Why I Would Make An Excellent Celebrity.

Earlier today, I was feeling very depressed because I am not rich, famous and wildly happy. But then JoJo took me out for an expensive pedicure and champagne brunch (at 2 p.m.) and after my third glass of champagne, I felt better. I realized that even though I am not yet famous, I will be famous soon - probably in the next 4-6 weeks - and I am going to be an excellent celebrity. There are many, many reasons that I will be an excellent celebrity and I do not have time to share all those reasons here, because, quite frankly, I need to go watch the season premiere of Lost. But these are the most important reasons:

1. I love attention.

2. I once spent a lot of time trying to become friends with a certain actor on a certain hit television series. I would tell you his name, but my lawyer says I should avoid specifics when I share this particular story. Anyway, I figured out where this actor lived and I spent a little more time than usual in his neighborhood, and I might have gone through his trash. The actor said I was a "stalker" but I don't like that label. It's not right to call me a stalker because I am very charismatic and once the actor got to know me, he would have wanted to be my friend. So, when I am a celebrity, I know I will be good at distinguishing between Stalkers (which I am not) and Persistent Potential Friends.

3. I am very photogenic and look exceptionally good in all sorts of accessories, for example, this lovely crown:



4. I am dealing with the ruins of a disastrous marriage, which gives me an aura of intrigue and tragedy.

5. I am a veteran of fad diets and would never subject myself to the principles of "sensible nutrition" and "exercise." Way too dull.

I Hate Rock Band.

Last night, JoJo and I hung out with some college friends. We were promised a fun Saturday night with alcohol, noncommittal flirtation, nostalgia and more alcohol. Instead, we were forced to participate in that special level of hell called Rock Band.

I do not play video games. I had a very traumatizing experience in the fifth grade that involved too much Kool-Aid, the Legend of Zelda and a wedgie that I will never forget. And ever since then, I have abhorred the company of Mario, the Sims and even those hypnotic Tetris blocks. But I have never been very good at resisting peer pressure, and last night, I was coerced (coerced I tell you!) into playing Rock Band.


It was hell.


I mean, look at this filthy contraption. This is supposed to be "fun"? If I had a choice between spending the day at work, or playing Rock Band, I would choose work. Wait, no, let me explain myself another way. If I had to choose between having sex with my husband, or playing Rock Band, I would probably choose Rock Band but it would be a very close call.

It was overwhelming. All the graphics on the screen; my friend Kenny was singing and believe me, you never want to hear Kenny sing if it can be avoided; and how am I supposed to push the pedal while hitting the pads? And I'm supposed to follow the rhythm? During my second song, I got motion sickness and vomited a little on the drumsticks.

What A Miserable Week.

It has been raining since Sunday afternoon and I am officially sick of the g.d. rain. Jo took about a million photos of me this week - Wendy brushing her teeth, Wendy taking out the trash, Wendy driving the car, Wendy flirting with the barista at Starbucks - and I'm not posting a single effin photo because my hair is frizzy and I look like crap.

Jo is THIS CLOSE to getting on my last nerve. She. Never. Stops. Talking. And she is so self-absorbed. It's just Jo, Jo, Jo, Jo's ruined marriage, Jo, Jo, Jo, Jo's broken heart. Thank god I am not so self-centered. I am a very compassionate and loving friend. When Jo starts to talk about her ruined marriage, I interrupt her as quickly as possible and start talking about my crappy marriage. See, it's not because I want to talk about myself (even though I am much more interesting than Jo). No, it's because I am trying to distract Jo and show her that she is not alone. Aren't I amazing?

Wendy the Cake; Or, What I Would Look Like If I Was A Cake

Late at night, when you can't sleep, do you ever wonder what you would look like if you were a cake? Ok, I can't say the thought ever actually crossed my mind but I encountered the answer tonight - in Little Ethiopa of all places - in the storefront of a fancy cake shop:


It's eerie. It doesn't even look like cake until you look at the non-cactus cakes. Then you realize, holy crap, somebody thought it would be a good idea to make a cactus cake. And they made it look exactly like me. I wonder if they've been reading my blog?


Question: What sort of sick $^%& buys a Cactus Cake? EVEN THE CACTUS THINKS THIS IS CRAZY.

p.s. Jo is driving me crazy.

My Friend Jo

My freshman roommate Josephine is coming to visit indefinitely. I have always thought that Josephine was destined to have a tragic life because she has such a tragic, old lady/dead empress name. That is why I call her Jo, JoJo, and sometimes, when I am very drunk, Joey.

But alas, it seems that Tragedy has caught up with Jo. I don't know exactly what happened, but it sounds like her husband Waldo is banging his much younger (and much more attractive) secretary. Waldo told Jo that they should stay together and he really wants to end things with Misty the Secretary - but he's going to keep banging Misty because otherwise, Misty might sue him for sexual harassment. In the meantime, Misty is going to share the master bedroom with Waldo and Jo can just stay in the guest room. Jo tried this arrangment for 3 weeks, but I finally convinced her to take a break from Jo's Marital Hell and instead live in Wendy's Marital Hell. (are you getting all of this? there's a quiz at the end of this post.)

Jo has really low self-esteem. Some women deal with low self-esteem by seeking solace with their good friends Ben and Jerry. Other women seek refuge in the arms of Jack Daniels. Jo has instead made a career out of geting plastic surgery. Here's a photo of Jo in college:



And this is what she looks like today:



I mean, holy crap, if I didn't know better, I would say those were two completely different women! But no, that's Jo, pre-freshman 15, and Jo, post-about 17 different types of plastic surgery. It's sad really, she almost looks plastic.

My Friends Went To Vegas & All I Got Was This Lousy Shot Glass

Ok, I guess I'm exaggerating. My "friends" went to Las Vegas for New Years Eve and they bought me the following crappy souvenirs: (1) a key chain; (2) something that is either a very flat ashtray or a very small cheese platter; and (3) a shot glass that says "My friends went to Las Vegas and all they brought me was this empty shot glass."


My girlfriends all went to Vegas to celebrate the New Year, but I was not invited because it was a "single girls only" trip. This is bullshit. I invented the "single girls only" Vegas excursion! My friends are bitches. First, they exclude me from the Single Girls Gift Exchange. And then they gallivant around Vegas, intoxicated and wearing tube tops, while I spend the better part of New Years Eve locked in the bathroom trying to avoid my drunk husband's sexual advances. I hope they all get syphilis and die alone.


Look, if I angle the ashtray/cheese platter just so, and stand right next to it, it kind of looks like I actually went to Vegas and had an exciting New Years Eve. Oh, who am I kidding?