by Jenny Lawson
ME: So you’re making a decision to not save someone’s life on the off chance that it might be inconvenient if you turn into a less efficient zombie?
VICTOR: It sounds stupid when you say it.
ME: Fine. I’ll just donate the parts that a zombie doesn’t need. Like your skin. Or your brain tissue.
VICTOR: Zombies need brains.
ME: No, zombies eat brains. And then those victims become other zombies, even though their brains have been eaten by other zombies, so obviously you could donate your brain and still be a functional zombie.
VICTOR: Yeah, and then I’ve gotta spend eternity wandering the world as a mindless idiot.
ME: [snort]
VICTOR: Shut up.
ME: I didn’t say anything.
VICTOR: If zombie-me finds out I’ve got parts missing you will be the very first person I eat.
ME: What if you die in a car crash and Hailey is badly injured and the only way she can survive is if she can have your kidneys?
VICTOR: She’d be a pretty fucked-up-looking toddler with my gigantic man-size kidneys in her.
ME: Okay, what if she’s sixteen when it happens?
VICTOR: If she’s sixteen and I die then she can totally have my stuff. But just the nonessential stuff . . . like an arm or some fingers.
ME: I’m sure she’ll be the most popular girl in school with your hairy old man arm.
VICTOR: Ooh, and if a boy started getting fresh with her she could be all, “Don’t make me get my dad hand out!”
ME: I wonder if this is the weirdest fight we’ve ever had.
VICTOR: Not. Even. Close.
Making Friends with Girls
For the majority of my life I lived with a small, terrible secret: I’ve never really liked girls. I realize this is stereotypical and hypocritical, since I am one myself, but to be fair, I probably wouldn’t choose to hang out with myself if given the option.
It’s always been this way. I was too much of an anxious misfit to properly bond with girls when I was young, and I never really got the hang of it. I consoled myself by thinking of how much money I saved on Christmas gifts for friends that I never made, and reassured myself that not having bridesmaids or friends to give me a bachelorette party was perfectly normal. Whenever I hear of women who are still best friends with the girls they went to school with, I always make a mental note to avoid them, because I assume they’re compulsive liars.
Even as an adult I had mostly male friends, and I looked at most girls as judgy, cruel, fickle, and likely to borrow your Cabbage Patch doll and never give it back. Victor always pushed me to find girlfriends, but I’d convinced myself that girls are like small bears: cute to look at, but far too dangerous to have lunch with.
This all changed when I discovered blogging and found other people online who were misanthropic misfits like me, and I found myself proudly telling Victor of my new best friends whom I would almost certainly never meet.
“OHMYGOD, Raptor99 is going to have another baby!” I’d say excitedly, as Victor pointed out that he had no idea who that was. “You know,” I explained. “Raptor99 is that person who survived cancer last year, and is considering coming out of the closet? Remember all the time I spent on the computer last month, convincing someone that they needed to get help for their bulimia? That was Raptor99.”
“Huh. Is Raptor99 a boy or a girl?” Victor asked.
“I don’t actually know,” I said. “Their avatar is a dolphin.”
Then Victor pointed out that it didn’t really count as being “great friends with someone” if you didn’t know whether they were a boy, a girl, or a dolphin. I had to admit he had a point, so I decided to get out of the house and meet a fellow mom blogger named Laura for lunch, whom I’d bonded with online over the mutual terror of raising a toddler. It was surprisingly awesome, but it was also a slippery slope that led to meeting more and more people. My anxiety-ridden personality clashed with the very idea of making friends, especially girlfriends. Laura tried to convince me that there were actually interesting and fairly nonjudgmental women who wouldn’t make fun of the fact that I often had to hide under tables when I was overwhelmed. I didn’t believe her, but I took a deep breath and decided to trust her, because if nothing else, this would be the perfect experiment to prove my theory that most grown women are just as dangerous as the kids on the playground who wouldn’t let you play tetherball with them because you didn’t have Wonder Woman Underoos.
Over the next two years, I became tentative friends with the bloggers Laura introduced me to, and I was eventually invited to go to a weekend all-girl retreat in California wine country for a small group of bloggers. It would include wine tasting and group yoga, and I could not have been less enthused, but Laura was one of the hostesses and told me I was being ridiculous. “Besides,” she reminded me, “you did tell me that one of your goals this year was to make friends with girls.” She was right, but at the same time she reminded me why girls make both great and terrible friends: They actually listen to your goals, even when you’re too drunk to know what you’re saying. I had said that I felt I needed to try to find girlfriends, but what I really wanted were down-to-earth chicks who drank Strawberry Hill slushees nonironically, and who would respond to an invitation of “Let’s go to a wine tasting and a day spa” with the same sort of horrified reaction as if someone had said, “Let’s go join the circus and then burn it to the ground.”
Laura stared at me as I tried to come up with an excuse. “It’s true, I did say I wanted girlfriends,” I capitulated hesitantly, “but couldn’t we start with something smaller and less terrifying? Like maybe spend a weekend at a crack house? I heard those people are very nonjudgmental, and if you accidentally say something offensive you can just blame it on their hallucinations.”
“Tempting . . .” Laura replied, “but let’s try this first. We can always check out the crack house later.”
The four-day getaway was headed up by a blogger named Maggie, whom I knew in passing, and who had recently gotten a giant corporation to sponsor her life list. She’d been to Greece, had a giant public food fight, and swum in Puerto Rico, all paid for by the sponsor, and possibly by selling her soul. Next on her list was hosting a small girls’ retreat, and so she’d decided to host The Broad Summit, so named because we were a bunch of broads. I can only assume The Vagina Venue was taken.
Women scare me enough, but bloggers can be even more frightening to deal with. Most bloggers are emotionally unstable and are often awkward in social situations, which is why so many of us turned to blogging in the first place. Also, they are always looking for something to write about, so if you fuck something up it will be blogged, Facebooked, and retweeted until your death. It would be lot like Lindsay Lohan spending a weekend with TMZ and the National Enquirer, and I suspect that one day my gravestone will simply read: JENNY LAWSON: SHE WAS MISQUOTED ON TWITTER.
I assume that to most people wine country sounds wonderful, but it’s not my thing. Wine tastings and massages and facials and pajama parties at a small hotel sounded like something that would be fun for rich people who weren’t me, and who actually owned pajamas. I was trying to think up excuses to get out of this party when my invitation arrived: It was a small wine box with a bottle of booze and a crazy straw. Victor saw it and encouraged me to go and make new friends, and I RSVPed “yes” because I got drunk on the invitation. Then I spent the next week regretting that decision.
A conversation with my sister three days before the event:
ME: I’m going to Napa Valley for a party and I’m terrified. Everyone at this retreat is probably fashionable and hip, and a lot of them are designers, and I don’t have anything designer to wear.
MY SISTER: Just pretend to be bohemian, and they’ll think you’re avant-garde.
ME: Well, I do have a fancy purse, but I’ve never used it. This sex company sent me a giant metal dildo wrapped in a Kate Spade bag in hopes that I’d blog about it.
MY SISTER: You o
wning a Kate Spade bag is even weirder than the fact that someone sent you a dildo in it.
ME: I know. That’s why it’s still in the box, along with the dildo. I’m totally going to bring it with me, though, and use it like a shield, so people will think I belong there. Basically I’ll use it the same way you use crucifixes on Draculas.
MY SISTER: The dildo?
ME: The purse.
MY SISTER: Ah. Don’t tell that story to anyone there.
ME: It’s probably the first thing I’m going to say. The last e-mail I got about the get-together suggested several shoe changes in one day. I only have one pair of nice shoes and they’re flats.
MY SISTER: Well, you have arthritis, so you have a good excuse.
ME: Yes, but I feel like I need to put that on my shirt: “Please don’t judge my flats. I have a disability.” I won’t have anything to change into when everyone else changes shoes. I have socks, though. I can change into socks.
MY SISTER: Oh, you’re totally fucked.
Two days before the event:
ME: Okay, I just saw the invitation list, and I’m completely freaked about this party. It’s like everyone else there is part of the cheer squad, and I’m that weird girl with the back brace who ate too much glue.
LAURA: You need to stop freaking out about this. It’s going to be super laid-back and casual, and you need to relax and have fun. Just bring a few pairs of jeans and some shirts and you’re set.
ME: I don’t own any jeans.
LAURA: You’re a damn liar.
ME: How many years have you known me? Have you ever seen me wear jeans?
LAURA: Wow. No. There might be something wrong with you.
ME: This is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.
The day before the event:
Karen (a wonderful and sweet blogger whom Laura had introduced me to) found out that I didn’t own jeans, and decided to have a shopping intervention.
KAREN: I can’t believe you don’t wear jeans. Jeans are fabulous, and crazy comfortable. Jeans are like underwear. It’s like just wearing your underwear around.
ME (from inside the fitting room): No. Dresses are like wearing underwear, because guess what I’m wearing under my dress? Just underwear. And sometimes? Not even underwear.
I stepped out of the dressing room.
KAREN: Ooh. See? Those are cute jeans. You should get them.
ME: Mmm. No. My knees look fat in these.
KAREN: Um . . . what?
ME: You wouldn’t understand, because you’ve always been thin, but when you’re fat your kneecaps get tired of supporting all of your weight, and so when you lock your knees they bend backward. That’s why I always concentrate really hard on always bending slightly at the knee, so that I don’t have fat-girl kneecaps.
KAREN: I love you, but I can’t even tell you how insane you sound right now. Like, most of the time you’re fine, but right now? Totally insane.
ME: You probably just weren’t listening those other times.
The first day of the party, on the plane:
You know when the captain comes on over the overhead speaker and says, “We’re going to take off in a few minutes, but we’re going to be without air-conditioning for a bit because we don’t have auxiliary power, and we’re having problems with one engine so we’re going to have to get out on the runway before we can get it started”? That’s when you should probably just get off the plane. But I couldn’t, because I was too terrified to move, so instead I just asked the guy next to me whether he thought this was some sort of joke. He didn’t, and told me it was nothing to worry about. “Yeah,” I said, my voice becoming shrill with fear, “but they just said we don’t have both engines working. I’m pretty sure two engines are preferable.”
He rubbed my hand patronizingly and told me I’d be fine, and I assumed he was hitting on me, so I said, “I’m married.” Then he looked at me strangely and said, “Congratulations?” He probably wasn’t hitting on me at all. More likely he just wanted me to shut up. Then the stewardess came on the speaker, and instead of saying, “At this time we ask you to turn off any portable equipment,” she said, “If you’re on a cell phone, tell them good-bye.” And I’m all, “Why did she say ‘Good-bye’ with such an air of finality?” The guy sitting next to me didn’t respond. Probably because he knew we weren’t going to make it out alive.
Amazingly enough, we landed. I was supposed to meet a fellow blogger at baggage claim so we could share a ride, but I’m terrible with faces, and I suddenly realized that unless she was wearing the trench coat from her blog picture I was in huge trouble. Instead I called her and told her to come find me. “You’ll know me by my black hat,” I said.
“I know what you look like, Jenny.” She laughed good-naturedly. “You don’t need a hat for me to recognize you.”
Fuck. Now I’m wondering whether we’ve met before. Which stories have I told her? Have I offended her in the past? Panic. Plus, she said it in a way like “Duh. Of course we’ll know each other,” and so I began just staring at every single girl in the airport with a smile and a fake look of familiarity until they looked away awkwardly. That’s how you know they aren’t looking for a stranger in a hat. Turned out, though, that Susan actually was wearing the trench coat from her bio picture, but I’d walked right past her because it seemed too obvious. Then she yelled out, “JENNY! Where are you going?” I’d failed the first test and it wasn’t even a trick question.
The hotel was small, quaint, and simple, and when we first walked in we were greeted by the owner’s dog from the hotel ad, who had gotten the hotel Frisbee in his mouth. The logo was perfectly lined up and everyone was all, “OMG, he’s so cute!” but all I could think was, “They totally stapled that Frisbee to his tongue so it would stay like that.” Because that’s where my mind goes. I considered putting one of my blog stickers on the Frisbee when the owners weren’t looking, but those things don’t come off easily, and the owners would probably be all, “FUCK. Now we have to staple a new Frisbee to the dog’s mouth.” That’s not even worth the publicity. Mostly because it was a tiny hotel and not many people would see it. And also because stapling advertisements to dogs’ mouths is wrong.
I was wearing the jeans Karen had persuaded me to buy, and a 1930s-style black hat that I’d hoped screamed, “I’m a bohemian vintage shopper.” Then I realized that there was an orange Target price tag stuck to the back that said “Now $7.48.” Awesome. Plus I was very aware how fat my kneecaps looked in these jeans. I needed to lie down.
I spent the next hour meeting girls who seemed very warm and friendly, and I immediately forgot all of their names and personal stories because I was too busy reminding myself to not say something offensive. Then I saw Evany Thomas, and I was fan-girly and gushy because I love her writing, and I heard myself admitting that I have a tiny paper figurine of her that I’d cut out to put on my desk. I suddenly realized that I’d just stepped into “I want to wear your skin for a jacket” territory, but she was totally gracious about it, because she’s just as weird as I am. That’s the good thing about hanging out with bloggers. Most of them are kind of fucked up in the same way you are.
For dinner we ate out of a taco truck. It was delicious, and I turned to the girl next to me to introduce myself. She said her name, but it didn’t sound familiar, because all I had memorized were people’s blog names.
ME: Oh! I know you! You have that great design blog!
HER: No, that’s the other Asian woman here. I write a fashion blog.
ME: Holy crap. I can’t believe I just did that. I am an enormous racist.
HER: No worries. So what do you do?
ME: I write a blog about all the ways I mortify myself in public. This’ll go in there.
HER: I imagine so.
ME: I’d probably put this whole episode on Facebook right now, but I can’t get reception out here. Also, almost all of my clothes are from Target, and I’m aware my knees look fat in these jeans. I feel like I ne
ed to just admit that right now. I’m sorry; I can’t tell. Are you judging me?
HER: Well, not on your clothes.
ME: I like you. You’re honest. We will be best friends.
She looked doubtful. I considered telling her I have lots of Asian friends, but I was pretty sure that would make it worse. The sad truth is I couldn’t tell any of the white women apart either. In fact, at that point I’d had way too much to drink and I wasn’t even sure who I was. I dimly hoped I was Evany Thomas. I love that girl.
Pajama-party time. Except it was fucking cold, and I don’t own pajamas. Everyone was in adorable matching sets with robes. Our hostess, Maggie, was wearing a red silky robe over what looked to be a wedding dress, and she had fluffy slippers on. She looked like she’d just come from Wardrobe. I was wearing a muumuu with sweatpants on underneath, a giant men’s hoodie, and my red confidence wig. I’d started wearing a wig in social situations for several reasons: (1) It makes me feel like someone who isn’t terrified of people, and (2) if I really fuck something up I can excuse myself, pull off the wig, and say, “Who was that weird redhead and why was she talking about dildos? They really need to be more cautious about who they let in here.” The wig is a form of protection, a sort of talisman, allowing me to pretend that I’m anyone else who isn’t me. Except that I can’t afford an expensive wig, so mostly I just look like I’m pretending to be a cancer patient.
I looked at my outfit unhappily in the mirror, but Laura assured me I just looked like a mysterious spy. I stared at her suspiciously. “Or like a homeless woman who just wandered into a fancy cocktail party?”
She looked at me objectively for a few seconds. “Maybe a little,” she admitted. “But way more like a spy.”
I have good friends.
All twenty of us sat around an open fire pit in our pj’s and no one was tweeting, or texting, or on the phone. We were all forced to make conversation out of desperation, because cell coverage was so sporadic there. Surprisingly, it came naturally, and no one looked panicked but me. The booze helped. I whispered to Laura that this was the closest I’d ever been to sleepaway camp, and that this was exactly when the serial killer would be deciding whom to pick off. We decided that the girl on our left would be the first one to be murdered, because she was frail and adorable and the audience would love her. I would miss her. The girl in the cabin next door would be next, because she’s a buxom hot blonde, but she’d probably ask her roomie to help her shower up first, because you have to be naked for the second murder, and that one’s always the most violent. Probably because you don’t have any clothes on to soak up the blood. I felt sorry for her roommate. We decided that everyone else would be murdered during the night, except for the quiet girl on our right who wasn’t drinking, and who would eventually avenge us all, and would be the perfect person to strike down the murderer, because she was pregnant and Mormon and full of brunettey wholesomeness. Then we’d find out that the murderer was Maggie, because turns out being a serial killer was on her life list. And it was sponsored. But the audience would probably forgive her because she’s adorable, and you have to admire someone who follows their dreams like that.
