“The truth shall set you free.”
One of my favorite biblical sayings, that one, because there's nothing quite so liberating as finding out people think you're an asshole, or your wife/husband/lover thinks you suck in bed, or you have halitosis. Liberating! It sucks, but hey: I know!
Having said that, I have long suspected some people need to be set free because they are far too stupid to be left in their current state. These people need, in my view, to be liberated from their stupidity. All the better to move on, likely to an entirely new and enlightened level of stupidity.
I possess the instrument with which I can set these poor souls free today. It is called a Big Fat Mouth and a bad attitude. Read up, buttercup – these lot are no better than DP ever offered, but God knows they're at least as bad.
Originals are found here: http://www.slate.com/id/2235351/.
Plain Jane – Having a little trouble hearing you over the sound of violins playing the sad, sorrowful dirge that is the dull and wholly implausible soundtrack to your vapid, unattractive life. Let's recap: You think you are pretty as a bag of lunch meat. You are unaware that most of the world's population fits this category, because Cosmo and People says you are ugly since you haven't been seen at parties with Paris and Lindsay and Brittney and all the other “perfect” girls. Your friends want you to go out, find a guy (any guy, oh for the love of all that's holy, PLEASE just find one) and get yourself fucked like a rabid animal so you'll stop whining and annoying them with your patheticfulness, and now you have gone to Dear Prudie to ask – probably for the hundred-thousandth time in your pitiable, sad, horrible life – whether you are dogmeat or dreamcake, as if these are the only two choices.
Truth is, you are probably not stupid, although you are acting like it. I say this because as I said above; the truth will set you free. So how do you like this freedom?
Aaaaanyhoo. Sorry you're so gawdawfully ugly. Must suck for you. The rest of us, beautiful and fresh as spring dew, are all partying with A-listers and posing for GQ/Vanity Fair (I personally prefer to do GQ covers, myself. I am so goddamn handsome) and having terrific sex with all our supermodel friends all the time, and we have no pity for pathetic horror-movie lookers like you. I have to rush with my answers today, in fact: J-Lo called and wants to drop by and have a hot tub with me and Denise Milani (who is built like every other girl in the world, you know) and Bar Rafaeli and Megan Fox and a host of other so-so average-looking girls. That Megan, she's SO smart, though! Makes up for her plainness.
I'd ask you to join, but...you know. Your ucky-yucky looks, all that. Too bad for you.
Now here, in actual reality land, we have stretch marks and sagging skin and veiny legs and “plain” looks and most of us still seem to operate within a level of contentment that isn't debilitating to the degree that we hide behind heavily adjective-laden depictions of ourselves as less than superstar material. We revel in our plainness, it seems, although it's hard to find someone who buys into the commercials from Dove wherein “normal” women are used to advertise their product, because...well someone sold us a bill of goods that stated we are required though human prerogative to be better looking than we are, and we occasionally fall for it.
Um. Who sold it to you? Rhetorical. Never mind.
Anyway, to answer the questions you already know the answers to – but refuse to listen to because it gives you the right to be the one and truly only Plain Jane and avoid the responsibility of having to deal with everyone else's shit and wallow in your own:
How do you find out? Stop asking. Seriously. Believe it, don't believe it, all this asking is a waste of your and everyone else's time and it's likely driving everyone you know out of their fucking skulls.
Does it matter whether you are objectively attractive? You tell us, sweetie, because you seem to be the only one so deeply affected by your looks. So: does it?
Now if you'll excuse me: Marissa Miller dropped by and is once again begging to be seen with me in public somewhere. She's, you know, fairly good-looking (but my God - all those freckles!), although I'd rather be seen with Lucy Pinder, but at my age I can't be too choosy, and besides Lucy's giving my extremely handsome neighbor a naked hot oil massage today.
Holiday Hell – Gee, nothing can fuck up a family gathering faster than a gathering with family, huh? Recap: for 7 years your sister in law has done everything wrong at Thanksgiving, because your family has always done everything right. There can be only one, for the universe has decreed there shall be only one, and lo, you are The One, and that is as it should be and ever will be, lightning and thunder and big scary laughter reverberates in the hills and all that dramatically ambiguous B-movie noise. Aaaaanyway, you want to dip on her yearly shitty failure of a stupid sloppy not-fun Thanksgiving in favor of a flawlessly prepared and perfect party hosted by yours truly, because let's face it, you (being The One and all that) are better than her. You are on the fence, also, about your own ability to make a decision which any 5 year old could make regarding having your own shindig, this despite your lack of confusion at the perfection of all that is you.
Wow. This is really all very stupid.
First, I'll skip to the answer for your question: Should you plan your own turkey day extravaganza? The answer is: who gives a shit? Do it, don't do it, it's academic at this point, really. You are going to do it anyway, so quit pretending to hem and haw and agonize over it as if your SIL (who probably already despises you) is going to despise you after, no matter who you ask for permission, even Dear Prudie, which is almost like asking maybe Gandhi or God or something.
BTW – I asked my best chum Megan (you know, Fox, who came by to sit in the glow of my supernatural good looks and discuss philosophy) her opinion, and she said “uhh, I dunno.” She's soooo smart!
Next, the problem isn't your SIL's party or their family or your family or kids or loud goddamn televisions or what fucking time you eat dinner. It's you. I had an acquaintance who once said “gawd, I HATE going to my in-laws for Thanksgiving.” When I made some placatory noises and mentioned something about in-laws sometimes being hard to handle she said “no, no no no. I absolutely LOVE my mother in law. But she puts fennel in the stuffing.”
“You can't stand her, huh? I asked. “Um, no,” she finally said. “Is it that obvious?”
It was, and it is. This sort of dissembling is usually best reserved for tweenaged girls, when discussing their hatred for the other tweenaged girls 'cause they get to hand out with cuter boys.
Now shoo, little asshole, and go plan your perfectly perfect Thanksgiving perfection party, and enjoy the fallout. It'll be great, when SIL learns The Truth! Why, it'll set her free!
Feeling Like an Accomplice – Indeed, I could understand why you would feel like an accomplice, but you're not, and the truth is you are well and truly fucked, 'cause there's no good way out of this one. There's freedom for you. You aren't the stupid one this time though: she is, and maybe he. Let's review: Doctor Drillsalot is your employer, and his wife works there too, but she is double dipping on the billing and committing insurance fraud because, you know, those dentists never make the big bucks like plastic surgeons do. You know about this little dash for extra cash, and cannot un-know what you know. Anyway, your gut says “turn her in” and your heart says “this is going to suck a donkey's giant puckered hee-hawing butthole, ''cause that's one nice dentist.”
No matter what, you cannot stay there unless you are cool with the whole “illegal” thingy, which you aren't. Best bet? Gather real and incontrovertible evidence of this fraud, hand it to Commander Lidocaine, and walk away. What, you still want to try to save your job? Hah! Never happen, sister. Anyway, this leaves him the option of knowing the truth (see, you're about to set him free. Isn't that special?) and also the responsibility of setting things straight.
There are no good alternatives. Sorry. Freedom is awesome, though!
Strike Out – Gimme a second. Can't stop laughing. Be right with you.
M'kay, let's recap: your husband is a stereotypical scentless brain fart on legs who likes sports and generally acts like a mouth-breathing knuckle-dragging regressed male of the species in your presence. You, on the other hand, are the perfect fucking confluence of Mother Theresa, Wonder Woman, Indiana Joan, and SuperGirl incarnate, and you want all the attention and respect that being completely and unequivocally fucking awesome demands.
How stupid is this? Answer? Veeeery stupid.
Let's first answer your question: How can you let him know that it means a lot to be able to share your feelings and experiences with him? Gee. What a tough question. Lemme see.
“Honey, it means a lot to be able to share my feelings and experiences with you.”
“Listen up, chintz-dick: you want to put that thing of yours in any orifice of my body, you better fucking act like a caring and attentive husband, 'cause otherwise I am shutting you off like a goddamn switch, and you get to hump your fist for the holidays. Pass the goddamn potatoes.”
“Here. This is from my attorney. You go get your own attorney. Move out, meantime.”
Whatever – I think a trip to see your local Dr. Phil is in order, because this dunderheaded dipshittery is just as vanilla and boring and bland as every other couple of an age: he just “doesn't understand” what's important to you any more, and you “feel so distant,” and everything just became...whatever, fill in the blanks, Ms. Real Housewife of Everywhereville.
Wanna fix it? Go on a romantic cruise. He's still disenchanted? See a counselor. He won't go? Get that lawyer. He either cares or he doesn't, and you either know it or you don't, and regardless the fact that even if what you said happened was exactly the case, which means he's being an enormously assholish dickhead, regardless: you seem to be the one who'll need to take action, unless you can peel him away from the game long enough to get a consensus ad hoc.
And so you are on the path to set about finding the truth. Are you ready to be set free? Have a nice journey, Moon Beam.
Turns out I DID have H1N1 last week, which is actually kind of cool, and actually not. Cool, because I lived to tell the tale and am now chock-full of ready and able antibodies, so when the not-cool happens I will be there for my sick kids and wife (she's a student too, and headed into finals), who will in most likelihood fall ill any day now. Tick tock, tick tock.
That was one nasty-ass flu, too. With the exception of Rubella at age 19, I don't recall ever being that sick in my life. 10 days since it started, I still have a cough that juuuuust won't quite go away.
Ah, well. Always knew I was a swine. Oink.
Until next week,