Top Ten Hurricane Irene Social Media Clichés.

What a crazy weekend!  Now that it’s all over and most of us survived, we can look back and have a chuckle.  I was glued to Facebook and Twitter for the storm and noticed some trends.  And I’m certainly guilty of a few of these (definitely #1 and #10).  How many did you do?  Can you think of any that I missed?

In no particular order, here are The Top Ten Hurricane Irene Social Media Clichés:

1) Booze as emergency supplies.

Example: Pictured: A gallon of Jack Daniels.  Caption: “Emergency supplies!”

2) Equating things a hurricane does to sexual things a woman might do.

Example: “Blows,” “Gets you wet,” and “Weakens.”

3) Reports of coffee establishment status.

Example: “OMFG! Starbucks is closed!”

4) Saying “Good night, Irene.”

5) Changing the lyrics from Dexys Midnight Runners’ song “Come on Eileen” to “Come on Irene.”

6) Mentioning the person in your life named Irene and personifying the storm accordingly.

Example: “Not to worry, if Hurricane Irene is anything like my cousin Irene, it just means we’ll get an ugly sweater for Christmas.”

7) Picture of fallen tree.

8 ) Being disappointed in the downgrade to tropical storm.

Example: “Is that all ya’ got, Irene?!”

9) Being horrified that other people are disappointed it was downgraded to tropical storm.

Example: “How can you be upset by a downgrade?  Just be glad everyone is safe.”

10) Reports about what peoples’ parents are saying or doing.

Example: “My mother just called and told me to get an umbrella. Uh, thanks, Mom.”

Birthday love: The final tally.

Well, I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t track every little detail of my life.  I was curious about how many birthday wishes I got on my Facebook wall.  (Curiosity?  Really?  That’s what it was?  Or was I motivated by ego alone?  I’m weak.  Don’t judge.)  So I started counting and realized that “birthday wishes” are indeed a loose term.  Do “Have a great day!” and “Ur old” and “Get drunk tonight!” technically count as “birthday wishes”?  I mean, does the word “birthday” need to appear for it to be a birthday wish?  I have no idea.  I got some wishes in other languages that I can only assume are happy birthday wishes.  (I mean, death threats in Latin on my birthday would be just plain mean, right?)  And here it is:

I got roughly 212 messages of happy wishes on my birthday.  Roughly 17% of my total friendship roster.  Is that good?  Is that a lot?  Of course, there’s no way to know because I’m the only winner cool enough to tally up birthday love.  Did it work?  Do I feel loved yet?

Happy new year! For me.

I had a birthday on July 27th.  I had my usual existential crisis of being psyched to have a birthday but unpsyched to be aging yet again.  Can’t have both, it seems.

My mother took me to a fancy-ass lunch at the exclusive members only dining room at The Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Those who know me well know that I pretty much live at The Met.  It is my favorite place in the world.  And yet, I refuse to shell out the $60 it would take to be a member to eat in the fancy-ass special dining room.  That’s why I keep my fancy-ass mother around.  She’s good like that.

On my way home from lunch with my mother, my father called.  I’m omitting the boring details but here was pretty much the conversation:

Me: Hi, Dad!
Dad: Hi, Care!  How are you?
Me: Good.
Dad: Just wanted to let you know that [family news].
Me: Okay, have a safe flight.
Dad: And something else… oh, I wanted to let you know that [family health news].
Me: Okay, good to know.  Keep me posted.
Dad: Something else… something else…
Me: … [keeps from laughing]
Dad: Well, I guess that’s it.
Me: Okay, bye.
Dad: Bye.

Did you see that?  He totally forgot to wish me a happy birthday!  How cool is that?!  I don’t think my father has ever seen the classic Molly Ringwald movie Sixteen Candles wherein the main character’s entire family forgets her sixteenth birthday but I was thrilled to be a part of this inadvertent tribute.

The best part about my conversation with Dad is that I could tell he knew he forgot something — he just couldn’t remember what.  He had a lot he wanted to tell me and got sidetracked and just forgot the main purpose of the call.  And I was no help.  It was too glorious and funny.  Later, I went out to allow my friends to get me completely drunk and feed me cupcakes (see photo) — as that’s what “adults” do for birthdays.  I was happily recounting the story of Dad forgetting when he called to officially wish me a happy birthday.  So all was set right again.

And now I’m slightly hungover and year older and there are 364 days until the madness begins again.  My birthday goal is to write more because, y’know, I’m a special sacred gift to the world and this is one way for me to share my awesomeness.

24 Hours in ONE DAY?

I’m shopping for a new bank. I really don’t think that “24-hour ATMs” are quite the selling point they once were. In this modern age, I expect an ATM to be available 24 hours a day. It shouldn’t be the first bullet point in your short list of reasons why I should do my business with your bank. It’s like the hotel that still advertises “Color TV” in its ads. Really? ALL the colors? On one TV? Wow.  Sign me up.  Welcome to the future.

The No-Legs Diet.

Happy new year!  I trust everyone had a happy good time as the year changed from one to the next.  After eating nothing but beef and pork for about a month to “celebrate the holidays,” my resolution is to practice my famous diet called The No-Legs Diet.

The No-Legs Diet is this: I will not eat the flesh of an animal that had legs at the time of its death. Meaning, I can eat fish and eggs but not beef, pork, chicken or any sea creature that crawls.

When I first came up with this diet, I explained it to a few friends. People love to try to find loopholes in my awesome diet plan. I think the Frequently Asked Questions about this diet are far more entertaining than the diet itself. In that vein, I present to you:

Frequently Asked Questions about the No-Legs Diet. (Actual questions I’ve gotten over the years.)

Reminder: The No-Legs Diet involves not eating the flesh of an animal that had legs at the time of its death.

1. Can you eat an egg?
Yes, an egg is an embryo and thus has no legs and is thereby edible under the terms of this diet.

2. Can you eat a mutant cow that was born with no legs?
Yes, a mutant cow born with no legs would be edible under this diet. However, I would need proof that it was such a cow.

3. Similarly, can you eat a mutant salmon that was born with legs?
No, under the rules of this diet, I would not be able to eat a mutant salmon born with legs.

4. Do tentacles count as legs?
I get this question a lot. Tentacles do not count as legs. I define a leg as an appendage which includes one or multiple joints. Therefore, I can eat squid but not shrimp.

5. If there was a freak cow born with legs that didn’t have any joints, thus not a leg by your definition, could you eat that?
Yes, but again, I would need proof of said cow.

6. What about clams, oysters and mussels?
Those are all fine. While they have an appendage that resembles a foot, I don’t consider it to be a leg and therefore, those are acceptable.

7. What about spiders?
No, I wouldn’t be able to eat spiders under the terms of this diet.

8. What about worms?
Yes, I would be able to eat worms while adhering to this diet.

9. How long can you possibly keep this up?
Luckily, I already failed and had some turkey by mistake like an idiot.  But I’m back on track and will continue my super fantastic diet until I don’t feel like it any more.  Won’t you join me?   I’m hoping it catches on and I can sell the book rights.

10. Is this the same diet that Jane Gavin wrote about on the famous Jane’s Plastic Brain Train blog on April 10th, 2007?
Yes – with slight changes. You win a prize for knowing that.

Here’s your $100, D-man.

DδΨξΘω?

 

This is the first time in my life I’ve lived in a building with a reliable super.  When he shows up, he gets shit done.  And with a smile.  This is new for me.  Most of my experiences in NYC housing have been pulling teeth with a cheap and mean/rude/abusive landlord.  (One time, I called my former landlord when the electricity went out.  His reply?  “It’s night time, what do you need electricity for?  Go to sleep.”)  But now, I have a great super.  He’s good with elevator chit-chat and he’s fast with a drill.  And thus, he deserves to be thanked at end-of-year-holiday-thanking time.

But alas, there’s one thing about him that sucks.  I have no idea what his name is.  Well, I can say it, sort of, I just can’t spell it.  And without knowing that, it’s hard to drop $100 into a personalized card — it just feels awkward.  It’s either Dimitri, Demitri, Demetri, Demetrius, or Demitre.  Or something like that.  And there’s no way to find out.  This year I thought we’d found our answer when we got a holiday card from him.  Finally!  It was signed, I swear, “Super and family” — no names.  He’s like a spy or something.

How bad is it to get a greeting card with your name completely misspelled?  Does the $100 soften the blow?  I think I’ll just fill out the card, “Roger, happy holidays to you and yours.”  That way, I’m so far off that it’s funny and he’ll think I’m being a kooky kook.  Good plan, right?  Who doesn’t love a kooky kook card with cash in it?

The 9 to 5.

It’s officially been six months since I’ve had an office job.  Here are the pros and cons as I see them.

Pros: Each day is my own.  I am my own boss.  I control the dress code, the sexual harassment policy, the vacation schedule, the company holiday card and the coffee break timetable.  It’s all mine and there’s a sense of satisfaction that comes with knowing that the money I earn is earned doing what I love doing and what I am meant to be doing.  Each day my hands move toward the goal of making myself completely aligned and in flow with my ultimate purpose.  It’s enormously satisfying and fulfilling.

Cons: I don’t drink as much water as I used to.

That’s how I see it.  Now, back to work.

With friends like this, who needs frenemies?

Recently, I was hanging out with three “friends” and the topic of cosmetic surgery came up.  Here is how the conversation went.  This conversation was rapid-fire after the first sentence.

Carrie: A friend of mine got a minor procedure done and I never thought I would say it, but the results are amazing and I might want it done, too.  She just looks so good.
Friend #1: What is it?  Botox for the lines on your forehead?
Friend #2: Teeth whitening for your discolored and yellow teeth?
Friend #3: Or Invisalign to correct the crookedness?
Carrie: No.
F1: An arm tuck for the flapping sagging skin on your upper arms?
Carrie: No.  What the fuck, you guys.
F2: Liposuction for the jiggle around your tummy, ass and thighs?
F3: Skin bleaching for your disgusting freckles?
Carrie: No.  Alright, I get it guys. Come on.
F1: Nose slimming for the chunky end of your nose?
F2: Crescent breast lift for your sagging boobs?
Carrie: What? Really? No.
F3: Filler for the lines around your mouth?
F2: Eyelid fat reduction for those drooping eyelids?
Carrie: Is that even a thing?  No.

And so on.

Oh, how they laughed and laughed at my plummeting self-esteem.  Good stuff.

Have car, will drive.

Usually, when my father asks me if I want to use his car during the winter while he’s in Mexico, I laugh in his face and say, “Hells no, my Pap-dawg!  I ain’t need no hassle of gassin’ it and worryin’ about it and dealin’ wit’ no alt’nate side o’ the street bullshnizz and diggin’ it out of the snow and shizz.  Keep yo’ crazy car, old man, keep it!”  (I’m paraphrasing.)

This year however, I got struck by a whim.  I said to myself: “Think Carrie.  If you had a car, you could more easily get to those gigs in Jersey or Connecticut or north of The Bronx without as much of an issue.  You’d be free to take any gig and you could get really well known across the country and become really famous and invest wisely in your fame and retire and take a nap.”  And I love naps so I accepted my father’s generous offer.  He added me to his insurance and suddenly, I have a car.

This last week, I lived the dream.  I booked a gig in Long Island and chauffeured myself and another comic to it.  (By the way, this particular gig was so inaccessible via public transportation that when I asked Google maps about it, Google went into a weeping trembling coma.)  We did the gig and I drove us back to civilization.  A mini-roadtrip!

And yesterday, I chauffeured a comic to his gig north of the city and he actually paid me.  We got there and I did 23 seconds of crowd-work before introducing him.  We had a giggly comic-bonding ride there and back.  And, bonus: he had a GPS device which is really the only way to travel when you have no idea where you’re going.  AND… I faced my fear of driving on the streets of Manhattan, which I have been raised since birth to fear.  Go me.

Anyway, I have a car and I want to drive it.  If you’re a comic and you need a ride to a gig, I’ll trade you a ride for a spot.  Or money.  Or both.  (Depends on the gig.)  Let’s live the dream!

How long you been doing it?

At some point, when two comics are getting to know each other, one will inevitably ask the other one, “How long you been doing it?”  It’s kind of like asking someone what their major is or what they do for a living.  It’s a getting-to-know-you type of question.  But, of course, it’s wrought with judgment thusly:

If the comedian really sucks, and they’ve been doing it 10 years, you think to yourself, “Holy shit, 10 years and you still suck? What happened? I’m so glad I’m not you.”

If the comedian is amazingly excellent and they’ve been doing it five months, you think to yourself, “Holy shit, five months and you’re already that good already?  Damn you!” And no matter how good they are, no matter how they shred an audience into strips, if they’ve only being doing it five months, they’re still considered a newborn.  There’s a kind of paying-your-dues that they still have to endure. Where is the cut-off for earned industry respect?  I’m not entirely sure.

The thing that I always want to ask is:  How intensive was the time that you’ve been doing stand-up?  Assuming natural talent is equal, if you’ve gotten on stage once every six months for the last 10 years, yeah, you might still suck.  And if you’ve been getting up three times a night for the last five months, yeah, you might be really really good. A better question is: How many times have you been on stage in the time you’ve been doing stand-up?  I’m not sure if every comedian knows that number but I know mine (and I have no idea how it compares, incidentally).

I’ve been doing it just over three years — still a baby in the eyes of the industry.  But the very first time I ever got on stage alone to tell original jokes to a live audience was one night two years before that.  Should I count that?  If that’s the case, I can legitimately answer five years.  But I don’t count that. I count the day I said, “I want to be an stand-up comedian,” and quivered on stage for the first time — and then started getting up regularly.

One time, I asked a comedian how long she’d been doing it and she simply answered, “I don’t answer that.”  On the one hand, that’s a little snotty, but on the other hand, she was saying that her comedy should speak for itself.  If she’s good, she’s good, and it shouldn’t matter how long she’s been doing it.  It’s a good point.  But I still wanted to know, y’know, to judge her and stuff.