Chelsea Handler Part Deux

 I finished Are You There Vodka, It’s Me, Chelsea with vim and vigor. Chelsea Handler is, hands down, one of the best comedic writers I know of (other than my brother). Now maybe some of you with, say, CABLE have known her for a while, but I’ve been working with rabbit ears and 5 channels for going on 4 years. I’m just glad I have access to the type of book that would proudly proclaim, “I went out with a guy who once told me I didn’t need to drink to make myself more fun to be around. I told him, ‘I’m drinking so that you’re more fun to be around.’” I can relate. And frankly, reading that book has gotten me back in touch with my mouthier, more cynical side—the one I didn’t think would be useful for enlightenment of my 30’s. I suppose it also helps that I’m not spending 8 hours a day in front of a bunch of teenagers, guarding my words, and biting my tongue when I really want to say, “Hey, little shitweed, go sit your little ass in that chair, shut the f—k up and read chapter 5.” Not that I would ever say that, but the thought has crossed my mind a few times.

I had to shell out the cash to buy a stupid textbook for my little web design class (I think I keep calling it “little” since it’s probably going to do “little” for me and my “little” career search). I was a “little” disturbed when I learned that the class is dedicated to Dreamweaver and Macs. I DON’T OWN A MAC! I HATE MACS! (And I accidentally muttered this, “I hate Macs” when the prof set us off onto a tutorial of Dreamweaver. I kept closing out the pages, in efforts of trying to enlarge. Who knew they didn’t enlarge? And who in hell doesn’t want their entire screen covered with whatever your focus is supposed to be? I know who! Those of us who should probably consider a current eye exam!). I was even more disturbed when the prof let us out an hour early. For the first time in my life (other than that one time in an alley), I was thinking, “HEY! I PAID FOR THAT HOUR! TEACH ME SOMETHING, MOFO!”

I drove off to my local Barnes and Noble, armed with a 20% off coupon. Of course I wandered around the store, collecting a dozen books that I can’t afford before finding Dreamweaver 8. I dropped all 12 items of my little library collection when I spotted My Horizontal Life: A collection of one night stands, by none other than my new personal guru, Chelsea Handler. Now, I’ve never considered having a serious relationship with a woman, let alone a sexual one, but I’m pretty sure I would marry her if I lived in California.

When they just disappear…

 (This is from a forum I belong to..instead of writing a response in that crazy place, I’ll stick to my “safe” little journal nook)

“Are there legitimate reasons for disappearing within days of a good first date?”

I had to think back to a time when I actually went on dates…a long, long, long time ago…a gilded age, a time when I may have actually not given as much of a shit. Here’s my conclusion:

I have NO problem ditching after date 1 (as long as I didn’t spend 6 months emailing with the person….which is why I keep trying to advocate the JUST F——G ASK ME OUT adage, instead of this friggin’ penpal BS).

Here’s the thing with ditching early on and why I really don’t (or haven’t since last September) feel too guilty doing it: No one needs an explanation that may include (and yes, there are ALL based on real experiences),

“No, really. You’re not funny.”

or

“The thought of kissing you makes me want to throw up in my mouth”

or

“You’re 3 inches shorter than your profile says you are…and frankly I can’t date short liars.”

or

“You never mentioned living with your mom and/or illegitimate 3 year old son in your profile.”

or

“Seriously, unless we muscle f— over this whole ebony/ivory/liberal/conservative stuff, I see no future in the situation.”

or

“You kind of ruined the entire evening when you suggested that I was leaving too much of a tip for the waitress who dealt with your weird food order, rude comments, etc. If you’re too cheap to tip a waitress a well-deserved tip, you’re not for me.”

or

“You’re really cool, but it kind of pissed me off that despite our numerous emails and several phone calls, you never once mentioned your lazy eye. It pissed me off a little more that I never noticed how all of your photos hide that EYE.”

Instead of making EVERYONE uncomfortable, you disappear. Easy.

Now, I need to insist that this doesn’t really work as well if the person has turned into an email buddy. In that case, I have no suggestions. I can only say that there are a few men in Buffalo who probably reeeeally don’t like me. (So I wrote about someone’s small penis in a blog that I never thought ANYONE would ever find!? Sue me! In my defense, when the guy emailed me a fiery note, proclaiming that he FOUND it, after nearly peeing my pants with nervous, hysterical laughs, I typed something like, “Yeah, but did you see the part where I said that you were the best kisser?”

I’m pretty sure there’s one thing a woman can NEVER discuss with a man and recover: his small penis. And for future reference, don’t write about it in an obscure blog. Just tell your friends, but make sure it’s not that one friend who spills everything after a few beers…

New Books

Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen…My great grandfather on my Dad’s side supposedly hopped a train in Oneida, NY and joined the circus for a few years. Reading this is making me want to do a little research and see if those family legends are true. If you’re into Depression era history, animals, and the old roadshows, this is a must read.

Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler (think: Are you there, God? It’s Me Margaret). I’m on summer “break” and caught her interview on the Today show this morning. You can actually check out the first chapter here.This part had me laughing:

The problem with being the youngest of six children is that my father had me when he was forty-two years old, resulting in what I like to refer to as “severe generational gappage.” That, coupled with the fact that he was born without the embarrassment gene, left us little in common. It would have seemed completely appropriate to my father for me to hold a press conference in the school’s auditorium the next day, wearing a helmet with a maxipad stuck to my forehead while announcing into a microphone that I’ve been a “bad, bad girl, and I’ve also been known to sh*t in my pants.”