I just want to rip my skin off and throw it at the television. Also: what kind of hairspray does she use?
Author Archive | Alison Rosen
love, pickles, scallops
This site—Dear Old Love—is amusing, and it even made me feel some emotion which is kind of unusual these days since I think my heart is tucked away under a thick covering of protective frost. It’s not intentional, it’s not like I’m making sure my whole chest cavity is kept refrigerated lest I feel something, it’s more like it’s tough for me to feel certain things right now (“right now” being for about three years). This is after a lifetime of feeling too much and everything though, so maybe I’m just calibrating.
Or maybe I’m just taking inventory after almost dying at the hands of Vlassic last night?
I did a whole bunch of work today on deadline AND I made two scallops. Aren’t I so fancy? I think so.
The tragedy that almost happened in my kitchen
So I’m in my kitchen eating gherkins which are sweetened with Splenda (Vlassic makes them, I didn’t invent this combination) which many people including my mom have informed me sounds gross however I like them, and while we’re at it I also like the new Heinz ketchup that’s sweetened with Splenda, in fact I would like to sweeten my water with Splenda except I don’t drink water because it’s filled with disgusting H20 molecules. The Hindenburg anyone? The hydrogen atom bomb? Are you just going to forgive all that? Just because the hydrogen atom’s all like “no, I’m different, I’m stuck to another hydrogen and traveling with an oxygen atom?” I don’t think so.
Anyway, I’m eating pickles when suddenly a particularly slippery one kind of gets ahead of itself and starts sliding down my throat and I sort of try to dislodge it and for a second it goes down further and my sad life passes before my eyes as I imagine the pickle getting stuck in there and not being able to get it out and what would I do, would I go bang on my landlord’s door, begging for the Heimlich, what if they didn’t hear me, what if I die in my kitchen choking on this pickle. It’s amazing how fast that can go through your head. Meanwhile I did something which I can only describe as “hoarking” which isn’t really a word but whatever it was, it worked because the pickle shot out of my throat and rolled across the kitchen floor. I’ve since outlined it in chalk, just in case.
But seriously, how do people who live alone not choke to death more often?
Now I have a terrible headache but I think it’s from the panic.
UPDATE: I just choked on my own saliva and started coughing. What the hell is wrong with me? I hope it’s that I’m compromised from the pickle incident as opposed to losing motor skills.
If I drew cartoons for the New Yorker
I’d draw one of a guy in the middle of a labyrinth or maze and the caption would be “I’m getting a little tired of staring at these same 37 walls.”
See me, hear me, love me, snuggle with me
I updated that junk on the right side of this here page to reflect tomorrow’s radio interview on Devore and Diana and the stand up which I’ve been talking about so much it’s like, lady, shut up already. You know?
Also, I bought some green beans today at the store because the quirky and whimsical placard said “Give your sous chef the night off,” with these pre-cleaned and trimmed and ready-to-eat beans. I don’t even have a sous chef but if I did he’d be named Henri and I’d never give him the day off because he’s a slacker and I’m thinking of firing him anyway. These water spots on my silver? Unacceptable, Henri! And is that a chip in my fine bone china which was made from ground down parakeet bones and purchased in China when I was sent overseas as part of a military gravy boat buying mission? The Audubon Society never let me hear the end of it.
I'm home
I’m home! And I was worried that I was going to feel weird in my Brooklyn apartment since I haven’t really had all that much time to make it feel like home but I don’t. I feel normal in it. So: hooray!
On the plane I watched a couple episodes of House. I never really got into that show, perhaps because I can’t get past my disbelief that anyone’s last name is really HOUSE, but it was pretty entertaining. Now I’m going to go not unpack.
Why I don't have photos from last night
I went to a party last night and took out my camera to take some photos for you, my favorite blog readers, but the screen said “change battery pack.” What it really meant? “Change battery pack, dumbass.” What it really really meant? “Change battery pack, dumbass! You’re finally going to a party and not only any party but one with a Bollywood theme and people are wearing all sorts of crazy outfits and all your friends are here, well, maybe not all, but many, and this would obviously be a night where you’d want to take photos and you didn’t think to charge your battery?”
I hate chatty batteries.
Bios
I have to submit a bio for this page about NY’s Funniest Reporter. Should I turn in a standard or ridiculous one? Incidentally, I think those should be condom and/or light bulb sizes.
My two cents
Yeah, but…
Right, but…
But I…
But I think it’s that…
Okay seriously…
Nevermind…
No, it’s cool…
Really…
I like shiny objects!
Okay fine, that’s not a fair assessment of last night. I got some words in both edgewise and horizontally. Five across? How do words enter when they aren’t edgewise? On rails? On skates? By carrier pigeon? Anyway, my words totally got all up in that shit.
Post Red Eye
On my way back to OC after doing Red Eye. The LA bureau is a whole different vibe than New York. It's almost like a local branch of a bank, except the pens aren't on chains and actually this bank metaphor is a terrible one. But it's very relaxed and kind of sleepy and bungalowesque as opposed to nyc which is big and imposing and bustling and frenetic. That was kind of redundant, huh?
Anyway in the midst of doing the show I read an email from a fan that kind of rattled me which I'm embarrassed to admit since I think I'm supposed to be above all that or something. Anyway. I need to learn better email management.
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