My parents have an entire room dedicated to the sorting, washing, drying, and folding of laundry, and the place smells like dryer sheets and childhood. When running, the washer lets out a steady hum that says, “When I’m done with your clothes, you’ll be singing: ‘Ain’t nobody dope as me / I’m dressed so fresh so clean.’” You guys, this washer is peak Outkast. As for the dryer? Perfecto. If a person were to play it in a movie—don’t ask me why—it would be played by Meryl Streep. The dryer is that damn good.
The pièce de résistance? Doing laundry at my parents’ house is free. That’s means no lugging around heavy bags of quarters that put me in full-on Paul Robeson “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen” Negro spiritual mode. Who wouldn’t be thrilled about that?
Not-So-Guilty Pleasure #3: Pretending I’m a Celebrity Whose Husband Has Just Passed Away and I’m Doing an Interview on 60 Minutes about How I’m Overcoming the Tragedy
And yes, I know this make me nonbiodegradable garbage. If I were biodegradable garbage, we could at least turn me into mulch and use it to grow cilantro that would eventually end up as garnish in a bowl of guacamole. Unfortunately, I am merely a musty boot found at the bottom of the river.
Not-So-Guilty Pleasure #4: Watching Fan-Made YouTube Videos about Fictional TV/Movie Couples
In a lot of ways, there are no better love stories than scripted Hollywood ones. Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy? Yes, please. Jerry Maguire and Dorothy Boyd? Tugging on my heartstrings. Joe Manganiello and that Aquafina bottle of water he hit from the back in Magic Mike XXL? Someone let me know where this couple is registered because I will buy them all of the Cuisinart appliances.
But what’s even better than these love stories are fan-made videos that take the histories of entire relationships and boil them down to their essence in five minutes or less so that viewers can relive all the cute, swoon-worthy moments over and over again. Snippets of superwitty and high-level banter that means, “Hey, I kinda like you, too.” The moment when a guy realizes the woman he’s with is naturally beautiful as she’s eating a messy burger and getting ketchup on her face. The palpable sexual tension while a woman ties a man’s tie for him. (One quick thing about that. How does a female character, who we can practically guarantee has never worn a tie before because Hollywood can’t fathom a woman playing with gender aesthetics while also being desirable to the opposite sex, all of a sudden have the expert tie-knotting skills of a dandy?) Much like a Now That’s What I Call Music! compilation album, each of these situations represents the “best of” these relationships. That “Remember when” nostalgia is something that I yearn for as I get older and, if I’m being a little honest, a little more cynical.
So for me, fan-made YouTube videos, in all their lo-fi glory, are my “break glass in case of emergency” for my unpredictable love life. They inspire me, remind and encourage me to be a hopeless romantic sometimes, and prove that I will watch anything in 480i quality if there is the promise of a kiss scored by Adele at the end. So thank you, oats4sparkle. Your Josh Lyman–Donna Moss/The West Wing vids got me through all of 2009, all of 2010, and most of 2011. Or as I like to call those years, “The Drought That Was So Bad It Could’ve Been the Inciting Incident in Chinatown.”
Not-So-Guilty Pleasure #5: Googling Myself
As a stand-up comic, TV writer, and occasional actress, I could easily pretend I Google myself as industry research, but I’d be lying. When my career is in a state of inertia, I look up positive reviews either to confirm that I’ve chosen the correct profession or to just bask in the glow of a recent triumph. Either way, the goal is to maintain drunk-girl-wearing-a-pushup-bra-on-a-reality-TV-show level of confidence at all times, and Googling myself is a hell of a lot cheaper than a Victoria’s Secret bra and Jose Cuervo.
Now, I know most people will never, ever own up to Googling themselves. I’m guessing that’s because turning the Internet into an old librarian thumbing through the Dewey Decimal System of any and all things YOU is considered shamefully self-absorbed behavior. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re all Narcissus and we fell into the river long ago. Might as well add Googling yourself to the vanity pile, which includes writing boring information on Facebook and then refreshing the web browser every ten minutes to see if there is an uptick in “likes,” or posting selfies on Instagram just to have a someone on the web say that he thinks you’re beautiful wants to fuck your face and then have you make him a sandwich.
For me, Googling myself can be a form of quality control. Friends and family, for the most part, won’t tell you the truth, but for whatever reason, strangers will lay it out for you, albeit unfiltered and often unsolicited. This truth can make you laugh, or make you sad, or happy, or furious, but I think, ultimately, it can also be beneficial if you do it right. I’ll give you an example.
Years ago, I did Boston’s Women in Comedy Festival, and one of my stand-up sets was recorded and put online. The feedback was mostly complimentary, but one person wrote, “Hello, armpit stains.” I scrolled back up to the video and there they were: two circles of sweat the size of coasters. UGH. Listen, I’m a sweaty person; I always have been. But I had managed to keep it under control with aluminum-based deodorants until the fear of getting Alzheimer’s made me switch to Tom’s of Maine. People had warned me that Tom’s might not be strong enough for me, but I shrugged them off and asked Jesus to take the wheel. Here’s the thing about asking Jesus to take the wheel: Sometimes he doesn’t and instead lets you crash your Toyota Corolla into a tree. To put it more plainly, Tom’s didn’t work at all, and I ended up smelling like a dirty river person who has more dreadlocks than teeth. And apparently, everyone on the Internet could now see that. I immediately went back to using antiperspirant, and I have that anonymous commenter to thank, because a friend, if they are worth their salt, will never tell you when your body embarrasses you. Thankfully, a stranger will. So I recommend that everyone who can emotionally handle it to Google themselves. However, there are rules you must abide by in order to not end up as sad as those polar bears floating on melting icecaps in World Wildlife Fund commercials:
Reading YouTube Comments about Yourself Is Absolutely Banned.I refuse to let you take into consideration anything YouTube commenters write about you, when 90 percent of them are like, “Since you just watched Beyoncé’s ‘Countdown’ video, let me tell about all of my 9/11 conspiracy theories.” There is nothing useful for you here.
The Time You Spend Googling Yourself Cannot Be Longer Than an Episode of The Big Bang Theory.Only a monster spends hours looking themselves up online. Don’t be disgusting.
Never Ever Respond to a Troll.There’s a difference between someone trying to engage in conversation with or about you and someone whose sole purpose is to seek and destroy you. That difference is the dialogue quickly devolves into “dat article suked. ur fat n ugly. ur mom won’t stop callin me after i left her suk me off last nite.” You don’t need that.
If Someone Has Taken an Amazing Picture of You, Immediately Make It Your Profile Picture.Sometimes you’ll be at party, event, or a performance and a photographer will take a photo of you that will make you look like Solange, Gisele Bündchen, and Lupita Nyong’o combined. And you will think, I could totally have sex with myself right now. You are correct. Go do that and then when you’re done, send that photographer an Edible Arrangement as a thank-you ASAP.
No Matter What Is Written about You—Good or Bad—Don’t Let It Go to Your Head.Public opinion, like stock on the Dow Jones, often fluctuates. Take none of it to heart except if it comes from a person whom you love. And even then, you kind of have to take it easy on how much loved ones influence your self-perception. If you allow yourself to absorb too much of the positivity, you’ll think your shit don’t stink, and that’s how the world ended up with Rebecca Black’s “Friday.” On the flip side, if you take the negative things they say about you too much to heart, you and your family/friends will end up on an
episode of Dr. Phil. And trust me, you don’t want to be taking life advice from someone who is basically the by-product of a Popeyes commercial and a Lyft mustache.
Not-So-Guilty Pleasure #6: Having Pretend Subway Boyfriends
He’s the dreamboat of the day on a crowded subway train, who’s seated across from me, reading a book. He looks up, we lock eyes, and then he returns to his book. I, on the other hand, have decided it. Is. On. We are dating until the end of the commute.
There’s beauty in having a subway boyfriend. I started dating late in life, and I’m not particularly stellar at it. I’m either in a relationship or very single because flings are not my thing, so these flights of fantasy allow me to envision drastically different lives than the one I currently lead. Here’s an example of how one of these romances will play out. At the beginning of the trip, this SB and I have sufficiently “meet-cuted”: I get up to look at the subway map, which is above his head, the train jerks, I fall into his lap, knocking his Kindle to the floor. I apologize; he asks me out. We have sex after five dates, and we survive the dreaded DTR (define the relationship) talk. We are official boo thangs. By the time we’re going over the Manhattan Bridge and into the city, Subway Boyfriend and I have fully established inside jokes, met each other’s parents, and gone on vacation to Turks and Caicos, Paris, and Charleston, South Carolina. Out of pride, he even teared up when I was nominated for a Golden Globe. But uh-oh. I’m three stops away from my destination. Time to cue up some Coldplay and end this relationship. We cry, fight, plead with each other that maybe we should give it another chance. But we know it wouldn’t work, so we deal with the gut-wrenching task of dividing the items we bought when we moved in together, deciding who gets custody of our favorite tapas restaurant, and making the empty promise that we’ll be friends. And as this breakup montage plays in my mind while Chris Martin sings, “When you try your best, but you don’t succeed,” I go, “We did. We tried our very best.” And this is my stop, Subway Boyfriend. I have to get off here and buy $50 worth of items at Walgreens to mask the fact that one of the items I’m buying is tampons. Godspeed, SB.
Not-So-Guilty Pleasure #7: WWE Wrestling
La-la-la, I can’t hear you. Wrestling is real and perfect and a testament to sheer athleticism. Wrestling is real. La-la-la.
Not-So-Guilty Pleasure #8: Ordering Enough Food from McDonald’s for Two People, but I Just Eat It All.
To be clear, it’s not like I went to pick up food for a friend and on the way back home, I shoved it all in my dumb face in a Bruce Banner–esque blackout. This gluttony is a solo job, baby, and it usually occurs when I’m stressed. I don’t care what anyone says; stress eating is amazing. Euphoric. Heavenly. Filling your body with carbs and beverages that aren’t within the Crayola crayon color spectrum and then falling into a deep, drunk-like sleep the way a toddler does after hours of play is not the worst way to end an evening.
I’m not a self-destructive person—meaning no hard drugs, minimal alcohol, and zero dangerous physical activities—so eating fast food is my version of living on the edge. And it comes with relatively few consequences in the short term. I mean, freebasing cocaine on the regs will mess up your bank account, cause you to lose your friends, and lead to rehab, but eating comfort food that is terrible for you, will, OK, slowly kill you over many decades, but also like, maybe not? After all, I see tons of old-ass people getting McDonald’s hash browns at 10:30 A.M.; I have yet to meet an octogenarian cutting up blow with their AARP card. My drug of choice—McDonald’s (or In-N-Out Burger, if I’m in LA)—is clearly the superior one.
Now, if we’re to believe the commercials airing on BET, all Mickey D establishments are full of black people singing R&B medleys about chicken nuggets. That couldn’t be further from the truth. No matter which location I visit, the vibe is always “Yeah, I shouldn’t be here. Don’t tell my wife/dad/son/guidance counselor,” because everyone has seen the documentaries, heard the health reports, and eaten the kale chips that are supposed to be an equally delicious substitute for McD’s addictive French fries (whoever started this rumor can die in a fire, thank you very much). And I’m not writing this as a kale basher. I was eating kale way before it went mainstream. Kale was my Black Eyed Peas before they added Fergie and sold out. I’m just saying that thin strips of potatoes deep-fried in oil laced with sugar taste infinitely better.
I always start my ordering process at Mickey D’s with a softball: a crispy chicken sandwich plus cheese. A newbie cashier will ask if I want cheddar or American, but the grizzled, “let’s cut the shit” cashiers will straight up be like, “the yellow or white one,” ruining all illusion that I was ever choosing anything that was in the cheese family. Those are the employees I like the most. They’re not about pretense. They keep it raw and real, like Dr. Iyanla Vanzant, but instead of fixing lives of C-list black celebs, they’re taking my order. Anyway, I start with the sandwich, then I add a large fry, and finally, a VitaminWater Zero because, no joke, that’s when I decide, “Oooh, I need to be healthy real quick.” Guys. I know. You’re either healthy or you’re not and I, the not-so-proud occasional consumer of McDonald’s, am legit flirting with unhealthy like he’s a basic-ass dude on The Bachelor. And the flirting often turns into a full-court press offensive because I’ll usually add to the order by tossing a ten-piece nugget into the mix.
What I love about this is that it forces the cashier to give me the once-over. In weaker moments, I’ll check my phone and mumble, “I’m pretty sure my boyfriend wanted the ten-piece. Lemme double-check.” But when I’m feeling bold and defiant, I match the cashier’s stare with one of my own that says, “Yeah, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.” In this case, I’m Muhammad and the mountain is the diabeetus that Wilford Brimley warned us about in those Liberty Medical commercials. Having recognized that I’m the superior opponent, the cashier backs down, gives me a head nod that probably means, “You won this time. But let’s be honest, did you really? Look at what you’re doing to yourself.” I acknowledge the head nod with one of my own that says, “You called cheese ‘the yellow one.’ So if anything, we’ll be conference calling Iyanla together, alright?”
Not-So-Guilty Pleasure #9: Sidewalk Rage
Remember that Chris Rock bit where he said you haven’t truly been in love unless you’ve imagined how you would kill your significant other? I feel the same about being a New Yorker. Some say that if you weren’t lucky enough to be born here, you become a New Yorker after being a resident for ten years. They’re wrong. If you’re a nonnative, you become a New Yorker when your sidewalk rage is so strong that you feel the need to murder. Instances that trigger sidewalk rage:
People walking too slowly in front of you.
People walking too closely behind you.
People having a moment of hesitation because they aren’t sure they’re headed in the correct direction, so they slow down for a brief moment.
People who are not you and are on the sidewalk at the same time as you.
I’m mostly being facetious, but there is also a small part of me that does believe that this rage is rational and legitimate. Walking is an integral part of the NYC experience: New Yorkers walk to mass transportation, to work, to bodegas (aka mini convenience stores) that stay open way too late just because they’ve decided that 2 A.M. seems like an appropriate time to eat Little Debbie snacks. (It’s not, and I’m sure someone has already written a think piece about how having any and every craving that caters to every human desire available constantly is emblematic of the “iGeneration,” but I digress.) The point is that New Yorkers have lots of places to be and we have to get to each and all of them very quickly. Why? While there isn’t an official pamphlet that states the cause for the constant urgency, I think it has something to do with the fact that New York is the city of the multihyphenate.
What do I mean by that? Everyone I know here is a nanny–singer–WebMD doct
or–cat whisperer–actor–paralegal–bartender hybrid. To make it in New York, you need seventeen jobs. There are the ones that pay the bills but you’re unqualified for, like when I was an entertainment lawyer’s assistant for four years when the only legal training I had was watching Ally McBeal. Then there are the gigs that put you on the path toward achieving your dreams, but the pay is shit. Case in point: One time, my compensation for doing a stand-up show was a vibrator with a computer-USB-cord charger, which I have refused to use till this day because I’m pretty sure a vibe teaming up with a laptop in order to power on is what Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines was warning us about. So as you can see, we New Yorkers spend the majority of our time working, which means we’re also spending time getting to and from those jobs. Then we have to factor in time traveling to see friends, go on dates, and run errands in activewear—a category of clothing that is the biggest crime against humanity since Pol Pot—because all women in NYC from about the age of nineteen until forty-nine dress like they’re on their way to compete in American Ninja Warrior yet only about 0.8 percent of us are in shape enough to actually compete on American Ninja Warrior.
Anyway, what I’m getting at here is that everyday New Yorkers are trying to accomplish more than what’s possible in a twenty-four-hour day. The pressure is on, so the last thing we need is a heavy-footed stranger moseying along in front of us like he’s sweater shopping in the mall while listening to Train’s “Hey, Soul Sister.” That kind of mess is likely to make me want to shank him. And yes, my default setting for sidewalk rage is “shank a bitch,” but it wasn’t always this way. That kind of anger is only achieved by living in the Big Apple for a long time. In case you’re wondering where you fall on the scale, it’s time I break out the different kinds of sidewalk rage that lead one up to being a full-on New Yorker:
You Can't Touch My Hair Page 7
