Today is one of those ‘highly productive days’ where I make list after list and then sit and stare at baby socks on Zulily while I eat yogurt. I did finish reading Tina Fey‘s Bossypants, which makes me think these two thoughts:
1. – ‘I can totally be that funny’
2. ‘Tina Fey and I would be friends if we lived in the same city.’
If I’m honest, I’m only funny when I’m a little drunk and simultaneously a little sick. Give me a few glasses of Pinot during flu season, and you will laugh your guts out. Guts will just be everywhere. And it will be hilarious.
Tina Fey and I probably wouldn’t even be friends if we lived in the same building. Likely because I would be an indentured servant of some type and everyone knows I don’t ‘do well’ with ‘authority figures’.
But still, it’s a nice thought. Because you know, I think she gets me. She probably gets you too. And that’s all we really want, right? Is somebody to get us. Yep, we are all just a bunch of lonely snowflakes desperate to be understood.
No one at work gets me. But to be fair, my appearance these days may have a little to do with that.
I come in looking like Smee everyday. I don’t know why this is my outfit of choice, but it probably has something to do with these tan cargo ankle pants being the only maternity pants I can wear right now. I have also purchased some large, tortoise cat-eye glasses that I wear everywhere. I typically top off this ensemble with a dirty pony tale.
I am the poster child for Xanax. I have become a stereotype.
Which is why her book was a nice warm fuzzy.
But look she’s not really trying to relate to anybody, she’s just a funny, self-deprecating woman who made a name for herself.
It’s encouraging. It’s relatable. It’s familiar. The way good comedy should be.
I didn’t intend for this to be a book review, but I guess we are there. Go read Bossypants! Now!
Now back to me. I am a tad bit of a mess. I mostly blame Panda, who has kept me up the past few nights screaming bloody murder. I have narrowed down the causes to either allergy-related drainage and sore throat or Game of Thrones withdrawal. I might be projecting.
But regardless, it is a problem. I am dragging in to work clearly dressed unprofessionally for anyone but a cartoon pirate. Then I zombie eat at my desk while I aimlessly examine the internet.
I’m too exhausted. I’m too exhausted to even hide under my desk and take a nap. I am beyond that. I am William Hurt, regressing back to a single cell organism.
I had weirdo dreams about William Hurt for years, actually. Not sex dreams. Like weird, May-November romance dreams where he was always checking on me to make sure my self-destructive 20-year-old self was ok then he would leave sad because he was JUST TOO CLOSE. I am melodramatic and awkward even when I dream.
So what is an unproductive, sleep-deprived feminist to do? That’s not rhetorical, I need an answer. I just spent the last five minutes staring out my office window thinking about donuts.
I think maybe we call this one a loss and try again tomorrow. Now back to those socks.