I’m not as concerned with sodium as health authorities want me to be. Not my doctor, by the way, but rather social justice warriors who take it upon themselves to spread anti-sodium propaganda.
Everyone is so worried about sodium. How much sodium is in that? Don’t want to exceed the maximum daily recommended amount for the day. It could kill me! (Ahem, nerd alert!)
I don’t care whether a serving has 2 grams of sodium or 9,000 grams. I don’t know what the maximum daily recommended amount is, and I don’t want to. As Jay-Z famously said, I’ve got ninety-nine problems but salt ain’t one.
While you’re spending valuable time scrutinizing the nutrition panel, trying to do math on the fly to gauge your sodium consumption for the day, I’m already eating. I don’t have high blood pressure, so it’s not going to be a problem for me. I’m tough like that. It’s my superhero power, really.
But here’s the rub: I’m not even into salty food; I’ve got a sweet tooth. With irritable bowel syndrome to contend with now and diabetes looming in my future, the outlook isn’t good. Sugar love-hates my body and my body love-hates sugar. I’m weak like that.
I strike a balance by eating cheddar popcorn mixed with caramel popcorn. The very definition of moderation.
P.S. — Can anyone tell me why I crave Coke every January?
Did you know that a horse can’t vomit? If a horse gets sick, it’s game over.
Each weekend when you pick up your first drink, you agree to accept vomiting as the outcome. You know the likelihood that you will drink to excess and end up puking on the sidewalk as you bar hop with your pals.
Meanwhile, that poor horse is sober. Involuntarily. He knows it will mean certain death if he reaches for beer #2.
As for me, before I take any action, I ask myself: Are you OK with dying while engaged in this activity? That’s my criteria. I don’t want “Died on the teacups at Disney” engraved on my tombstone. My epitaph doesn’t have to be grand or dramatic. My last activity just has to be something I enjoy and would be proud to die while doing.
“Entombed here while still seated at her beloved desk is Angie, who died writing a blog post.”
After hundreds of years of us believing dinosaurs to look and behave a certain way, scientists are suddenly pulling the rug out from under us and saying, “Maybe these creatures actually had feathers. Maybe they sang instead of roared. Maybe they were blue and purple rather than brown or grey.”
Even if you have it on good authority that these proto-chickens looked any different than images shared with us civilians to date, please just let sleeping dinosaurs lie, scientists. Don’t switch it up now. (Same goes for Pluto’s planetary status being rescinded. But I digress).
Yet, change is the only constant. Death, taxes, and change — everyone’s least favorite things — continue to plague us eon after eon.
As I acknowledge this new year that has befallen us, I commit to filling my life with joy, laughter, and new experiences. This year, change isn’t going to scare me. I’m going to tightly embrace change until it feels smothered and cries “Uncle!”
I invite you to do the same. Let’s shake shit up. Not for anarchy, but for progress.
Citizens of the world: listen up. We’re tired of you meddling in our affairs. Stop caring for us in zoos and artificially inseminating us to keep our species alive.
We do everything we can to communicate that we don’t wish to keep living. Yet, you keep intervening. Take a hint, people!
We don’t roar, maul, or defend our babies like other bears. We only eat bamboo which provides no nutritional value whatsoever, hence why we are perpetually oh-so-sleepy, keep toppling over, and have no sex drive.
We’ve got the benefit of four legs but can’t be bothered to stand. We’re the clumsiest animals of all time, which doesn’t help us feel physically attracted to each other. Neither does our perpetually dirty butts.
Seriously, give up the cause, people. Let us go quietly into oblivion.
Fellow human, have you ever had this experience? You were frowning for a damn good reason, and some smug bastard tells you that it takes more muscles to frown than smile. It’s called resting bitch face for a reason! My face is at rest, thank you very much! And yes, it would take a hell of a lot more effort to smile.
I was once told by a complete stranger: “It can’t be that bad, can it?” Then he flashed an exaggeratedly large smile to indicate that I should smile too. Why? Because I’m making him uncomfortable, that’s why. If I’m not flouncing about in a frilly dress, smiling idiotically for no reason, then I am making that stranger feel ill at ease as we both wait at the bus stop. Who on earth smiles while waiting for a bus? A crazy person, that’s who.
Don’t you hate it when someone tells you that you look tired? That’s just a dick move. “I see that you’re suffering, and I thought I would take a minute out of my day to let you know how really shitty you look.” Let’s be better than that, people. Don’t just point out the obvious — offer a solution. “You look tired. Here’s a bed!”
Sometimes I think I’d be better off in a post-apocalyptic world living alone as a squatter in an abandoned warehouse. This warehouse is stocked with shelf-stable 80’s foods, including Magic Middles cookies and original Honeycomb cereal. All that’s on the agenda each day is to gorge on the deliciousness produced over three decades ago and talk to my scarecrow friend who never tells me I’d look prettier if I smiled. I’d just be sitting around with RBF, while feeling happier than ever.
By the by — I’m intrigued to see a lot of doctors following my blog, specifically therapists. If any of you has figured out what’s wrong with me, give me a shout! 🙂
Have you ever considered the origination of horseback riding? At some point in history, humans and horses existed separately on the planet and didn’t have a single thing to do with each other. Now — we’re atop their backs forcing them to do silly footwork in dressage and jumping hurdles for no good reason.
According to the Internet, humans started riding horses 5,500 years ago. In Kazakhstan. Where, interestingly, locals apparently consume horse milk, fermented until it’s mildly alcoholic. Now that’s a milk that’ll help put your kids to sleep at night!
So, this first rider, in the fourth millennium B.C., gazed upon a horse and thought to himself: “I should put my body on top of that creature’s body.”
He figured out a way to capture the horse, and then, because he was the original horse whisperer, convinced that horse to do his bidding, which was to take him to the grocery store post haste so that he didn’t have to schlep food home in a reusable animal pelt bag slung over his shoulder anymore.
Now he had a horse he could measure with his hands. This steed is 15 hands high! Not too mathematically sound, since everyone has different sized hands, but such as it is. Because the horse was our first vehicle, we measure car strength in “horsepower,” despite it being an embarrassingly obsolete comparison.
The horse doesn’t want us on its back. It resents our lazy and imposing ways. No one belongs on anyone else’s back unless it’s a koala or monkey baby clinging to its mother. Or when a human voluntarily carries another. But the horse never volunteered for this job.
How do I know this? Because they toss us off whenever they get the chance. I climbed onto a horse when I was a teenager, and he nonchalantly reared up, dumping me into a blackberry bush. Message received loud and clear, Mister Ed!
I say, we let ’em all go. Let ’em run wild. We’ll just tap them like kegs anytime we need a good dose of alcoholic milk.
Contrary to popular opinion, it wasn’t Buddha or some other yogi that came up with the idea of mindfulness. It was none other than Monsieur Napoleon Bonaparte.
People say he was short. He wasn’t. He was of average height, around 5’6″ says the Internet. Some think he was crazy. Not so, according to my cursory research. And you know how he kept his hand tucked inside his lapel like a weirdo? He was stroking the One Ring to Rule Them All, stored in his watch pocket!
Perhaps the most important thing to know about this historical figure is that he was all about mindfulness. Before battle, he could be found strolling through his garden.
Someone once asked him, “Monsieur, aren’t you nervous? You’re soon to be in mild peril!”
“No!” replied Napoleon. “Smell the fragrant flowers, feel the sunshine beaming down upon us. I live…in the moment!”
Then that other person practiced living in the moment as well.
“Hey, you’re really onto something!” he said, when his buzzing thoughts and worries disappeared.
“Yes, it is called mindfulness,” said Napoleon. “Tell all your friends. It’s the next big thing!”
And so that other fellow went on to regularly post photos of himself in a mindful state on Instagram. He attracted millions of followers, and the rest of us soon caught on that multitasking is the root of all evil, haste makes waste, and it is perfectly acceptable to wear black yoga pants to coronations and funerals.
I’ve got a full-time job, a husband, a kid, a house, a car. I’m living the American dream! So why is it that as I push the vacuum cleaner back and forth, I’m like, “Fuck this! I hate domesticity!”
When I do laundry, I abuse the washing machine like it has personally wronged me. I’m slamming the lid down, knocking stuff around, growling — like primal growling.
“I fucking hate domesticity! Every excruciating minute of it!”
And I have to ask myself, “Is today the day I check myself into a mental institution? Am I crazy? Do I need more medication?” Then I soothingly stroke my own shoulder like Gollum, and I say, “This is just feminism. It’s feminism, right? Yeah, of course I feel this way!”
I like to think I have more important stuff to do. I don’t have more important stuff to do, but I wish I did. Like being Chief of Staff to a CEO, or better yet, the CEO herself. That woman doesn’t have time to waste cleaning house; she would outsource that shit.
Every time I do housework it makes me want to grab my go-bag — because, of course I’ve got one already packed — run to the car, and drive to anywhere that isn’t home. It is an undeniable “flight” response to household responsibilities.
My 3.5-year-old was recently trying to get my attention, and I was like, “Yeah, yeah, quiet down. Mommy’s trying to write jokes.”
I was not cut out to be a housewife, a mother, or a cleaner. I don’t think I was cut out to be anything, but these things especially don’t come naturally to me. This is just feminism, right?
The only hair on my head that is its original shade of brown is my mustache. The hair on top: dyed. Eyebrows: penciled in. But my mustache? Still going strong! Why do genetics hate us so much?
You’d think useless and socially problematic features like unibrows and hair growing on or inside ears would phase out of the human gene pool as we continue evolving, but NO! They hang on for generation after generation.
My husband recently told me my hair smelled like a goat. I don’t know how you would take it if your significant other said this to you, but as for me, I laughed uncontrollably for twenty minutes. After which a single tear formed at the corner of my eye as I thought back over a life lived without class. I momentarily wished I’d leaned into my femininity instead of refusing to wear high heels or lipstick, despising domesticity, and seeing how long I can go between hair washings before I develop a serious medical condition.
Laziness wins out for me every time. I’ve got more important things to do than comb my hair. OK – that’s not true, but even if I don’t, I wish that I did, which is basically the same thing. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that I didn’t see a comb for two years during the pandemic.
I got so sick of brushing my teeth during quarantine. Even though it was just once a day, like everyone else (twice, if you’re anal), it felt like I was wasting the entire day at the sink caring for my teeth. Like it was always time to brush again. So boring! Don’t even get me started on showers; they’re the most boring of all.
By the way, I think some rebranding is in order for the anus. It’s a really unattractive word for your most unattractive body part. It’s an embarrassing word to say, probably even if you’re a doctor. I know they say a rose by any other name still smells as sweet, but an anus by any other name is an easier topic to tackle.
I think God made a design flaw with the human penis. No matter how one is presented to me, whether shriveled or erect, I feel like I’m looking at something I’m not mature enough to see. It just doesn’t look quite finished. It’s like when you’re driving behind another car, and you see that a part has come disconnected underneath and is dragging on the ground, and you’re like, “Ooh, that can’t be good!”
Lastly, I think feet are freakish. I pay someone else to care for mine, because that task is definitely best outsourced to the pros. My feet are so dry they make their own dandruff; so cracked, they’re constantly peeling. I have hair on my big toe knuckles, like a Hobbit. Jennifer Aniston would never allow her feet to fall into this state of disrepair. I know this because I once saw a photo of her in strappy sandals that boasted perfectly manicured toes, as soft and smooth as an infant’s tootsies. My feet could cure a man of his foot fetish in a hot second.
I’d do something to improve my condition, but I’ve got more important things to do.
Have you ever had a thought so bizarre you were like, “Thank God nobody can hear my thoughts! I would have invited scrutiny upon my mental health with that one.”
That’s precisely the kind that makes up the majority of my thoughts each and every day.
While my 3.5-year-old was recently watching the Peppa cartoon about a family of talking pigs, I realized I have a little crush on Daddy Pig. It’s his cheerful personality I find attractive. And the British accent doesn’t hurt. Regardless of whatever shenanigans are going on in his home, Daddy Pig maintains a pleasant and patient disposition. These qualities are very attractive in a man. In this case, a pigman, but you get what I mean. If you’re not familiar with the Peppa cartoon, congratulations, you’ve made the right choices in life.
You know what else is attractive is when a tough guy carries his carton of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his t-shirt. That is the hottest way to carry your future cancer.
When scientists announced that sitting is the new smoking, did all the smokers run out into the streets cheering and lighting up? “Take that, all you sitters! Smoking has moved down to #2 on the list of deadly habits.”
Have you tasted cough syrup lately? This stuff has come a long way! It’s like Capri Sun for adults. My favorite is the green nighttime syrup. Not only does this cure what ails you, it puts you into a euphoric state. I’m still taking shots of this stuff long after my cold is over.
My husband is like, “You’re an addict! You’ve got to get this under control!” I’m like, “Stop — you’re killing the vibe!” He’s on the phone with a drug counselor: “Hello, yes, I’m calling about my wife. She’s on…she’s on the syrup!”
This stuff is the perfect street drug. It’s legal, it’s highly available, and it’s cheap. You don’t have to go down to the street corner with a fistful of cash to buy happiness from your dealer anymore. You can find euphoria at your local CVS. Buy store brand green syrup to save yourself a few coins. Grimace now, thank me later!
You know that old tip to help you get over stage fright? That you’re supposed to imagine the audience in their underwear? Forget that — it’s useless. If I’m standing in a room where everyone else is in their underwear, that’s going to make me even more self-conscious because I’m overdressed. Here’s the real tip: The way to overcome stage fright is to imagine that the audience is more afraid of you than you are of them.
My mother always told me, “Three’s a crowd.” That was her answer whenever I wanted to have two friends over at the same time. This was a funny statement coming from the parent of five children. If three’s a crowd, then five is a carbon footprint that really got away from you.
Why is everyone a nervous pooper? Nobody wants anyone else to know that they have to defecate. I have a friend that used to leave work, go all the way home to poop, then go back to work because he felt too uncomfortable using the office bathroom.
Every living creature has to defecate, so why are we so bashful about it?
I can always tell when a woman in a public bathroom is defecating because the second I swing open the door and enter, whatever noise was just occurring inside one of the stalls immediately comes to a halt. Toilet paper was clearly being torn off the roll, but now there’s dead silence. I go into my stall, answer the call of nature, then go wash my hands. All the while, this lady in the other closed stall still hasn’t moved a muscle. She thinks I won’t know she’s there, or why she’s there if she doesn’t make any sound. But I can see her two feet under the stall door, so I know someone is there. And if there’s silence, it tells me everything I need to know. There might as well be an announcement over the loudspeaker: “Ms. Baker is now pooping in stall #4.”
Why not just let it rip, ladies? We’re all in this together.
I want my therapist to be like Google Maps. As you’re driving, a robotic female voice tells you to take the first exit in the roundabout, take a sharp right, keep left at the fork. This service is one I would pay for.
Instead, my therapist is like God: she works in mysterious ways. But I just want a straightforward answer! What should I do in a given scenario, how should I react, what should I avoid? She’s not telling!
I’m chock full of meandering thoughts and questions such as these, but I’m afraid I have very few answers.