Not a Barbie Girl in a Barbie World
Also: My HOA sent me a "courtesy warning." Guess how this is going to end?
Oh, boy, do I have a timely and appropriate Throwback Thursday for you guys today! This post comes from March 13, 2007 and it’s sort of my supervillian origin story.
Sort of.
A few things to note here first:
I have kindly eliminated the double-spaces I used to use after the periods. I have stopped double-spacing—painful as it was—as double-spacing is for Boomers. (Yet you will pry the Oxford comma out of my cold, dead hands, Karyn.)
Also, people are capable of change. I am proof because I am just fine on a plane now. This is because I flew so much when I was touring all the time that I became desensitized. I like flying now, largely because I will move heaven and earth to make sure I’m in Business Class. Cold drinks and hot nuts are the best tranquilizer. Fact.
I am already fucking sick of all things Barbie. There is such a thing as over-promotion and the filmmakers have crossed the line. I will likely see the movie when it comes to streaming, but at this point, I will not shell out USD to watch what has now profoundly annoyed me. Enough with the pink. I mean it. (I have no opinion on Oppenheimer.)
In no way does this final point relate to my story or the Barbie movie; it’s just top of mind. Today I received a written COURTESY WARNING from the HOA about my dumping grass clippings into the pond. In no way, shape, or form is this true for a myriad of documented reasons, and if you imagine I am not going to go nuclear on the HOA tomorrow if they don’t apologize first thing, think again. This paragraph is part of the response I sent today: “As an outside observer who’s only living here short-term, I suggest if the HOA is so concerned about maintaining property values, they focus their time and efforts on A) improving the Nile-virus-generating swamps that are currently the neighborhood ponds, B) fining the neighbors who park box trucks in the street and their cars on the sidewalks, C) speaking with the homeowners where the yards are either entirely dead, or choked with a knee-high weeds, D) counseling the redneck yokels who insist on illegally driving mini bikes and ATVs through the parkway, and, E) enforcing firework rules, as it’s sounded like Fallujah here the entire month.”
ANYWAY, we pick up in March of 2007, after I’ve gone to NY to talk to the marketing department at my old publisher for the book Bright Lights, Big Ass. There is a common assumption that selling a book is your ticket to fame and fortune. While this might have been true for some, my first book had been out for a year at that point, and I’d still need to work my $12/hr. temp job until 2008. (Not a baller.)
I’m including my 2023 editorial comments in brackets, FYI.
Seriously, I've been home for a few days and I'm still exhausted. Fortunately, I'm “good tired” which has its origin in too many mojitos and not enough naps, as opposed to “bad tired” which might entail staying up all night when your boss gives you a must-finish-today assignment at 5:30 PM because he's a total shit-stabber.
[Why did I stop using the term shit-stabber?]
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