Squeeeeee! Like a Pig

Yesterday I turned another year older, and one of the best birthday gifts came as a complete surprise to me in the form of an email from my good friend Mary. Subject line: “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!” Turned out that she discovered I now have my own Amazon page! Please excuse me if I Squeeeeee! just a bit here. Now, I am not the squeeing type: I am less the cheerleader, more sit in the back of the class and make like Tom Servo during lectures. (Speaking of Toms: Tom Schrauth? Wherever you are? They just don’t make in-class snarkmates like you anymore.) I am less Debbie Boone, more Weezer. Especially when I go running in winter. I am far, far less Sorority Girl, and far, far more Hey look, a riot on campus! Let’s join it. That seems like a responsible thing to do, doesn’t it?

Anyway, after skipping and leaping down my office hallways like a leprechaun, I had to show each of my colleagues my brand-spanking new Amazon page. And then I “Squeeeed!” some more for good measure, and then the intensity and pitch of that Squee made my head explode into thousands of tiny rainbows.

I have this habit of not really investigating myself online, because I’m terrified of what I’ll find. I attribute this to my discovery that a hooker in Las Vegas has beaten me to the web domain for my full name. So once in awhile people will say to me, “Hey, did you know Jen Lancaster mentioned you on her blog today?” Or “Hey, you’re on Books-a-Million!” Or any other exciting tidbits, and my reaction is, WOWEE! Zipedeedodah! And I very nearly become a cartoon caricature of myself: Obtuse Girl, and Her Little Dog Shitzalot!

Anyway, that’s the exciting news. Here’s something else: after much (tardy) deliberation, I have selected two of Mrs. Chicky’s awesome inmate name suggestions for the next book: Lincoln Kennedy and Leslie Johnson. My mother contributed two more, but they’re top secret. Shhhhhhhh….

And now, if I may be serious for a minute (pausing to clean glasses on shirt, lost in thought, before putting them on while I frown slightly). It is now December 4. I have exactly 20 days to purchase and wrap gifts for everyone on my list; mail gifts to my Fairy Book Godmothers in New York; make Christmas cookies (chocolate peppermint pinwheels and almond star-thingies); write out and mail cards; select, install, and decorate a tree; write a grant proposal; participate in an office White Elephant gift exchange; learn to spin plates while hula-hooping on a giant ball; and sell my soul on eBay to the person who will do all of these chores for me.

Is it weird that I remember what was on TV when I made my pinwheels last year? (Some sort of bizarre sci fi time travel movie about plants taking over New York City. Poor choice, Ed Burns. I also remember thinking, ‘How is it possible that I’m actually watching this right now? What feat of nature has kept my eyes trained to my television screen for two hours of such sheer crapitude?’) A marathon of Reno 911 was on while I decorated the tree, and if you’ve stuck around here since Christmas 2006 (bless your little hearts), you already know I’m still scarred from watching Deliverance while decorating our family tree back in 1980-mumbletysomething. Hmmm…maybe I should rent A Clockwork Orange to set the mood for this year's tree shenanigans.

I am NOT making scones again, and I am NOT buying Tom & Jerry mix. If I start making noises like I have a hankering for a Tom & Jerry, like I really want nothing more than hot water mixed with ersatz eggnog-flavored frozen goo and booze, please wave an open bottle of nail polish remover beneath my nose until I come to my senses.