by Jenny Lawson
But the simple fact is, there’s no such thing as real weight. Only mass. Weight depends entirely upon the gravity of wherever you are, which is why if you weigh yourself on the top of Mount Everest you’d be closer to outer space and you would weigh slightly less than you would at home. But you’d have to lug a scale up to the top of Mount Everest to prove it, which would suck. Honestly, they should just leave a scale up there for people. Although, maybe they already have one, because who’s going to drag a scale back down Mount Everest? That would be crazy. Frankly, I never understood why people climb that thing in the first place, but if there’s a scale up there telling you that you’re skinnier than you think then I guess I can see the draw. I’d hike helicopter up a mountain for a scale that says I need to eat more. Or for a magic bean that turns me into Jennifer Lawrence. Or for a nice basket of cheeses. Preferably cheddars.
Regardless, on the moon I weigh about as much as a large toaster, so using that logic I’m not overweight. I’m simply overgravitated. Spell-check says that I can’t be “overgravitated” because that isn’t a real word and suggested that I probably meant to say that I’m “overly aggravating.” Victor says spell-check has a point.
Spell-check and Victor are both dead to me.
Perhaps if people are so concerned with obesity they should just work on making the Earth have less mass so there’s less gravity. “I need to go on a diet, Dr. Ryker? I don’t think so. I think maybe the fucking planet needs to go on a diet.” Victor says this is a clear case of “deflection” and I agree because I assume “deflection” is something scientific used to deflect mass from Earth and, thus, make us all lighter. Victor says he thinks I don’t know what “deflection” means. I think Victor doesn’t know what “being supportive” means. (It means letting me lean on him a little when I’m standing on the bathroom scale.) I think this is all pretty commonsense. Victor says it’s not at all.
Fuck it. Someone get me a scale.
And a mountain.
And a helicopter.
And some cheeses.
Crazy Like a Reverse Fox
The One Billionth Argument I Had with Victor This Week
Victor accused me of being insane, but really I’m crazy like a fox. But a crazy fox. Not a normal fox that acts crazy but really isn’t.
Victor says the whole point of the phrase “crazy like a fox” is pointing out that foxes aren’t crazy. But I explained that I’m like a reverse fox. People think I’m crazy and then they realize it’s all just a game and I’m super clever. And then they spend a little more time and realize that no, I’m just crazy, but I’m also really lucky because shit still seems to work out for me. I’m crazy like a fox that really has gone insane. Those are the most dangerous foxen.
“I don’t think you’re listening to me,” he said. And then he said something else but I didn’t hear it because I was too busy being mad about his accusations. I mean, can you believe this guy? And then I realized that he’d stopped talking and was waiting for a response and I assumed he must’ve apologized so I said, “I forgive you. But don’t let it happen again.” Then he yelled some more, probably because he wasn’t used to someone being that gracious. He seemed confused, and in my experience, that always makes a man angry at himself.
Some men are like dormant volcanoes, always ready to explode with anger. And also always ready to ejaculate everywhere with little warning. Plus they’re often crusty. Metaphorically, I mean. You don’t want a man who is literally crusty ejaculating on you. That would be a safety hazard and is probably how plague is spread. But my original point is that some seemingly quiet men anger easily. (Sorry. That metaphor got away from me a bit. I’d fix it but this is what editors are for.)
Winner: Everyone who isn’t my editor. Also, foxen, because no one knows what the hell is going on with them so no one expects anything special from them. Lucky little bastards.
An Essay on Parsley, Wasabi, Cream Cheese, and Soup
(Side note: I had writer’s block so I got very drunk and when I sobered up I found that I’d written an essay on parsley, wasabi, cream cheese, and soup. I assure you, I was just as bewildered as you, but I decided to leave it in because at this point drunk me writes much better than sober me. She is such an asshole.)
Parsley
I’m not a fan.
No one ever really eats it and it just ends up on plates as a sort of symbolic bookmark that says you’re going to pay 25 percent more for this meal than expected. I don’t even think it’s edible and I’m pretty sure melted parsley is how plastic is made. In fact, I suspect there are actually no more than one thousand pieces of parsley in the world and chefs just keep reusing them over and over.
Maybe it keeps showing up on our plates because we don’t eat it. Perhaps chefs are continuing to serve it night after night as punishment, much like when your mom served you the reheated lima beans you refused to eat for three straight evenings until you finally forced them down and then vomited on your plate, ruining lima beans for everyone in the vicinity.
It’s not our fault though. From our earliest night out we’re taught two things: That’s butter, not ice cream. And that’s parsley, don’t eat it.
Although, now that I think about it, you hardly ever see parsley anymore. Maybe it’s because we eat less American food nowadays. Instead, parsley has been replaced by that huge mound of wasabi served with the tiniest sushi roll.
Wasabi
You never finish it.
No one ever finishes it.
Have you ever seen anyone ask for a refill on wasabi? No. It always ends up back in the kitchen with the chef, where he probably just adds it back to the huge Play-Doh ball on the counter.
It’s probably made of parsley.
Cream Cheese
If cream cheese is cream made out of cheese then why isn’t face cream made out of face?
Or wait. Maybe it is.
Maybe I’m just slathering new bits of face skin into my wrinkles. Which is pretty brilliant. They probably get the skin from the microdermabrasion places and recycled Bioré skin strips. What a bunch of tricky bastards. Stripping off our own skin and then selling it back to us. It’s almost as insulting as pulling fat out of your ass and injecting it into your lips. Which is totally a real thing that exists and is a pretty good sign that civilization is collapsing. This is exactly why I’m not a fan of forced kissing of your great-aunt. You might be literally kissing her ass. Sort of. I’m not really sure what “literally” means in this scenario. Is it still literally your ass if your ass is in your lips? These are the things they never teach you in journalism school.
Soup
I once went to a dinner party where waiters walked around with canapés, which I think is French for “hors d’oeuvres.” Which is also French, now that I think about it. Apparently the French are really into small food, which sort of makes sense because they’re very thin. That girl in Amélie is so tiny I could fit her in my vagina. Not that I would. I would have said “pocket” but I don’t have a pocket in this dress. But I do have a vagina and that’s sort of like a pocket, although not one you should store paper money in. Or coins, probably. I guess it depends on how strong your vaginal muscles are. More power to you if you can keep a roll of nickels up there. My hat is off to you, my friend.
But enough about your braggy, powerful vagina. I was talking about canapés. I can never eat them because I’m dangerously lactose intolerant and I’m always afraid there will be some sort of cream hidden in there that will send me to the hospital, but what sucks is that the waiters keep walking around asking you over and over if you want a canapé now even though I just said two minutes ago that I couldn’t eat them, and now it’s like they’re just taunting me with food I can’t have. I recently fixed that problem though because I realized that the secret to not having to continually say no to delicious food is to loudly say, “No. Sorry, I can’t eat that BECAUSE DIARRHEA.” It’s jarring for the people around you, but I’ve found that most waiters continually as
k if you want food not because they really want you to eat, but because they’ve zoned out or are high (I’m basing that on my personal experience in food service so stop judging me. Unless you’re judging me for being high, in which case, fair game) and they’ve already forgotten who said no. But no one forgets diarrhea. “BECAUSE DIARRHEA” will make all the waiters perk up and avoid you completely. So will a lot of the people at dinner parties, but those are the risks of diarrhea.
One time I was at a patio party where I heard they were handing out soup as an hors d’oeuvre and I wondered how that was even possible and then I saw that the waiters were walking around handing out large, flat-bottomed spoons filled with a single bite of soup. Personally I think that whole concept is kinda fucked up regardless of who you are and what you’re allergic to. Soup given to you one spoonful at a time by people in fancy tuxedos is pretty much the definition of “overprivileged what-the-fuckery” and I’m pretty sure it was invented by intoxicated food-service people who thought it would be funny to see if people would actually fall for such shenanigans. I suspect the next step is crackers that have been premoistened by your waiter’s saliva and then fed to you from his mouth into yours like you’re a baby bird. In fact, by the time this book is out, spit crackers will probably be the next big thing, and I want it noted that I called it.
And it wasn’t even warm soup that they were serving. It was gazpacho, which I tried once and is basically what you call tomato soup once it’s gone so cold that you just give up and try to pass it off as a nonalcoholic, tomato Bellini. Or a melty soup-Popsicle. A soupsicle. Still, everyone at the party tried it because no one wants to admit that gazpacho tastes like partially melted tomato ice cream. The problem was that by the time they swallowed their spoonful of soupsicle the waiter was gone, causing all of them to stand in their elegant attire while awkwardly holding a dirty spoon like a terrible, unwanted accessory. Some people laid their empty spoons on windowsills or on the ground when they thought no one was looking, but most just looked with quiet desperation for a waiter who might never return and were forced to hold the spoons at their sides, seemingly pretending that the spoons were cigarettes or small fancy dogs.
I saw one woman look around expectantly for a minute and when she realized no one was coming back for the spoon she just shrugged and tossed it in the pool. It seemed slightly bitchy, but you have to respect that level of I-have-no-fucks-left-to-give-about-silverware-that-doesn’t-even-belong-to-me. With that one spoon drop she told everyone at the party, “If you aren’t going to take care of your shit then I’m sure as hell not going to take responsibility for it.”
That’s when I decided I adored that woman and her attitude. I’d probably feel differently if I was a foundling left on her doorstep, but I was not. I was a woman who had just seen another woman pass the spoon test, a test I didn’t even know existed and that no one else had studied for. And it was then that I vowed to never take personal responsibility for other people’s spoons/attitudes/stupidity, because frankly I have enough to worry about with my own shit. I suspect this is one of those life lessons that no one ever really gets to use, but still, I’m ready.
Just try to hand me a spoon.
PS: I just read my friend Karen this chapter and she liked it very much but she interrupted me at one point and said, “Hang on. You can’t say you would put the girl from Amélie in your vagina,” and I said, “I agree. I said I could. Not that I would. She’d suffocate in there and she’s France’s national treasure.” Then Karen said, “You need to take out the vagina,” and I was all, “In public? I almost never take out my vagina in public. Are you drunk right now?” and she said, “Jenny, seriously, you have to cut out your vagina part,” and I flinched a little at her wording but then she explained that I should take out the vaginas because men read my books too and I said, “Karen, men love vaginas. They can’t get enough of them. And even men who don’t prefer them came from them. Vaginas are like home. A sort of clammy one.” Then she flinched at my phrasing and pointed out that not all men love vagina stories and that her father was going to read this book and might get a bit offended and so I told her that I’d add a small note apologizing to her father for my vagina. It is shocking how often I have to do this. I suspect it’s just one of those things writers get used to.
PPS: I’m so, so sorry about my vagina. It’s weird how often I have to say that. Honestly, I should just put it on a T-shirt.
And Then I Got Three Dead Cats in the Mail
Conversation I had with my friend Maile. (It’s pronounced Miley. Like Miley Cyrus. Except that she had the name before Miley Cyrus. She would like me to point that out. She was born way before Miley Cyrus was. She would like me to take out that last sentence.)
ME: Guess what I got in the mail yesterday?
MAILE: Something gross.
ME: OH MY GOD, HOW DID YOU DO THAT?
MAILE: I’m psychic. Plus, I’ve met you. So, what did you get in the mail yesterday?
ME: A bunch of dead cats.
MAILE: Hmm. Taxidermied?
ME: No.
MAILE: Oh. Fuck.
ME: Right?
MAILE: You got some dead, rotting cats in the mail?
ME: Well, they aren’t rotting. All of the insides were squished out so they’re like cat … sleeves?
MAILE: Who would send you cat sleeves?
ME: There was no note. They were just in a grocery sack.
MAILE: And the mystery deepens.
ME: I did have an e-mail conversation last month with this woman who said she had some cat skins she wanted to send me but—
MAILE: And the mystery is solved. Because it was never a mystery to begin with. It was just you not giving me enough information. Because you are terrible at telling stories.
ME: Well, not exactly, because the lady said that she had these totally ethically achieved dead cats—
MAILE: Stop. That’s not a thing.
ME: No, seriously. She said that she worked at this vet hospital but when they had cats that were already run over or had to be put down because they were cancerous they would have all of these dead cats left over that no one ever claimed and they didn’t want to just waste them so they sold the insides to vet schools—so they could dissect them—but then they had all this fur left over, so they tanned them and used them as packaging material when they needed to mail stuff.
MAILE: They used dead cats as packing peanuts? That’s disgusting. What were they shipping … human torsos?
ME: Technically it’s sort of eco-green in kind of the grossest way ever. Anyway, she said she wanted to make me some kitten mittens because of the time that I wrote about them.
MAILE: Wait … why would kittens need mittens?
ME: No. Mittens made out of kittens. You know. For the homeless.
MAILE: I already regret asking this, but … what in the fuck are you talking about?
ME: A couple of years ago I came up with this idea to repurpose used breast pumps to suck dead kittens inside out because then … TA-DA!… fur-lined mittens for homeless people. I told my friend Kregg about it and he was all, “That’s … weird,” and I’m all, “It’s weird that no one’s ever thought of it before. Because no one wants dead kittens or used breast pumps so this way we’d be keeping them both out of the landfills and we’d be helping the homeless. It’s practically carbon zero!” And then Kregg mentioned something about PETA and firebombs and I was all, “I’d only use kittens that were already dead from noncommunicable diseases, Kregg. I wouldn’t just go around haphazardly turning live kittens inside out. I’m not a monster, for God’s sake.” Frankly I’m a little insulted I even had to clarify that. I’m doing this to help the homeless. Not for my own personal kitten-mitten collection. I mean, I live in Texas. I don’t even need mittens.
MAILE: Wow. You are so … altruistic.
ME: Exactly. So I was expecting a pair of ethically made kitten mittens in the mail, but then I just got these skinned, untailored cats instead … and here’
s the weird thing … there are three of them.
MAILE: The weird thing about you getting a bunch of dead cats in the mail is the number of them?
ME: Yes, because I have two hands … and three cats to put on them. What is that implying?
MAILE: Maybe they’re supposed to be leg warmers.
ME: I don’t have three legs, Maile.
MAILE: Maybe it’s two leg warmers and a penis cozy.
ME: I don’t have a—ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?
MAILE: Are you listening to yourself? You want to use dead kittens for leg warmers. I shouldn’t be the one getting defensive here.
ME: Touché.
MAILE: How do you even get “ethically skinned” cats?
ME: Well, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.
MAILE: I’m going to pretend you never said that.
ME: Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting this whole conversation to use that joke.
MAILE: I know. And I’m still your friend in spite of it.
ME: OH MY GOD. It just dawned on me. I have three cats and I have three ethically skinned dead cats. HALLOWEEN COSTUMES FOR CATS.
MAILE: Who could go as…?
ME:… Different cats?
MAILE: That’s a terrible costume.
ME: The skins are long and thin. Maybe I could use them as wine koozies.
MAILE: And there was no note?
ME: Nope. Just three dead cats in a grocery sack.
MAILE: Canvas or plastic?
ME: Plastic.
MAILE: Well that’s no good for the environment. I’m pretty sure that woman was lying to you and she’s just trying to hide her crimes against humanity.
ME: Technically they’re crimes against cats. Catmanity.
MAILE: I don’t think that’s a word. It sounds like what you’d get if you crossbred a cat and a manatee.
