By: Ann Brown
I hate your kids. Well, only if they are doing great. I’m not unreasonable.
In this economy, nobody’s college graduate kid better have found meaningful and lucrative work or I am going to be very aggravated and finish the entire box of prune hamenstashn. And then Robin will suffer because we only have one bathroom upstairs. And he’s been through enough, what with the cancer and all.
So all of you whose lives are going GREAT can just clear out right now. Shoo. Begone. Oh, and don’t be driving around my neighborhood with one of those honor student bumper stickers. No wait, there is one exception: those of you who drive really old crappy cars with Bush or McCain bumper stickers may drive by even if your kid is an honor student. You crack me up. If you are also unemployed, homeless, no medical insurance, gay and a Katrina survivor, and still a Bush supporter, come on up the driveway and say hello. I will make you dinner just so I can study you.
Wait. You know what? I didn’t mean to go off on you. I apologize. The person I am really pissed off at is Carrie Fisher.
You know why, right?
Carrie, bubeleh; witty, zaftig, relatable, drug-addicted Carrie: why have you forsaken me? Do you really think that Jenny Craig – that skinny, shiksa, locked jaw millionaire bitch – is going to give you what you need? Wake up, Carrie. Smell the bagels with schmear. Pop a pill. Have a Bloody Mary. Come sit next to Dr. Strangemom.
Carrie was my last hope. I mean, I don’t give two shits about Valerie Bertinelli or Jennifer Hudson losing all that weight. Val and Jen are not on my radar. God bless them, they should go forth and live happy lives in tuck-in shirts and thrice-wrapped skinny belts around their whittled waists. But Carrie?
She has it all. She has it goin’ on. She’s all that -brains, snark, edge, addictions, money problems, singer-songwriter ex husband, gay ex-husband, depression, spare tires, sultry speaking voice – and a bag of baked chips. Fuuuuck, if I had half of what she has I’d be happily hunkered down in Rustic Canyon, baking cinnamon rolls, rollin’ joints, doctoring scripts and shutting the hell up.
I just know how this story is gonna unfold. She will lose the weight, stay off drugs, look gorgeous and commence with a gajillon commercials about her fabu new life, living happily, low-carbily, just a handful of almonds for dessert, thank you, ever after. She will meet a man – pretty as Bryan and hetero as Paul – have a healthy marriage and, I don’t know, bring peace to the Middle East. She’ll share her recycled little baggie of healthy nosherai with Bini and Abbas, who will lay down the sword and pick up the crudite.
And she’ll periodically return to television to exclaim her amazement at being a size 2 again. She will speak in exclamation points! and CAPITAL LETTERS and italics to bring home the point that Jenny C rocked her world and she can rock YOUR!!!! world, too.
Frankly, I just don’t need to be a witness to that kind of upbeat, smiley-face shit. My attention needs to focus on Libya and how the fuck we are now in another war.
Carrie, why don’t you doctor that up first?
[Photo Credit: Anarand Agasi]
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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