I don’t know why I buy fashion magazines, I really don’t. I don’t know why I buy any magazine really, it’s one of those things I do like order the Wisconsin Mac & Cheese from Noodles & Company when I’m both lactose intolerant and bad with wheat, or change the channel to Toddlers & Tiaras. I know I’m just spending time and money to bring about my own eventual paralyzing agitation, but I can’t help myself. Like a fat Georgian housewife to televised child abuse.
Flipping through the September 2012 issue of Elle, I only managed to hit a couple articles before
my diarrhea ended and I got off the toilet I wanted to turn into she-Hulk and beat everyone around me with a blunt object.
The first was an old blurb about old women making music again and why we should care. There wasn’t much attention to genre or any overarching trend, just you know, here are some olds who play instruments. Diana Krall. Gwen Stefani. Tori Amos. Aimee Mann. Not being treated as women with long, insanely successful careers, and dedicated fan bases who have you know, changed the face of music, just like, ‘hey remember when it was 1993 and there was that lady that temporarily made it alright to like jazz? Yeah she is like still alive or something.’
That’s not satire, that’s a near exact quote.
The one that really
chapped my ass got my panties in a twist caused my tampons to grow arms and try to punch everyone at Hearst in the goddamn face was their describing Aimee Mann’s lyrics as “Twitter-sharpened.” Are you kidding me? Are you attributing anything about the verbal dexterity of a woman who has been making music since 1982 to a ephemeral internet phenomenon where 12-year-olds go to threaten to kill Justin Bieber’s recess partners? And you’re supposed to be making a magazine for women?
The second was a longer piece on actress/comedian Leslie Mann which I admittedly did not finish because there is only so much excess verbiage I can take. I don’t know if this is a new trend or just something I was too stupid to notice or magazines have come under new regulations to make more words or something, but every article I read is like 90% “as she nibbled on a plate of truffles made from cocoa beans from the finest of Peru and dabbled with gold foil mined by the orphans of same-sex Swedish amputees; in a Bengali cat hair woven blazer by Alexander McQueen in a capsule collection for Imitation of Christ available only in countries beginning with the letter S…” and 10% press release. Like word for word press release.
All I know is I know more about Leslie Mann’s cardigan than I do about Leslie Mann. It was described as “filmy.” I’m not sure that’s really a complimentary adjective for a cardigan. Some venti Americano’d out intern was probably sent to thesaurus.com to look up a synonym for gauzy or diaphanous which are according to my own personal studies are the #1 and #2 adjectives respectively to appear in fashion magazines. S/he probably went a little astray, like how Timbaland knew vaguely what promiscuous meant, but not enough to know it wasn’t a compliment.
And then we all spent 2006 lining Nelly Furtado’s bank account.
Anyways, back to the article, it just seemed like it was apologizing for claiming Leslie Mann was funny for a woman, like it had some primitive notion that that idea is sexist, but had no idea how else to describe her. There were a lot of lines like ‘she’s not just funny in scenes with Paul Rudd!’ or ‘this is a film where women take center stage, but don’t worry you’ll laugh at it!’ It was like watching a toddler at the mall scream “look at that fat person!” and when scolded by their parents they give that look that says “I am vaguely aware I did something wrong, but that person is fat, what else do you want me to do.”
Oh and Leslie Mann is also really hot you guys. Remember that. She is 40 but she can pass for 25. Her skin is poreless and she wears skinny jeans even though she has two children.
When I was 12 or 13-ish, it was my dream to play this song at my wedding. I wanted to be married on either October 18th or October 21st, I just thought those were perfect dates. I wanted a dress that corseted up the back and to wear black and white checkered Vans. I wanted to walk down the aisle to the string part of The All-American Rejects’ “Swing, Swing.” Rufio’s “One Slow Dance” would obviously also be in the rotation.
I started writing this so we could all have a good collective laugh at my expense, but now that I’m thinking about it, it was kind of sweet really. I still love all three of those songs and will ensure they are all played at my actual wedding so the dream stays alive. My heart could still be captured by those songs a decade (a DECADE!) later. Honestly by the end of the night the Vans might get broken out as well.
So I tweeted about my glorious day on Friday
Splints out, Panera has lovely new packaging, took a fine nap, might go get a Doritos Locos taco n watch some motherfucking Ghost Adventures
First of all, I will recognize the grievous error in that tweet. Clealy I meant “get Doritos Locos tacos” not “a Doritos Locos taco.” Who goes to Taco Bell and buys one taco.
Somewhere in between planning to get tacos (I actually went and got a smoked turkey, egg & cheese crepe because it was closer, Taco Bell is the only fast food restaurant I DON’T live close to) and watching Ghost Adventures something went terribly awry.
You guys, I was literally struck with a case of constipation so severe I contemplated suicide. It is possible. There was no lead up. My sister literally has a term for the lead up to constipation. Everything isn’t functioning fine and then you’re magically constipated. You hear the train coming miles away. You keep eating a lot of oatmeal and microwavable food and go “I know I should throw something that isn’t a carb in here, but I am too fucking lazy.” And then you pay the price. It’s the circle of life.
But I was literally on the toilet with what Clementine from Rad Girls so beautifully termed “the poo chills” for 3 hours trying to push something out. Intermittently I got down on my knees and either prayed to God or tried to throw up. I mean I literally had a suicidal level of cramping and bloating. I think I actually prayed that “if anything up there cares about my life at all, and wants me to live, please give me a sign” I was going to crawl the six inches to the bathtub and slit my wrists.
Which brings the bigger issue of every time I have been suicidal in my life, or asked for help from some sort of larger entity, I have gotten nothing. I should be a fucking atheist. The only reason I’m not is because I’m a masochist and an idiot.
But back to the poop.
Eventually I gave up trying and crawled on to the couch in the living room to try to find some solace in the chilliness of its leather and watch Zak and Miri Make a Porno on mute. My Mom came out and saw me in tears and was like what the fuck is wrong with you? And I had to tell my Mom about my suicide-level constipation. She gave me some milk of magnesia and tried to give me the most Mom-support you can give someone who is suffering from something that is as empathy-less as doody troubles.
I somehow managed to fall asleep for like two hours and spent the rest of the night violently shitting my brains out in like 10 minute intervals. It’s like my body wouldn’t just let me get it all over with at once. I had to crawl back in bed to my Comedy Central and my club soda and my body pillow, trying to find some comfort in Daniel Tosh’s beautiful face, my guardian angel of poo, knowing I was going to be up again 10 minutes later. Sometimes the gravity of just standing up was enough to knock some more out.
The human body is stupid.
After being awake all night, I got up zombie-eyed at 2PM, afraid to eat anything, had a conversation with my Mom that I can’t remember, but she claims I was acting really weird, and went back to bed.
I then had this horrible fucking dream that Eddie Vedder was dating my Mom, but he wasn’t cool Eddie Vedder, he was a dick. He was a dick who wanted to go to Mongolian Barbeque. And I got mad that Eddie Vedder was dating my Mom and he was a dick and we were in Mongolian Barbeque so I poured a glass of water and ruined my mother’s salad (for real my Mom would go to Mongolian Barbeque and find a way to order salad.) And Eddie Vedder redecorated my room and he did a real shitty job of it. God, fuck you Eddie Vedder.
It’s going to be a long time before I listen to Pearl Jam again.
THEN TODAY, I woke up hysterically crying. For the entire day, I have not been able to get a word out without busting in to tears. I can’t even talk. I can’t even think. Literally crying for like 15 straight hours. My Mom’s trying to show me these turkey croissants she picked up at Costco and I’m just like *sob* those look *sob* nice *sob* I mean I know what I’m sad about, but in 23 years, from grumpy baby, to sullen teen, to Elizabeth Wurtzel-y college student, I have never been less able to hold my shit together. It’s been bizarre. I tried to sleep just to avoid trying to avoid crying and I just had a nightmare someone was preforming a tracheotomy on me. I wasn’t in pain, but I was paralyzed, and due to my unfortunate obsession with medical facts, I know full well how tracheotomies are done. Which cricoids to go after. How many incisions are made. Vertical or horizontal. So it was pretty rough.
I also had a dream me and Avril Lavigne were besties. I think I was like her tour manager or something? We were at some sort of underground mall. I don’t know.
So it’s 8:30 now and the crying has finally ceased due to a combination of Percoset left over from my septum surgery and a McDonald’s Iced Caramel Mocha. Pain killers and creamy sugar. Who knew.
And yes, the irony this whole thing could have been bypassed by going the extra mile to Taco Bell, which certainly would not have left me constipated, is not lost on me.
I’m looking in the good life that I might be doomed never to find