my internet BFF, the love of my life. Google. And realized there are a WEALTH of questions that need answering on Google. So there you go! I am set up. My empire! It will be a vast one, filled with MANY HELPFUL ANSWERS TO YOUR QUESTIONS.

Without further ado:

Dear Lucy

(A Very Helpful and Not-at-All-Snarky Advice Column)

Q:        What is the difference between a smile and a frown? –JENNIEO

A:        Well! An auspicious beginning, to be sure, Jennieo! First, let me extend my sympathies for your disability. It must be so difficult to be blind. I do so hope you have a dog. Because if you are blind, one of the few perks must be a helper animal, right? But not a monkey. You don’t have a monkey, right? Because it will eat your face. Just to let you know. I mean, maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually it will completely eat your face. We covered this yesterday. Read yesterday’s blog for more info on face-eating monkeys. Wait, how are you reading this and writing questions if you are blind? Is there Braille internet? Or internet with voice technology, or something? There must be. I never thought of that. Isn’t learning fun? What’s that? You’re not blind? Then I don’t understand the question and you’re an idiot. One is right-side-up and means someone either likes you or is pretending to; one is upside-down and means someone hates you or has gas. NEXT QUESTION.

Q:        Can man creation make a mistake? –QUIRFGW

A:        Hello, Quir…I’m going to call you Q, won’t that be easier? Yes. I wish I had an answer for you, Q. I truly do. But to be honest? I don’t 100% understand what you’re asking me. Is this an existential question, like, “If we’re made in God’s image, and God is perfection, how can we make mistakes?” Or is it about something like Frankenstein’s monster, and it’s about MAN’S creation, in which case, of COURSE our creations can make mistakes, I mean, we created fashion and there are missteps LEFT and RIGHT all over there, you know, like rompers. Or are you asking if a mistake was made in the creation of man, and whoever, or whatever created us meant to create something else, like many-legged pink insects with ears for eyes, something along those lines? You’ve exhausted me with the possibilities, Q. Utterly exhausted me. I need a cooling beverage and a backrub. Except I hate backrubs more than anything in the world. One time, a woman gave me an unexpected backrub, and it tensed me up for a week, I hate them so much. DON’T TOUCH ME, Q.

Q:        How do you know if you have Tainted Love? –SOFT CELL

A:        This question could go in one of two ways, really, Soft Cell. If you’re asking if you have the totally bitchin’ song from 1981, I’d say listen for the line “once I ran from you, now I run to you.” That would be a good indication. Also, listen for synthesizers. They’re always a good indicator of 80’s music. I mean, from your name, and from the capitalization of your question, I would say that’s probably what you’re asking? But if you’re asking if your actual romance has been sullied, I’d start looking for tell-tale signs. Lipstick on the collar. Cell phone calls in the middle of the night. Cold sores. Crabs. Things of that nature.

Q:        Why are guys so complicated? –SAD IN MINNESOTA

A:        Aw. Aw, you. Well! That’s really the age-old question, isn’t it? Here. I’m going to do you two favors. First! MOVE OUT OF MINNESOTA. It’s COLD there! DAMN! You’re welcome. NOW! Second. If you don’t like complicated guys, look for stupid ones. They’re not that hard to spot. They usually hang out in places like county fairs and sports bars and Spencer’s Gifts, and they laugh really hard at jokes like “Git R Done” and “I Don’t Trust Anything that Bleeds for 5 Days and Doesn’t Die.” Then date that guy. Complicated? Not him! Easy as pie! Things will be smooth sailing for you, Sad! Problem solved, right? No, no, I don’t ask anything in return for your lifelong happiness. You don’t even have to invite me to the wedding! Really. Really, please don’t.

Q:        How do you get a guy to like you? –ALEX FORREST

            Well, Alex, a good question indeed! To “get” a guy to like you, you need a few things, ready? 1. Duct tape 2. Edible panties 3. One of those green plastic eye-shades that old-time accountants wear 4. A rotary-dial telephone 5. Three different colors of water-soluble food coloring. You wrote that down, didn’t you. Seriously, Alex? Sigh. OK, here’s the scoop. If you need to “get” a guy to like you, it’s not worth it. I’ve been around a while. If he doesn’t like you right off, he’s not going to start. Trust me. You can stalk him, you can write him tortured poetry, you can buy him things, you can attempt to seduce him in every way you know how, but it’s not going to work because he’s not interested. Not that I’ve done any of those things. Ha. I mean, who would do those things? Crazy people, that’s who. Ahem. Anyway. Just be patient, Alex. I know it’s tough, but someday, someone will like you, and you won’t have to “get” them to. Heads up, though, you certainly don’t boil his bunny or show up randomly in his house or take his kid! Shit. I just realized where I recognized your name from.

Q:        What should I wear to my boyfriend’s family party? – MEET THE

            PARENTS

A:        Clothes. But not hookery ones. Unless his family is into that. I don’t know. Are they WASP-y? Then probably try to fit into that paradigm. If they’re trashy, showing up in couture is probably going to make them think you feel like you’re “better than them” and they might beat you up behind the dumpster that they use for their barbeque pit/family swimming pool. Maybe just wear khakis and a decent shirt of some sort without a stain on the left boob and hope like hell they’re not nudists.

Q:        I just found out that my brother has done heroine twice? – BIG SIS

A:        Holy crap, seriously? WHICH ONE? Wonder Woman? Catwoman? Harley Quinn? Vixen? Supergirl? Mystique? Are they going steady? Will she be coming over to your house? You might become BFF’s. She might become your SISTER-IN-LAW. How awesome would THAT be? He’d better not cheat on her, though. Because if he does, I think the retribution might be swift and pretty bloody. THIS IS TOTALLY AMAZING, Big Sis. My congratulations. I couldn’t be more excited for you! Oh, you probably want advice. I’d say, play it cool, and tell your brother to eat plenty of lean protein, as she probably has a lot of stamina and he’ll want to keep up. And have fun! What an exciting time for you and your brother!

Q:        How can I convince my future mother-in-law not to come to my bachelorette party? – BRIDE TO BE

A:        Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, BTB! I guess I have a question for you. I know, I know. You’re asking ME for advice. Sorry. I have to ask. Is this a thing? Mother-in-laws coming to bachelorette parties? Because isn’t it for your friends and such? How awkward would it be if you were making out with a male stripper while you’re wearing a light-up penis hat and a pin that says “MY LAST NIGHT OF FREEDOM” and your future mom-in-law was watching? Totally awkward, is how. Are you sure she even wants to come? If so, I’d say, a few minutes before she’s supposed to leave for the party, send a male escort over to her house to “fix her pipes” or “deliver her a pizza” or whatever it is the cover story is they use in porno. And then she won’t come because she’ll be too busy “having sex with a prostitute.” There you go!

Q:        Two of my BM’s can’t get along. Advice, please? – SOON-TO-BE-

            MRS

A:        I’m sorry. I’ve had the giggles since I read this, because I wasn’t aware that bridesmaids was abbreviated “BM”? And in my world, in which a toddler is a major part, bowel movement is abbreviated that way? And I couldn’t understand why two of your bowel movements couldn’t get along and it was really an icky but funny mental picture, to tell you the truth? OK. Let’s get it together, here. I am a very serious advice columnist, after all. Someone I know had this issue, and the bride was a total Bridezilla and fired the one I liked. So is that the problem, STBM? Are you a Bridezilla? Are you always yelling at people and smacking your groom about the face and neck and such? Maybe you need to check yourself before you wreckedy-wreck yourself?

Q:        How do I make the voice in my head stop singing the “Alvin & the Chipmunks” theme song? –CRAZY MAKING

A:        This IS a tough one. Well, I think there are two ways you can do this. One, replace it with a different earworm – I recommend Tainted Love, which has been running NON-STOP in my head since I answered that question above, THANKS A LOT, Soft Cell, sheesh – or, two, do a lot of drugs and/or alcohol, which should cause you to black out (no songs in your head when you’re dead to the world!) and then wake up with a raging hangover (again, no room for songs when you’ve got a headache like a drum in there!) Or, I suppose, you could do a type of immersion therapy, and force yourself to watch the Alvin and the Chipmunks movies. But I really wouldn’t recommend that. (Side note - were you aware that my super-hot secret boyfriend, Matthew Grey Gubler, plays one of those chipmunks? Distressing!)

Q:        How do you deal with a legion of friends who play “Vampire the Masquerade” and it just creeps you out?!?!?! –GAMERGRRL

A:        I didn’t know what this was, so I looked it up because listen, anything for you people. And although the Wikipedia article was kind of confusing and had a lot of words in it I didn’t quite understand, I gather that this is an RPG. Now, is it an RPG like I remember D&D being when I was a kid and the boys wouldn’t let me play and I really wanted to and they would roll dice and it looked fun because those dice had so many awesome sides and you got to make things up and also there was an episode of Community that made D&D seem awesome as long as you play it with the right people? Or is it a scary RPG where the people walk around in costume and pretend to be the characters and it’s hard to tell where reality ends and their weirdness begins and they have crazy eyes? My advice, GamerGrrl, is if it creeps you out, bring along a stake or some garlic or a cross, and when they’re getting too douchey, wield them at your friends and tell them to stay back. They will have to, right? Because they’re “vampires”? And then you can go off and do something productive like read or watch True Blood or whatever you like to do.

Q:        How do you face fears... like... say... fear of dolls or stupid Disney creatures? –SCARRED4LIFE

A:        Honestly, I HAVE NO IDEA. This QUESTION is horrifying to me. Why would you WANT to face these fears? Because dolls and characters in suits WILL STEAL YOUR SOUL. Don’t face them! RUN FAR FAR AWAY. And then wherever you end up, line your windowsills and doors with salt like they do on Supernatural because that keeps out the baddies. Dolls and furries. Good gracious, Scarred4Life! I’m not even going to be able to sleep tonight now. I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY.

Q:        How do you deal with overly fake people? Because you know my answer is gasoline and blowtorch. –KICKASS MCGEE

A:        Let me tell you a story, Kickass. Once, I came across an overly fake person. But I knew that person was being fake, because I’d heard from a mutual friend that the fake person hated me, and was saying shit behind my back. But whenever the fake person would see me, the fake person would be all, “Oh! How ARE you! So nice to SEE you! Blah blah BLAH blah! Fakety fake fake fake!” And I wanted to throw up in my mouth a little. So what I did was sit the fake person down and say, “Listen, fake person, how can we work out our differences to a mutually pleasing solution?” and we talked, and laughed, and I think we both left a little richer in knowing one another that day. Oh, wait, that didn’t happen. Really, what happened is I refused to talk to the fake person and would always be scowling when they came around and made it so uncomfortable for the fake person to be around me that the fake person, to this day, won’t come to places where I will be, and tells people that they think I might be “unhinged.” Well, Fake McFake Fake, take a look in your mirror of fakeness, and see which one of us is missing hinges, why don’t you? Oh. This is kind of becoming about me, isn’t it. I suppose the adult way to deal with them is just to smile and nod and limit your exposure to them as much as possible and try to put yourself in their shoes? But the CORRECT way to deal with it is your way. But once you’ve killed them, don’t come to me for body-disposal advice. I seriously just don’t know what to do. Maybe bury it? Somewhere that’s not here? I don’t know.

Well! This has been very productive AND helpful! If you would like your questions answered in a future edition of Dear Lucy, don’t hesitate to send me an email. Unless your question is stupid. Or if it’s serious. Or time-sensitive. OK, I really have a lot of disclaimers on this. I AM A VERY GOOD ADVICE COLMNIST DAMMIT.