Humor

On second thought, maybe I shouldn’t deconstruct comedy…

/ Ashley / 11 Comments

Sometimes I confuse myself. This morning, I woke up knowing the only thing I wanted to do today was lie in bed, watch Netflix, and eat leftover thai. I didn’t have any expectations for the day – a refreshing change of pace. Something about not having a single obligation for an entire day feels liberating. I imagine some people use free days to reconnect socially by getting lunch with a friend or calling relatives they haven’t spoken to in a while. It wasn’t that I was completely against the idea of interacting with people today, it was more that I didn’t have a problem not doing that.

I’m wondering if this is a holdover from last summer. I spent so much time wallowing in loneliness that the sensation became sort of comfortable. It’s got me wondering if I’ve become too comfortable being alone. Furthermore, it’s making me wonder if there’s any harm in that. I think most people would agree that the cruelest punishment is solitary confinement, but that’s not what I’m really talking about. I’m talking about being okay with spending six nights a week mostly on my own with books, manicures, and Justin Timberlake on repeat. When my one social obligation came around on Saturday night, I welcomed it. But it came and went, and on Sunday morning, a day in bed on my own seemed perfectly wonderful.

This was taken around noon.

Last night I went to a dinner and a comedy show with an academic. The conversation prior to the comedy show ranged from classic literature to dealing with that dirty feeling you get after watching too much of something like Louis CK or It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. At one point, he started to deconstruct some of the comedy shows I wasn’t very familiar with (Louie, Curb Your Enthusiasm) in order to persuade me to watch them. I followed this thread of deconstruction throughout the rest of the night. Over wine, I began to analyze our conversations, wondering if we touched on the typical date conversation topics. In those conversations, you’re each trying to decide if you want to invest more in each other. But listing favorite bands, movies, books, and television shows only reveal so much about a person, right? By the time we got to the comedy club, I was in full deconstruction mode, doing quick dissections of the jokes.

But my dissections were shallow and obvious. One comedian said he was saving up to buy a firetruck so he could safely drive home drunk. “Firetrucks are supposed to be speeding and weaving in and out of traffic. Have you ever seen a firetruck get pulled over? No.”

The dissection (which I kept to myself) was something like, “It’s funny because it’s absurd. The idea of saving for a firetruck to support alcoholism is absurd. The image of a firetruck being pulled over is absurd.” Though my initial comedy analysis was simple and obvious, it made me start to wonder why I enjoy it so much. I admire the way a good comedian can quickly illustrate a complete story well enough to make an audience empathize. I admire the ways some comedians make us laugh at ourselves and how others make us ashamed. Comedy is more than just laughter, it’s the acknowledgement of human nature and its ridiculousness.

Anyway, I ended up spending most of the day in bed trying to learn more about comedy. I started reading And Here’s the Kicker: Conversations with 21 Top Humor Writers on their Craft. While reading, I compiled a list of movies and television shows to watch and re-watch, and books to read: The Graduate, To Die For, Louie; The Office (UK), Arrested Development, Spaceballs; Catch-22, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love…I expect the list to grow tenfold by the time I’m finished with the book.

The twisted thing about today is that I did exactly what I wanted to do: no more than read a good book and watch some funny television. Yet, now that the day is done, I’m a little sad because I feel like I could have been more social. I always get like this after spending a day on my own, even if I’m fulfilled and pleased with my endeavors. A couple weeks ago, I spent the day with e.e cummings’s six nonlectures, feeling myself become more inspired by each page. But just like today, after sunset, I was left feeling lonely. It felt like mental masturbation; as if I’d rather spend the day with a book – something I can interpret and manipulate for myself – than forge a connection with someone else. That’s not actually true, but I’m afraid resistance to reach out to people could be interpreted that way.

This was taken around 9pm. Way to go, Ashley. Day accomplished, I guess.

This was taken around 9pm. Way to go, Ashley. Day accomplished, I guess.

Yet I find myself telling you all about it here – an act that could be construed as a narcissistic indulgence – in an attempt to feel connected. Surely this must resonate with someone else. Other people must feel the tug of solitary pleasures while also craving deep connections, right? I’d like to think I keep posting for the same reason comedians take the stage night after night: to feel – or even just get a taste of – social resonance.

Zooey Hair? NAILED IT.

/ Ashley / 11 Comments

So yesterday I got a haircut. I haven’t been into the salon since June, so I was long overdue. What I didn’t mention the other day is that after I found out another of my exes was engaged, I just about reached for a bottle of wine before I realized I had to be able to play a quartet gig a few hours later. I was also sick of my hair, so I was thinking of cutting my hair. For a split second, I actually considered cutting my hair while drinking malbec from the bottle. I decided to just go with the hair cutting.

After 45 minutes of hacking away my split ends with dull scissors, I came to the conclusion that I know nothing about cutting hair. I put some pomade in it and decided to make it look rockstarish – because what else could I do with a bunch of uneven layers?

Last night, I got sick of it and decided to actually pay for a haircut. After careful consideration (hours of Pinterest scrolling), I decided (again) I wanted to look like Zooey Deschanel. I saved the picture  and showed it to the stylist.

“I want the Zooey Deschanel look,” I said.

“So, bangs, but sort of blended in towards the corners, right?”

“Exactly – not blunt, but rounded.”

So she shampooed my hair and started cutting. Like most walk-in appointments, it was full of awkward conversation and avoiding eye contact through the mirror. As soon as she found out I play violin, she kept talking about her son who has Aspergers who plays violin. That really got her going.

That was when she got to my bangs.

What I should have done was distract her. I should have told her about my cart-wheeling violin student. Or about seeing the world’s best musicians. Or even about how I had just been singing along to Taylor Swift on the ride over. What I should not have done was allow her to cut my bangs while she was passionately explaining to me the difference between Aspergers and ADHD.

The thing with bangs is that once they’re too short, there’s no real coming back. You just have to wait until they grow out. I thought about telling her to round the edges more, but I was scared to see what else she would do to them. I look like a toddler whose older sister tried playing hair stylist. So I’ll be taking the maximum daily dose of biotin until my bangs grow out.

Anyway. Zooey Deschanel hairstyle? Not so much.

Zooey

CIMG3377

Sure, Stylist I Tipped Too Much, those bangs are sort of like Zooey’s.

Also, if someone could explain to me why my nose looks gigantic in 80% of my selfies, that’d be great.

I am going to die alone and merry christmas.

/ Ashley / 6 Comments

I learned the other day that Jon (Scott) is engaged. I was cleaning my room when I got the message from his sister in law. At first I didn’t react much – it’s just one more engagement that doesn’t really affect me. Also, he’s a douchebag.

(just now, I typed “douchebage” which made me think of douchebadge. Maybe that could be a new slam.)

But then I remembered that we had dated for two years. That statement isn’t actually correct, since the second year we weren’t dating – not even remotely committed to each other – just messily involved. He kept making promises he couldn’t (or wouldn’t – that detail remains a mystery to me) keep. He kept claiming he loved me while refusing to stop talking to the girl to whom he’s now engaged. He kept telling me he wanted to be with me and that he was sorry. Each time I tried to move on, he refused to let me and I mistook his controlling and abusive behavior as affection. It shocks me, the things I put up with. He said some of the most vulgar and offensive things to me – words so horrifying I refuse to put them in print. And yet, when he apologized, I accepted it and gave him another chance.

When I finally cut him out of my life (after a session with a therapist who told me  – and I quote – he was akin to a swirling vortex of insanity which would be near impossible to escape should I entangle myself further), it was complete. Though his behavior didn’t stop immediately, I simply refused to take part in it. Turns out if you stop indulging a psychopath, the drama stops pretty quickly.

That switch has since remained in the off position and I haven’t even considered flipping it in the other direction. It’s strange too, because I consider myself a somewhat sentimental person. Yet I feel a void looking back at our relationship. Surely there must have been some good there for me to be so reluctant to leave it behind, but I’ll be damned if I can find it. There is virtually no part of me that feels the slightest affection towards him, yet the news still struck a chord.

I’m reluctant to say that I cried over it, because that phrasing isn’t correct. It suggests longing and regret over the death of the relationship. The news prompted not only a ridiculous tweet (“Another of my exes is engaged. I’m going to die alone with my crochet projects.”), but a crying spell. Quick messy tears that made my day-old mascara flake off. I did the predictable self-indulgent girl thing where I made a mental list of my exes and compared their lives with mine, taking note of a single criterion. Of my five relationships, two of the men are married, two are engaged, and one is still single to the best of my knowledge. If the sitcoms are right and every breakup has a winner and loser, I’m pretty sure I’m the loser in all the cases.

NewGirl

Fortunately I had a couple friends to lean on in my time of need: Andrea, who told me to remember why I’m single (I’m not one to settle) and also that if he could get engaged, then anybody can. And Logan, who remarked, “Hahahahah! Good luck, sucker woman. Hope you have fun dealing with that for the rest of eternity!”

I decided to step back and take a look at my situation. I was on my freshly made bed, curled in the fetal position, and crying about a man whose existence no longer matters to me. Also, Flight of the Conchords was blaring out of my Kindle:

Hey Bowie, do you have one really funky sequined space suit? Or do you have several ch-changes? Do you smoke grass out in space, Bowie? Or do they smoke astroturf? Receiving transmission from David Bowie’s nipple antennae: Do you read me, Lieutenant Bowie?

And then I started laughing, because if there’s one thing that should never happen, it’s crying in the same room as Flight of the Conchords.

Life can be disappointing: sometimes the people you wish would burn with herpes sores for all of eternity end up getting engaged, but it doesn’t make any sense to cry about it. So the best thing you can do is pour yourself a cup of coffee, put on some lipstick, and laugh at the ridiculousness of Flight of the Conchords.

Anyway, I hope you all have a great Christmas. Go drink some wine and hug a family member.

NaNoWriMo is like 16 days away, you guys.

/ Ashley / 4 Comments

I met with my writer’s group on Saturday. I know, it’s hard to believe that I was able to do anything after Friday night’s rager with Nyquil and tomato soup. But I did. I rolled out of bed, didn’t shower, put on what has become my weekend uniform (leggings, comfy shirt, afghan-looking sweater, thick socks, legwarmers), and went to the cafe to meet with my group.

We usually start the two- sometimes three-hour meeting by going around and saying what we’re reading, then going off on random tangents about books, authors, genres, or tv shows. Eventually we start the discussion of any work submitted for discussion/workshopping. I submitted a character sketch titled “Ruby”. I claimed it was flash fiction, but the only action that occurred was her carving a linoleum block, so I suppose as far as conflict goes, it was pretty dull. I got some good ideas for expanding on the character and have since started toying around with a few character exercises where I put Ruby in different scenarios to see how she reacts.

I know that’s a little strange – trying to see how this character I made up reacts to conflict. But really, what else is fiction but trying to figure out the people in our heads?

Anyway, we ended up talking about National Novel Writing Month. It seems like a great endeavor, really. Writing a novel in a month? How awesome would that be? The point is to write 50,000 words in a month, which amounts to about 1,600 words a day. Not too bad, right? Of course not, until you get in the thick of it.

Or so I’m told.

I would love to say that I’ll be participating this year, but I know I won’t be. I’m starting a new job that is training-intensive, working overtime, working out, maintaining a blog, trying to have a social life, AND reading Infinite Jest. Just where am I suppose to find time to write 1,600 words every day? I’m sure I would be able to find the time if I really wanted to do it, but I don’t. Maybe next year.

Anyway, the whole reason I’m writing this post is because I think you should all follow Fake NaNoWriMo Tips on Twitter, especially if you’re a writer who isn’t participating in NaNoWriMo. I suppose it could provide some comic relief if you are participating, but let’s be real. You’re not.

Also, while you’re at it, you can follow me on Twitter for some Everything is Blooming microblogs.

I couldn’t think of a picture that would go well with the post, so here’s a grainy picture of me in a miniature bowler hat at the Christmas party my friends and I had last weekend.

Yes, you read that correctly. We had a Christmas party.

If you’re interested, find out more about National Novel Writing Month here. I’m told you can register and find (support?) groups in your area.