I don’t know who started this campaign and or why but I’m ready to join! Put me in coach – my new nipples are ready to play! Well almost. Thats right – new nipples who dis? While other women are out there shoving plastic body parts into their torsos to make it look like Barbie moved in up under her tank top – i was taking a knife to the nip and making them the perfect fit to my smaller G cup to B cup boobies. I’ll never understand getting your breasts enlarged. Lifted maybe – but enlarged? Why add a shelf to a perfectly lovely wall? You can’t hang anything on a shelf. Duh. Unfortunately my left boob settled in kind of a wacky way and while ‘One Wonky Boob’ would have been a good name for a second book – I had been waiting years to fix mine. My plastic surgeon however had been waiting years to trim my nips. She said they were way too big now and I had to agree – they were starting to point down and quite frankly the nether region is another body part that could use less pointing to and so I agreed to slice and dice.
My surgery was scheduled for thursday. I decided to quit smoking pot for a couple of weeks before the surgery as I don’t think anyone understands how it mixes with anesthesia and if I recalled correctly – the last time I had surgery I wound up puking into a target bag in a strip mall in front of a really handsome man. I wasn’t taking any chances this time. The night before the surgery the anesthesiologist called to go over my medical history. When I proudly proclaimed I was weed free he said “well that was dumb.” Perfect. Thanks. But still I abstained. I took an uber to the surgery because you have to be picked up and wheeled out when you’re done. It was an outpatient surgery. You can heal at home or in one of those swanky LA recovery places. I’ve been in one of those. It’s like heavens waiting room for the people who spent a little extra money getting pretty for God. I would heal at home with my friend Chelsea providing nursing duties. She can’t boil water but she loves looking at weird scars and popping other peoples zits so i thought she was the perfect choice. She also volunteered. Because she’s an angel sent from heaven.
Right before I went into the operating room – I changed into my robe and shower cap and booties and immediately took a selfie. Then I deleted it because I didn’t want that to be the last picture of me on my phone when I woke up dead because I decided to undergo the all important nipple trim wonky boob fix surgery. My doctor came in and drew on my boobs and nipples and said something about taking fat from one and stitching the other and blah blah blah “I”m going to give you ballerina boobs” and that was all I needed to hear. She could have said – in order to do his I need to pull your anus up through your throat and so you’ll be shitting out of your mouth for the rest of your life but I didn’t care. I was going to have ballerina boobs. Then the hot anesthesiologist came in. Ladies – find a hot man who can legally knock you out and make him your own. This is a life goal. He asked me if I wanted to “walk into the OR like a champ.” I didn’t know what this meant – but we walked in and I immediately freaked out. Instruments and lights and knives and this is not how patients on Grey’s Anatomy do shit – please knock me out. The next thing I remember was Chelsea standing next to my bed and her beautiful smiling face – videotaping me – with my permission – because thats what good friends to do each other. I tried to argue the wheelchair exit away but they weren’t hearing it and in fact I was so drugged when I left that I could have been strapped to an alpaca for all I knew. Was I chelsea?
Once home – Chelsea made dinner. I have the video to prove it – and I proceeded to ignore all the home care instructions despite nurse not so ratchet reminding me. Don’t eat salt. Eat super mild. Relax. I got super high and ate everything in sight and had an amazing night on the couch. I paid the price the next day with 24 hours of vomiting and a distended stomach that could rival a poor starving child. For three days I’ve been stopped up more than a pinata at a blind kids birthday party but I”m officially now on the mend after taking all the gas x and unfortunately finding out the hard way you don’t need TWO little dulcolax pills. My boob area looks like I was rammed by a car head on – and god knows whats happened to my poor nipples but I sure hope we got it right this time because I don’t think I”ll be doing more elective surgery anytime soon. Well maybe my neck. It looks so much older than my nipples now.
The truth is – I was never really surprised by the fucked up things men did to me. Confused, disgusted, horrified, annoyed – yes – but never surprised. I think I read the instruction booklet they come with at a very early age and committed it to memory – and so when I played with them – it was my own fault for opening the box that wasn’t meant for girls over the age of 13 anyway. I’m not saying I forgive men for their sometimes dastardly deeds – I’m saying I was raised at a time when you were taught that they suck and are dangerous and are not meant to be trusted with your heart and emotions. Sorry dudes – but when I was born in 1960 – girls were raised to believe we were the lesser creatures and taught how to deal with it. I chose to be loud and fight. Others chose to marry them – have their children – divorce them – and are now struggling for their independence without them. The problem is – I never got those global warnings about my relationships with women – and these are the people who have hurt me the most. The surprise i feel has been reserved for the women who have fucked me over and over and over again – and almost always in the name of men.
Watch two young women meet each other on the street or in a bar or anywhere actually and follow their eye lines. They immediately look each other up and down from head to toe. They are literally sizing up their competition – because somehow it’s been ingrained in our brains that we are competing with each other – for jobs, for men, for anything and everything. They immediately start talking to each other about how they respectively look and it’s all done through a series of lies they will then take back to another female friend and gossip about horrifically. You know you do it. And it’s not just how we look – it’s how we live our lives that can spark an intense jealousy.
In the workplace I have had male bosses who grabbed me, pinched me, showed me pics of their dicks, and generally made me feel like I wasn’t worthy to be a part of the big picture of whatever show I was working on. I got louder, prouder, and eventually became a part of the conversation – shoving myself where I wasn’t supposed to be. But its the female bosses who have left their indelible marks on me. The one who told me I was stupid. The one who told me I was a terrible writer. The one who tried to steal my boyfriend. The one who physically threatened me. The one who tried to sue me. I could go on but I won’t. I’ve even done it myself. I once told a female writer in my room to start acting like a dude because all of her female empowerment speeches were shutting the men down and they weren’t pitching. I should have told them to sack up and act like women. Over the years I realized that I seem to bring out the worst in women bosses – and so I stayed away. I’m not so much of a threat anymore and so its becoming easier – but when i walk into a meeting with a new woman – they still size me up and down. They stare at my tattoos and to see if they can find some deep inner meaning to them. It’s easier with men now because I”m sexually invisible. But its the women I crave to know and understand because I know we speak the same language. We have the same history.
Ladies – we never have each others backs. We are the first to slut shame, fat shame, or just plain shame shame each other. I do it all the time. I’m not proud of it. It’s like when you see a celebrity and her boyfriend breakup and you’re filled with joy – like he’s actually available now and he’s actually going to date you next. He’s not. We say – well she’s probably crazy so he dumped her. We never think it’s him. It probably is.
I never got married or had kids. It just didn’t happen for me. I have many reasons I believe why but it doesn’t matter. I now crave the company of good women. Part of it is that I’m now fifty seven and as I’ve said I’ve become completely invisible to the opposite sex. But its a shame its taken male abandonment to realize just how much I need women. It’s a shame we don’t realize that we are on the same team and while I know its not us versus them – it fucking is.
I’m sure someone smart has written a ton of books on this subject but who has time for that. I do have time for some lady hugs – so lets do that. Lets not wait until we hit our fifties to realize that we truly need each other. That we are all sisters in this family called life.
I hope the #metoo movement continues to bring women together because if we don’t have each others backs – we’re doomed.
I have always been the kind of person who would never tell someone NOT to pursue their dreams – until last night. Now I feel like if I don’t tell the people I watched attempt to perform comedy last night to please find something else to do in life – I will be doing a great disservice to not just them but to anyone else who is forced to sit through what they called “their acts.” Now I’m not saying this because they weren’t funny – and god knows they weren’t – I’m saying this because they were lazy and unfocused and obviously didn’t give a shit about what they were doing and my time. And let me tell you right now – my time is precious. Real Housewives of Atlanta was on last night and I chose to see you rather than tune in to that. That my friends is what we call SACRIFICE.
Now, Stand Up comedy is not for the faint of heart. Making a stranger laugh is one of the most difficult things to do. I may write funny things for a living but thankfully – other people have to put themselves on the line to make my words SOUND funny. I could never do it. I could never stand up in front of a crowd of people waiting for me to fail and tell jokes about my life – or lack thereof. I’d rather be one of the plants Harvey Weinstein jacked off into – in fact – I bet thats exactly what performing Stand Up feels like. So yeah, no, not doing that, thanks, gonna hide right over here and point fingers at the unfunny thank you very much.
So – last night I went to see a very small comedy show featuring some up and comers trying to make it in this very difficult world. I knew it was going to be a raw show I just didn’t know raw meant it would feel like someone was pulling my own skin up over my head while pulling my fingernails off and salt poured into the open crevices. There were a few laughs here and there but quite frankly the cavalier attitude of the people attempting to perform what they thought was comedy was the most insulting of all.
The emcee of the night was funny enough. He had some good stories to tell – no jokes but goodish stories – the ones he remembered at least. He seemed kinda high – but that may have been his act. In fact maybe everyone was fucking with me and that was all of their acts – not remembering their jokes and looking at bits of paper or their phones while doing stand up – yes one “standup” checked her phone every three seconds to see what her next joke was. She’d tell a joke and then – take out phone pause pause pause, scroll scroll scroll and then oh here it is my next joke. It didn’t help. Its four minutes people – not an hour – pull it the fuck together. Everyone who took the stage last night was highly unprepared to do comedy. Hey, there were highly unprepared to do anything. And quite frankly – it was rude. Now I’m not going to judge someones brand of comedy because it takes all kind of things to make all kinds of people laugh but if you’re going to get up on a stage and ask me to come see you, then you better have the decency to give a fuck about the words coming out of your mouth. At least remember your jokes. Is that too much to ask? Have a fucking routine and practice it until its perfect. I don’t go to work every day and say – hey – I’m just gonna write 8 pages of this script today. And I probably didn’t use the right format. In fact, I’m not sure if the characters are even the ones I was supposed to use. If comedy is your career of choice than have a tight fucking four minutes and practice it until it sings… not stumbles out of your mouth. It doesn’t matter if people laugh then, at least you know – you did the best you can do. Care about what you’re doing.
My favorite part of the night were the two improv troupes. The first was a group of three people who asked for a suggestion for a word from the audience. The word given was OCTOPUS. Then one of the girls just started talking about nothing. About two sentences in she was tapped out by one of the guys who also uttered about two sentences before he was cut off by the third guy who uttered two sentences. Now I studied improv for two years and while i wont be going on stage anytime soon – i have no idea what they were doing. They then did a few routines that were so painful and so pointless and had nothing at all whatsoever to do with comedy or Octopus that i just sat there with my head in my hands wondering – what the fuck is happening. Wheres the octopus? Why ask for a suggestion from the audience? The second improv troupe was actually worse because they just sat on stage after being given the word “LIBRARY” and talked as three high school kids in a library…. the entire time. No jokes. Just sitting around talking about books or something. Now, there are actual rules to improv. These rules have clearly never been taught to these people. My hair hurt it was so painful to watch. My eyeballs wanted to bleed. I was embarrassed for all of them and their lack of skills and caring. Kudos to the girl who told a holocaust joke that was funny. I laughed once. Then she yelled pussy over and over again and I kinda lost interest. She at least knew her act.
I want to support you and your new venture. I want to be the warm hug that helps comfort you into this dark terrible business – but quite frankly you’ve got to give a shit first.
“An Octopus walked into a library… ”
Two friends meet for dinner.
“Ohmigod I went to the most amazing…
“…restaurant. Yeah, I saw that.”
“Oh right. But after dinner we went to…”
“…that new play downtown. Yeah, I saw that.”
“I don’t know if I told you but…”
“…your mom is in the hospital. Yeah, I saw that.”
“Okay. Well, see you next week.”
This is the new dinner, or coffee, or workout meeting, or sidewalk meeting or any gathering thanks to social media and our pubic billboarding of our lives. No one needs to be told anything in person because everyone already knows everything. It turns out social media is the most unsocial creation ever. And its really putting a crimp in my social life and by crimp i mean no one has anything to talk about face to face anymore.
I am in constant turmoil about social media. On the one hand – I am my photographer fathers daughter and love to take pictures. On the other hand I don’t really know how many pictures of my dog in hats people need to see. Is a shot of me flinging a kettle bell around a gym that fascinating? Me thinks not. Did everyone need to know that my new shoes arrived? Gonna have to go with a no on that one. But. It seems we have this desire to have our photos and thoughts and lives broadcast to the world but when the world comes knocking live we don’t really want to answer the door or for that matter even know how to anymore. We’re creating the most anti social group of humans under the guise of social media. Sure you know what I’m doing for the five seconds you stare at my photo but what about the rest of the time? Everyone talks about the spectacular FOMO (mom – that means Fear Of Missing Out) that comes with looking at other peoples photos but what about the lack of connection with your actual friends that is happening thanks to this one second snapshot we’ve released to the masses. Sure you posted a shot of yourself having an amazing vegan meal but there were 23 other hours unaccounted for and because everyone is only posting happy pics of themselves we assume everyone is okay. I could have had my head shoved in a bucket of hot oil after that beet ahi and no one would know because i certainly didn’t post that. (It’s hard to get a good shot while your heads in hot oil)
So, call your friends and tell them a really fucking boring story that you didn’t put on social media. Or catch them up on your life – your real life – not the picture perfect one. Or ask them to tell you something that happened that you may not know about. They might care. I know I do. Sort of. If we’re super close. If not please don’t tell me because I’m busy posting a photo of my smoothie. It has dates in it!!
I am about to make some grand generalizations so calm the fuck down. Don’t write me a note – I don’t give a fuck.
So – it seems that a bunch of men in Hollywood are disgusting lecherous pigs who push their power on weaker people and take advantage of them. Hang on a second – let me go put on my big surprise face. Oh wait – I’m not surprised. I have had more disgusting shit said to me in my years in this business than i even remember – and yes – I’ve had someone force themselves on me – twice – and I was too drunk to stop it. If you have worked in the industry you have either seen or overheard someone doing or saying something inappropriate to someone else. Period. The end. No ifs ands or buts about it. It’s the nature of this business and it attracts a lot of good looking people who are sometimes banking on their looks to break in and are probably used to being hit on by fat pasty white people too old to handle their shit. And sometimes – in some of the cases we’re hearing about – it’s not just words and touches – its full on rape, assault, treacherous behavior from predators. And when all the dust settles from this – I hope we have a better understanding of how to talk to each other and how to behave – like fucking adults – because the truth is – it doesn’t matter if you just patted her or him on the ass – she didn’t ask you to do it, so keep your grubby chubby paws to yourself. She (or He) also didn’t ask you to comment on her tits, her hair, her ass, her anything – and that my friends is really the problem because it’s not Hollywood that has a harrassment problem – its America – and if you’re a woman, it’s with you from fucking birth. I’m starting to understand why certain religions cover their women up – cause you people can’t handle it when our knee caps are showing. I guess I’d have to do some research to see where it all started – how women became the pretty sex. The sex that is dressed up and sexed up for male pleasure. I’m sure there are scads of books I’m not will to read on how we became the ones focused on beauty and being beautiful and attracting the opposite sex as if its our job or our lives depended on it. And I guess our jobs of being wives and mothers does depend on us being pretty and snagging ourselves a good man. God knows you’re ostracized if you don’t have a man. What’s wrong with her? Why is she still single? It would be a very different world if it were the men who primped and pea-cocked and made themselves sexually desireable. I would safely venture to say that most men don’t leave the house and think about what they look like and I guarantee you almost EVERY woman does. And by the way – just because I spend a lot of time making myself look pretty doesn’t mean I’m doing it for you. I’m doing it because thousands of advertisers and magazines have told me my entire life to care about this shit and so I do. I can’t stop it and it’s not my fault. I mean – look at how women are judged for how they look? It’s never about how smart she is. It’s how pretty she is. Or how thin she is.
As newborns we come out of the womb and people say – look how pretty she is. As toddlers we get dressed up in adorable outfits and people touch us all the time. They pinch our cheeks and pat us on our heads and butts. You’re so pretty! You are going to be a beautiful bride. It’s banged into our heads. As teenagers we can’t wait to try on makeup and high heels and we dress ourselves in seductive outfits. We instantly become competitive with our girlfriends – over men. And they reinforce this behavior pitting us against each other. We spend all of our young influential years fighting off the incredibly strong sexual desires of these pimply faced adolescent men and are literally taught that that’s what we are there for. To fulfill their desires. We do everything physically possible to get boys and hope they will ask us out and eventually give us big shiny rings we can flash in other girls faces to make them feel bad. We dye our hair, wear makeup, get tighter dresses, get boob and ass implants. Please find me a woman that wants her tits bigger for herself. We don’t give a shit about tits. I had giant cans when i was younger and spent my entire life hiding them until i finally cut them off. It’s so nice to have a conversation with a man looking me in the eye for once because I took away his other focal point. To me – cleavage was a no no. Now where do you think that idea came from? Every time I revealed my boobs when I was younger I got – “Wow I didn’t know you had those.” Sigh. Then we get older and become invisible to the opposite sex because we are no longer what they are looking for. We’re too old, too loose, too wrinkly to whatever you stupid fucks. And now – because all those people who told us we’re pretty – don’t say it anymore – and we feel like crap all the time. What a horrible life of trying to be perfect and pretty and desireable. I know I’m fucking exhausted and I don’t see myself stopping anytime soon.
And lets talk about the competition with women – we don’t look at other pretty girls as potential friends – we look at them as women who will steal our boyfriends – why? because men will flirt with your friends and not give a shit. They are not in the same sexual game as us. They are fucking. We are mating.
Look at the television shows about women (and I watch them all) fighting with each other and destroying each others lives. It’s the most popular type of show on the airwaves. Women screaming at each other and treating each other like shit. Is there a male equivalent to this? Sports? Men don’t watch these show by the way. They just set us up to act like this and then run until the dust settles. Then they laugh at us and say – women don’t get along with each other. Well you know what – we would if we pulled you mother fuckers out of the equation. I know there’s nothing interesting about watching a show where women all get along with each other but I’d watch a show where they all tell the cheating beating men in their lives to fuck off.
And I think in general we need to call people on their shit more. I’ve been harassed by horrible mean women in this life as well. But I’ve always used my voice and not worried about the consequences of calling out my abusers – when i’m aware of it. I’m not your average woman though and I know how hard it is to say goodbye to a job or paycheck because someone wants to make your work life miserable.
We are pawed at and clawed at from a very young age and until we change the way we raise little girls and little boys – not much will evolve. I love making myself pretty and wearing sexy clothes – within reason – but I think and hope that at my age I’m doing it for me. Sometimes I get the sinking feeling that theres an actual chip in my head somewhere that has programmed me to feel this way but until I find it – I’ll probably continue to dye my hair – work out every day – microblade my eyebrows – tint my lashes – paint my toenails – wax my vagina – bleach my teeth – massage my cellulite – fuck i can’t finish this list because I’m late for a hundred appointments.
2017 has been a year of great revelations for me. I have discovered things about myself I never knew or was never willing to admit and I feel like this year is setting me up perfectly for a pretty epic 2018 – a sort of set up punch for an upcoming 365 days of magic. Some of the things I’ve learned are – the power of choosing what to give a fuck about and not get on someone else’s angry ride, the ability to use my voice and ask for what i want and need and expect and finally, that The Chop Stop is my happy place. Scoff all you want but never underestimate the power of a great salad. However, everything I know and feel and want and expect were thrown up in the air and out the imaginary window the minute something happened that made me realize I am utterly and completely alone. I had literally fallen and couldn’t get up. It will heretofore be known as “The Incident at The Chimenea.”
First of all – a Chimenea is an outdoor freestanding front-loading fireplace with a bulbous body. Same way I describe myself. I bought one for my yard and dragged the incredibly heavy piece of pottery from the hardware store to my car to my yard. Then I bought an equally heavy bag of sand to coat the bottom, a stack of wood to burn and a giant stand to sit it all in. All of these items were painstakingly put in my yard – all by me – all 5’4″ 110 pounds of pure jewish strength. I was exhausted but thrilled that I did it all myself. A thrill that quite frankly is starting to get a little old. In fact – we’re past little and way into super fucking annoying. It turns out – I don’t need to do everything for myself to feel accomplished. Turns out – I’d be fine if someone else wanted to drag a chimenea into my yard. I’m fucking tired. I know I could pay a handyman but quite frankly I think this is why women get married so that they have someone to cary shit for them. I would buy so much more heavy stuff if a guy with muscles and a tool box lived here. I mean – I have enough extra closet space for a tool belt. But thats about it. Maybe he could be a guy with one t shirt one pair of jeans and a tool belt. It could happen. Anywhoo – I was all finally all set up and thought – i’m gonna have my first backyard fire and its going to be so amazing I don’t even need anyone to enjoy it with me and so I took one step toward a lighter, tripped over my own two feet, saw myself falling slowly and put my hand out. What happened next was right out of a horror movie and not the good kind wear you scream and giggle thorough your fingers over your eyes. No this was full on snot flinging tears pouring out of my face horror movie. I looked down at my hand and my finger was doing something not humanly possible. It was pointing in a direction it definitely was not meant to go and it looked like it wasn’t attached to my hand. Oh fuck . What is that? Whats happened? This isn’t good. Ohmigod it hurts so badly. Holy shit its swelling. Fuck my ring is stuck. Am I dying? Who do I call? WHERES MY BOYFRIEND!!??? I just kept staring at it and I literally did not know what to do. It turns out the reason I’m so calm when shit goes down is that I am actually so dumb that I don’t know what to do in a panicked situation. I texted my friend Brian to see if he would know what to do. He always knows what to do. No answer. How dare that mother fucker go and get a job when I need him. I literally thought to myself – well if I had a boyfriend he’d probably be at work right too and he’d definitely have a big job because I’m not going to date some fucking loser who sits home all day. I already do that enough for two people. So he wouldn’t be able to rush home and save me anyway. Meanwhile my hand is blowing up like a Thanksgiving Parade Garfield float and that’s when I lost it. This is why I need a boyfriend!!! Why am I so stubborn? I need a partner. He’d know what to do. Or at least get me a tissue and hug me. My finger looked so disjointed and it was as solid as a piece of steel. So I did what any normal person would do – I tried to pop it back into place myself – hahahahahahahahahha. Idiot. Finally it dawned on me that I needed to go to an Emergency room. Now where do I find one of those? Turns out there is one down the street from my new house. I cried all the way to the hospital. Why isn’t my boyfriend driving me there? I’m such a loser. I have no one. Sigh. Weep. Snot. Sleeve. Wipe. Repeat.
Once at the hospital it really hit me how awful this would be if it were a break. I need my hand to type important things like this – shut up – and a break would mean a significant amount of down time and possible surgery. I went in to x-ray. “Holy shit you really fucked it up” said the x ray technician with terrible bedside manners. Thanks for that vote of confidence. i burst into tears again. What am I going to do for 8 weeks? Who’s going to help me cook and dress and most importantly – dry my hair and put on false eyelashes? These are two handed jobs!! I cursed myself for not getting in this stupid dating game. I’m going to die alone – my middle finger twisted up in the air in a grand statement of “she said fuck you to everyone and now she s alone!” Why me why me why me? Then the doctor came in and said – you’re good, it’s just a dislocation and poof I was fine. Oh , so you’ll just pop it back in and splint it and i’ll go home and be fine in a week? Sweet. Fuck you non existent boyfriend! I didn’t need you anyway!!! I did it all myself!!
They shot my finger with numbing drugs and then a big nurse came and pulled on my finger and i heard it pop back into place. It was very cool actually. I grabbed my things, went home, smoked a joint and sat on the couch and watched the entire season of Stranger Things 2.
Sure it has taken me 12 hours to type this blog with a bum hand but I did it and I did it on my own and while one can’t do everything by one self – I am a pretty tough bitch – and now I know what to do in a crisis. Marry a doctor.
All I wanted to do was watch a little television in bed late on a friday night. Simple enough. There wasn’t much else for me to do last night as I had thrown my back out first thing in the morning doing a very difficult yoga pose I like to call – yawning. Yes – as I laid in bed at 8am and stretched my arms over my head to welcome another glorious day on this planet living life and loving it – when I heard a snap crackle pop and it wasn’t my rice krispies. Here we go. Mother F-ing Shitballs. One day it’s tying your shoes and the next it’s yawning. My first thought was – great – there goes another two or three days of not working out followed by – and now I can’t put anything in my mouth because I’ll blow up like a tick. Facing a bad back and your body dysmorphia before 9 am is a lot for anyone. For me it launches a bout of malaise that sends me to the online shops. New sweatpants to lie around in will help my back feel better right? I’m sure I don’t have these grey sweatpants. Or do I? Whatever. These look better. I’ll give my other grey ones away. (I never do) Watching tv in bed is a total luxury for me and I don’t normally turn it on except in extreme circumstances and this was extreme. I decided I wanted to watch something on HBOgo but when I pulled up the app it was asking me to log in again. Fuck, shit, balls, why? I just logged in out in the living room like a week ago don’t you smart tv’s talk to each other because if you don’t you re not very fucking smart. And so began the worst game I always have to play in my house called – what’s your password? It all starts with the login. That’s usually just my email address so that one isn’t too difficult. Sometimes it’s just my name so if I get the email thing wrong I just go straight to name. Then comes the password. Mine is usually one of three passwords. Basically if you figure out my code for one you can hack your way into all of my poor life choices and weird shopping orders. It was midnight and I was kind of tired but I really wanted to make this happen and so for about twenty minutes I began the arduous task of typing in different combinations of log ins and passwords. This is not easy using a remote. In fact – its torturous. I’d rather try on all my skinny jeans that don’t fit me anymore than do this. I’d rather stare at my cellulite naked for thirty minutes than do this. Though that may be more difficult now as I’ve purchased the fascia blaster. Yep. I’m the one. If you want to go into a facebook hole for about three days – watch videos of fascia blasting and you’ll buy one too. Basically my facebook page is targeting me with ridiculous things that I just have to have. Dumb pore tightening masks. Hair pills that don’t work. Underpants that don’t show lines. Vegan leather shoes. How does it know? Mark Zuckerberg is a mad genius. So, I type away and nothing. Crap. Then I do the one thing I hate to do – ask to reset my password. They send me the email and here we go again but first I have to answer a security question. What’s the first street I grew up on or whats the name of my first dog. Both of these are crippling because I can’t remember if i put in the name of the first street I lived on that I loved or the first street I lived on and did I use the avenue or boulevard part or did I just type the street name and my dog question – was it my first dog as an adult or my first dog when I was a kid? It’s now 12:45 and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat and I can’t remember anything and everything is failing and now I’ve been locked out of my own account. Damn you HBOgo. Now what? Let’s try Hulu. Again – the password game begins. Again I fail. Again I have to reset my password but this time I don’t get locked out because one of my choices resets everything. Hooray. Yippee. I’m a genius!! Now – lets write this one down on a pad before I forget. So I get out of bed and head for my office but unfortunately I stop in the kitchen because now it’s officially saturday and I’m only allowing myself to smoke pot once a week and that once is saturdays and so I smoke a joint and before I know it I’m eating four bagels with vegan cream cheese (I’m not a total loser) and then I’m back in bed and I’ve totally forgotten what the password is. Looks like I’ll be playing this game again next week. Sigh.