From the category archives:

Everyone is Insane

Mane Event

by Marinka on November 26, 2014

“Hey mom,” my son told me the other day, “I’m going to be a tiger in the class play.”

“Roar!” I said, before I remembered that he was 13 and not 4.

And then he told me that he was going to wear his sister’s tiger costume and I congratulated myself on being the type of mother who had endangered species costumes around the house. (BTW, I just realized that I wasn’t sure if tigers were really endangered or if I just heard some propaganda on the issue, so I confirmed it with the World Wildlife Fund and now I’m depressed because some species are Critically Endangered and none of those species is the GOP.)

I was feeling pretty good until the next morning, when, as my son was leaving for school he asked me to pick up a lion’s mane for the next day.

“Why would a tiger need a lion’s mane?” I asked, suddenly concerned that I was dealing with the exception under the No Child Left Behind Act.

“Change of plans,” he explained. “I am going to be a lion.”

Now, I have no idea what kind of species-reassignment their class play underwent overnight, but I found it both immoral and un-American. I mean, one minute my day stretches out before me with nary a mane in sight, and then suddenly and without any reason, I am Googling shit like: LION MANE and LION MANE EZ-TO MAKE WITH NO SEWING OR TALENT OR EVEN HANDS FOR THAT MATTER. And what I learned after a few minutes, which felt like decades, of research is that: most lion manes on the market are for cats and dogs and the DIY lion manes are for a lion face made out of a paper plate. Since I birthed a child that’s neither a domestic animal nor is he part of the the disposable tableware family, I was shit out of luck.

“This is a tragedy of epic proportions!” I wailed on Facebook. And then someone suggested that I go to the local costume store.

I called them.

“Hello,” I said (after they picked up the phone). “I am in the market for a lion’s mane.”

“Hold on, please,” the phone picker upper said and placed me on hold. Someone else picked up a few minutes later.

“What are you holding for?” Phone Picker Upper 2.0 asked.

“Lion’s mane,” I said, wondering what the other people on hold were wanting to buy. What if there was a sudden rush on manes this holiday season? Maybe it’s a good thing I got a jump start.

“We have the Cowardly Lion mane,” the person on the other end said, “that’s $80 and we have a wig that can be styled into a mane that’s $50.”

Immediately, much like the youngest child at a Seder, I had four questions.

1. How is the Cowardly Lion Mane different from a run-of-the-jungle lion mane?

2. Why is the Cowardly Lion Mane so expensive?

3. Is “Cowardly Lion” the only time the word “cowardly” has ever been used in the history of the English language?

4. Who is going to do the styling on the $50 wig to make it mane-ish?

But instead I said “great! Thanks so much!” and then added a few lies about how I am definitely going to stop by to pick up one, if not both, of these bargains.

After I hung up, I thought some more. Maybe, just maybe, I could stop by the Minskoff Theater to see of The Lion King cast could spare a mane for the afternoon. I mentioned this plan to a colleague, who pointed out that despite its obvious merit, unfortunately there was going to be a matinee performance of The Lion King the very afternoon that I’d need the mane for. For a split second, I became very excited that my son had in fact joined the cast of The Lion King, but apparently it’s just one of those “coincidences” that the government wants us to believe.

“I don’t know where to get a lion’s mane,” I told my son once he got home from school and he reassured me that he no longer needed one.

“Are you going to grow one?” I asked and he shook his maneless head.

“Are you back to being a tiger?” I asked and he continued to shake.

“Where will you get a mane?” I was on the edge of my seat and also, coincidentally, the window ledge.

And he told me. He told me that his friend was going to lend him her tutu and he was going to wear it on his head, mane-like.

Don’t tell Julie Taymor.


That Loving Feeling

by Marinka on October 26, 2014

If you are like most people who have absolutely nothing else going on in their own lives, you’ve probably been wondering about what’s been going on with me and The Guy I went to Ireland With. By way of background, The Guy I Went to Ireland With and I went to Ireland in August where, after surviving the Airport Incident, I managed to have a great time, despite some mild to medium stress and tension arising out of the unfortunate events having to do with The Guy I Went to Ireland With’s insensitivity.

But that’s what the people who speak English fluently call “prologue”.

This is an “update”.

So The Guy I Went to Ireland With and I have been seeing each other since the Spring and if you’re like me, you like to celebrate the passage of the seasons and your six month anniversary by compiling a list of your love interest’s personality flaws.

“You know what’s annoying about you?” I asked him one night and when he was positively stumped, I shared my findings. Because The Guy I Went to Ireland With is Always Late. I mean, he wasn’t late when we started seeing each other, but as we relaxed into a relationship, I’ve noticed a pattern. Like, we’ll decide to meet for dinner at 8. At 8:01, I’d be sitting at the designated restaurant with a napkin tied around my neck, clutching a knife and fork in either hand, prepared for mastication. At 8:15, I get a text from him, letting me know that he’s on his way. This is always confusing to me, because if he is on his way at a time later than he is supposed to be here, how is he going to get here on time? It’s a mystery, but admittedly I don’t know how time travel works.

There are some other examples of his lateness, each meriting a post or a short screenplay of its own, but I just don’t have the time to get into it. Because I have appointments and don’t want to be late. So let’s just agree that He is Always Late and that I have really great hair.

As a result of the lateness, I had to develop some coping strategies. Like lying, for example. “Why don’t we meet at 7?” I’d ask, planning to serve dinner at 7:30. This strategy had some obvious advantages. Like deceit. The disadvantage was that it involved math, and by the time I did the calculations as to what time the actual event was versus what time I had to lie about, I felt that I had expanded enough mental energy to launch a few missiles and/or to prove/disprove the Theory of Relativity.

Obviously I couldn’t maintain that kind of high-wire balancing act, so I settled into a tried and true strategy of Silently Seething. The interesting thing about the Silently Seething strategy is that although, as the name implies, it involves a lot of seething in silence about the lateness, it also comes with exciting outbursts of j’accusations and indictments at top volume.

Ok, now that I’ve set the stage, let me explain what happened last weekend. By the way, there is absolutely no point to that last sentence and if I were a better writer, I’d just edit it out, but now that I’ve written it and then written about it, I just can’t seem to let go. Or writing about the sentence. OMG, what if I can’t finish this post because I’m stuck on this shit now?

So last Saturday we were supposed to go to a party in New Jersey. The Guy I Went to Ireland With was going to spend the day working in New Jersey, close to the party location, then get back to NYC, pick me up and drive us back to New Jersey. We planned to meet at the parking garage at 5:30 pm.

By 4:30 pm, I was Silently Seething. Because I knew, KNEW, I tell you, that The Guy I Went to Ireland With was going to be late. And there I would be, in my party dress and perfect hair, stranded by the garage, waiting for him. The air would be filled with desperation and rage. Everyone passing by would feel sorry for me, with the possible exception of those who would be absolutely taken by my hair. Oh, I’d also be wearing boots. I didn’t mean to imply, by focusing on dress and hair, that I was barefoot. Writing is hard. I don’t know, maybe I should just edit that sentence out from a few paragraphs ago.

How long could something like this go on, I wondered. How long would I allow myself to be treated like this? Sure, I love The Guy I Went to Ireland With, but is love enough to overcome the lateness, which is shorthand for “I don’t care about you and possibly hate you”? I didn’t know. But I was pretty sure that by the time he finally did get there, 10, 15, half an hour to forty five minutes later, we were going to have a pretty animated conversation. “Why is your time more important than mine?” I’d ask and as he gathered his thoughts, I’d launch the ever-popular “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t make me wait!” I was ready.

Unfortunately, we never got to have this conversation. Because The Guy I Went to Ireland With had a diabolical plot to destroy my plans by being on time. And I was late. But those are details and apparently the devil is in them and I have enough problems without having to deal with Satanism at this stage in my life. What you should take away from this post is that I have really great hair and am a wonderful person. (Oh, and he was going to write about this from his POV, but, well, he’s running a bit late with it. Go figure.)


Shoe Math

September 26, 2014

I don’t know about you, but I always welcome the opportunity to feel like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters. Wait, were her stepsisters ugly or just mean-spirited? Is it too much to hope that they were both, in addition to huge-footed? Anyway. I never miss the opportunity to feel like one of them. So I […]

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Get Over It

September 9, 2014

I have many important things to update on, including the fact that I am not drinking alcohol in September and that my cat is urinating all over the fucking place, but I feel like first I have to tell you about my trip to Ireland. So let’s get that over with so that we can […]

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August 22, 2014

I’m in Ireland and it is beautiful and everything is going really well, which is obviously a relief and also a damn good thing because right before we left, I almost had a nervous breakdown. Now I don’t know about you, but personally I believe that there are two types of people in the world: […]

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August 8, 2014

Love stories are so dull. And they’re all almost exactly the same. Girl meets boy. Girl and boy decide to go to Ireland together in August. Girl realizes boy is bat shit insane. How many times can you hear this story before rolling your eyes and thinking “this again?” In case it’s new to you, […]

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August 5, 2014

In case you read this blog for all your breaking news, there is an Ebola outbreak going on right now. It’s mostly in Africa, although two infected American missionaries have been brought to the United States. Also someone walked into a NYC emergency room, feeling all Ebolaish, but the hospital spokersperson is telling us not […]

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Not Your Mother’s Vagina

July 31, 2014

I do not have a bucket list. Really, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have goals. Lofty, admirable goals. And one of those goals is to figure out which fucking Always pads to buy once and for all. Preferably before the onset of menopause. I’m racing against the clock here, people. Mona […]

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