Happy one-year anniversary to us! Check the bottom of this post for today’s giveaway. We’re also offering 20% off annual subscriptions through Friday. So if you’ve been thinking about becoming a paid subscriber, now’s a great time to do so!
As part of the celebration, Karyn and I are highlighting our favorite posts from each other. For me, without a doubt I love the Karyn entries where she’s peak Karyn (not to be confused with peak “Karen”—that’s entirely different).
One of my most faves is Karyn’s And That’s Why I Hate You post. Ostensibly, it’s about why she’s still mad at Shelia Mulligan but the intro is about a cable repairman who insulted her cord configuration more than twenty years ago and she’s never gotten over it. Everything about his delights me because it’s just so Seinfeldian in its nature. One person said one off-hand thing and it’s made Karyn seethe for two decades. Had she written it in script form, she could have gotten a half hour of must-watch TV from it, back when network sitcoms rules the earth. That she was able to get resolution from a grudge in I Want My Hammer Back (another favorite) brings at least one of her grudges full circle and that was super satisfying.
The best writing doesn’t tell you about the author—instead it informs us about ourselves. Their words bring our focus inward, causing us to self-reflect, and really, aren’t we all our favorite topics of conversation? (Or is that just me?)
So, yesterday, I was making a Caesar salad (I’m up to having eaten 77 salads so far this year, thank you very much) and as I was spinning the romaine, I said to Fletch, “I don’t have long-standing grudges, right? I mean, I just get over stuff and move on.” As I said this, I cracked the lid to the salad spinner before it had finished its rotation and bits of romaine flung themselves to the four corners of the kitchen. Dryly, Fletch looked at me and said, “I think the universe just answered you.”
I sat down with my 21st Caesar salad of the year, a pad of Mr. Pencil graph paper, and my blue gel ink Pilot G-2 pen with the 1.0 bold tip, which is literally the greatest pen in the universe. I legitimately hope you love your children as much as I love this writing utensil. (We also discussed doing a Favorite Things post. Not sure if we’re doing it, but if so, these are two of my top entries.) I pondered on who might have wronged me without ever having sent me an “I’m sorry” hammer.
In our interview with Allison Winn Scotch, I mentioned the L.A. Times commenter who wrote a devastating response to what I thought was a comedic article about the truths I really wish WikiLeaks had revealed, including the eleven specific herbs and spices used by KFC and why the Kardashians are famous. He wrote, “Go back to your job behind the perfume counter.”
I’m never getting over this statement.
Ever.
In this case, I’m not even mad at him, I’m mad at myself for not having been better. So I’m not counting this one because it’s something that prompted me to try to improve.
I’m also still mad at Janet, the girl I’d roomed with at the beginning of my sophomore year. I applied for the dorms too late, as I’d assumed I’d be living in my sorority house, but I got kicked out right before the end of the semester because I had a big fucking mouth, bad attitude, and I didn’t like anyone. Pretty sure that’s on me. My parents wouldn’t let me live in an apartment with my friend Roni, which was a major fuck-up on their part because Roni was the good angel on my shoulder and she’d have goaded me into studying and going to class. (I guess they were afraid I’d have too many boys stay over if there were no rules.)
However, in Janet’s case with our dorm room, I had too many boys stay over and I can see how that was also on me. But I only did this after she had been such a—pardon my French—thundercunt, a word I don’t use lightly. The issue was, I was playing checkers and Janet was playing three-dimensional chess. Ultimately, we were in the shitty dorms and they were so small, she wanted a single and her best bet was to get me out. I didn’t realize that at the time, but now game recognizes game because she totally won.
I was so nice to her when I met her, as she was a transfer student from Boston and it’s my nature to try to include everyone. Plus, having been born in Boston, I really wanted to make it all nice for her because we had that connection. I took her around to meet all my friends, I brought her to parties, and even invited her home for the weekend so we could swim while the pool was still open. I thought I was being a great ambassador to All Things Purdue. Instead of thanking me—or finding her own friend group—she would write snarky letters home about me and leave them open on my bed for me to see. Like, when we went to my parents’ house, my dad made us beautiful ribeyes on the grill, yet she wrote about our “shitty little home” and how we served her hamburgers and French fries. Why are you such a liar, Janet?
I’m telling you, thundercunt.
I stalked her years later and found that A) her split-level childhood house was smaller than my parents’ and did not have an in-ground swimming pool, nor was it situated on a golf course. She also transferred out of Purdue a year later, meaning she went to three universities in three years. Happy people don’t transfer schools every year, Janet. Anyway, I moved into a different dorm room with a different roommate who I loved and all was well, except I did flunk out that year because Roni would have not only made me study, but also talked me out of a variety of bad decisions because I was kind of a mess. (That part’s on me, too.)
Anyway, here’s a list of the grudges I still hold, Karyn-style:
The L. family
Mrs. L. was my mom’s friend and in today’s lingo, we’d call her an almond mom. The family didn’t believe in TV or pesticide, so watching her little girls was kind of a chore, especially since both the daughters could outsmart me. (One of the kids eventually went on to University of Chicago.) One night, the dad came to pick me up to babysit. He arrived on his motorcycle, and not alone. His youngest daughter was along for the ride. So I had to ride triple-back on this stupid bike—something that terrified me—past the cute boys in the neighborhood, which humiliated me. Strike one. Their kitchen was full of ants and they still didn’t have a television or any snacks, strike two, but the worst of it was, they didn’t have cash so they told me they’d give me my $7 later.
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