Should you care to watch me try not to embarrass myself on stage, then I’ll see you at The Wonderland Ballroom this Friday, Feb. 15, at 7:30 p.m., when I’ll be a guest on Brandon Wetherbee‘s live talk show, You, Me, Them, Everybody.
Bonus link (because three in the above sentence isn’t enough): Happy Vladentine’s Day!
Need more proof of my nonstop elegance? I’m the daintiest applauser in this week’s WWE Monday Night Raw, broadcast on national television. As Damien Sandow would say (Google him, he’s my favorite), you’re welcome. #notembarrased
And it is awesome. At least it’s awesomely cathartic. For me. But for everyone else, especially future brides who don’t want to look and feel like overgrown tooth fairies on your wedding day? The Anti Wedding is dedicated to all our struggles.
If you’ve read this blog (or my other, now-retired blog) closely enough, you may have picked up on a little problem I have—OCD. And no, that doesn’t stand for Optimum Cash Dollars. Unlike Mr. Smalls, mo’ money would most definitely not create mo’ problems for me. Unfortunately, the OCD I’m referring to is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and not the hilarious and sometimes helpful kind where I have to count light switches or keep my belongings spic and span. My apartment is a mess. And now that I have a cat, it’s most likely covered in poop particles. Side note: Whoever said cats are cleaner than dogs has obviously never smelled a litter box. But I digress. My brand of OCD provides me with 24 hours of fear of death from a horrible disease seven days a week. Example? ‘Member when I was freaking out about my thyroid and the possibility of having rickets…in the 21st century? Then, of course, there was that one time I thought I had brain cancer. I didn’t write about that one because $3,000 in MRI bills isn’t very funny. On the bright side, at least I ended up with this sweet pic of my interior design:
Anyway, the point of all this ‘splainin isn’t just to come out as someone who suffers from a mental illness because I’m pretty sure everybody has something going on. I’m not that exciting. That said, feel free to probe me—NOT IN THAT WAY!—should you have questions about OCD, unless your advice or query is about whether I’ve sought professional help. I have and it helped me tremendously.
So what’s the point then?
*A reader raises his hand*
Yes, you there in the back?
“Is it to demonstrate how not to begin an essay…?”
F*ck you. No. The point is to wish myself a Happy Belated Birthday (it was July 29), or rather a Happy Still-Not-Dead Day. Despite all the germs, viruses and bacteria that are out there just waiting to kill me, I’m still around and, boy, do I have big plans for my 33rd year of life. Besides continuing to not die (always goal No. 1!), I’m vowing right now to revisit or start anew that novel I began writing in 2009. I’m also going to paint more with the aim of showing in a gallery, where I’ll sell my work for OCD. Now I am talking about Optimum Cash Dollars. Thirdly, I promise to get over my stage fright and perform at a SpeakeasyDC or other storytelling event. Fourthly, I’m going to read a lot more books. Hell, if I think I’m ready to write one, I damn well better study the craft. And finally, I promise to write more essays like this. Except better. I miss blogging. Maybe Definitely because of the instant gratification it provided (HINT: COMMENTS WELCOMED AND ENCOURAGED!), but also because it kept my (tumor free!) mind sharp. Like a dull pencil. It might not be able to cut anything, but it sure can stab the sh*t out of something soft. I don’t know what that metaphor is supposed to mean. Gimme time…
This is my cat, Humphrey. He’s the Most Interesting Cat in the World. He knows your Fancy Feast is neither. Feel free to pin it, tweet it, Facebook it, publish it in the New York Times, whatever! LET’S JUST ALL AGREE TO MAKE HIM FAMOUS! He deserves it. He works hard for his catnip. And by “works hard,” I mean “sleeps 20 hours per day”… Lazy, albeit interesting, bastard… Meanwhile, there’s a Part II to this meme. Make up your own quote for Gentleman Cat! Get the blank canvas here and spread the lolcat love. He can haz meme.
If there’s anything in this world that really reminds me of my love for the USA, it’s the phenomenon of flamboyant fitness guru Richard Simmons. I still remember the time when my mother, who’s been Sweatin’ to the Oldies since the 1980s, dragged me directly from the eye doctor’s—dilated pupils and all—to a suburban Minneapolis mall to see Mr. Simmons live.
I was eight. The drive was two hours each way. And I couldn’t see. Yet, still, it was fabulous.
God bless America, people!
Before I got my current fulltime job where I get paid to write creatively and research Internet memes all day, writing creatively and researching Internet memes all day was my hobby. Alas, now that that’s “work,” I’ve decided to pick up a new hobby—painting. I won’t lie: I don’t have a lot of experience. Besides elementary school, my only grown-up level art class was Ceramics 101 at Grinnell College. I was OK, but I don’t think I ever excelled. What I have always done, though, is doodle. At my old, boring job, where I was forced to sit through numerous Congressional hearings about mammoth radiation detectors (that is to say large-sized radiation detectors, and not detectors to find radiating prehistoric mammals—that would’ve been much less boring), I used to fill my notebooks with shapes, things, portraits. I drew ex-Senator Norm Coleman so many times that if I consolidated all of them, I could probably make a coffee table book no one would want. But I digress…
I still draw, but not like I used to, probably because I don’t have boring events to sit through anymore. Plus, I’m pretty sure because of those boring events, my brain subconsciously associates drawing with the feeling of being dissatisfied. It thinks, “Well, if Marissa is drawing, it must be because she’s busying her hands so not to take that pencil and stick it in her ear so far it would wound me.” Drawing for me makes the shitty parts of life just bearable enough so I don’t kill myself. It does not take me to a truly happy place.
But abstract painting does. Something about the freedom, the color, the fact that I find myself standing on a chair and humming nonsensical songs to myself while my hands move around the canvas making shapes into scenes… it makes me happy. It also makes me look crazy. But, if I may mouth-trumpet my own mouth-trumpet, the results have been pretty cool so far.
“One on One” — 2012 — Acrylic on canvas — 16 x 20 inches
“Cover Up” — 2012 — Acrylic on canvas — 20 x 16 inches
I posted these on Facebook and was pleased to read that people who are not just my close friends and family think I might actually be good at this. As of right now, I’m not selling any work (although someone made my life by actually asking unsarcastically!), but I may entertain the idea in the future, but I’ll have to think it through. If I repeat past patterns, the second this ever becomes “work,” I’ll have to take up a new hobby… Fire eating? Machete juggling? Ice road trucking? The list of possibilities is endless, yet really dangerous.
