Monday, February 25, 2013

In Appreciation of Seth MacFarlane

You're welcome.

"What, Bethany?" you ask. "Have you surrendered your principles?"

No, it's not what you think. Read on.

A few years ago, I dated this guy who was the worst. He was the type of guy who would be all, "Let's do something Friday!" and then Friday would roll around and he would suddenly cancel with some weird explanation about him just being too afraid to love and be loved. And then a week would go by, and he would call me out of the blue and apologize and insist on doing something spontaneous and romantic immediately. In retrospect, I'm not even sure we were dating as much as playing some weird, real-life version of Whack-a-Mole. But this guy did love one thing, and that thing was this script he was working on. "Working on my script" was his excuse for everything.

Me: We had plans last night. Where were you?

Him: Oh, sorry. I was working on my script and fell asleep.

Me: Did you still want to see that movie on Friday?

Him: I have to cancel. I need to work on my script.

Me: Someone used up all the toothpaste.

Him: What? I can't hear you talking over my script.

As our [Whack-a-Mole] relationship began to deteriorate, I slowly came to loathe that script. And he became more and more insane.

Me: How's the script going?

Him: Fine. I'm making great progress.

Me: So, I mentioned your script to--

Him: You mentioned my script? To people? HOW DARE YOU? You are forbidden to speak of the script to anyone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go fashion a new foil helmet for myself and drink all of the jars of urine in my refrigerator.

When things finally ended, I was unsurprised but in a lot of pain. I was already in therapy at the time, having escaped an emotional abuser the year before. I was a bit like one of those broken eggshells you can't see until you try to take it out of the carton and it goes everywhere and ruins your breakfast. It honestly wasn't going to take much to send me back down into a spiral of pain. So, even though the relationship was short, my pain was not.

But there was one thing that gave me comfort during the months afterward, and that thing is Seth MacFarlane.

This guy I dated went to school with Seth MacFarlane. And after they graduated, Seth became wildly successful, and this guy did not, no matter how hard he typed away on that god-forsaken, never-ending script. He had even sent him his resume being like, "Hey, remember me?" and got no response. It was kind of a bitter sticking point for him. But after things went south with our horrible relationship, I used to post passive-aggressive Family Guy clips on my Facebook. At least until he finally unfriended me. And then I got over it and moved on.

So, as sexist and racist and every other word ending in -cist you can think of Seth MacFarlane was on the Academy Awards last night, he has provided me some of the best, most therapeutic chuckles of my life. He will always have a special place in my heart. Which is luckily not where I keep my principles. Those are in my sock drawer.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Bethany Eats Her Feelings: A Short Film About My Dietary Restrictions

You may recall this post, where I discuss the woes of doctor mandated dietary restrictions and share some horrible recipes. (You can also read more about my suffering over at xoJane.)

But here is a special video I made for when people ask me what it's like to miss out on eating like a normal human who isn't also a brachiosaur. Enjoy!

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

The Remedy for Your February Depression: A Story with Boobs in It

Some extraterrestrials on their home planet.

Hey, feeling depressed because it's still February? Come on over here, sit down, and place your face right here next to my tragically misshapen boobs. Feel better? Of course you do. Nothing cures what ails you like boobs. Even ones that look and feel like a cactus.

But enough about my sad boob situation and on to today's tale that will surely cure your horrible, debilitating February depression because it has much shapelier boobs in it. Actually, just one shapely boob. (And just be sure to look up from it once in a while because its eyes are up here.)

The February depression really is the worst, isn't it? You're just minding your own business, spending time alone in your apartment, eating one of those single-serve microwavable chocolate lava cakes, while you watch some movie on Netflix with Mandy Moore in it. And then you start thinking about your life and all of those choices that led to a lot of disappointment, misery, and pain. Like that one time when you had a crush on that guy and mustered up the courage to say to him, "Hey, guy, I really like you." And he was all, "In your dreams, Cactus Boobs." So, you went home and cried in the shower. Yeah, we've all been there, right? So, let's not put it off any longer and get to the story.

I call it...

Adventures on Boob Planet

Far, far, far away in space, there was a giant boob. But if you want to be all scientific about it, technically it was a planet that just looked like a boob because boobs tend to not have their own atmosphere and gravitational pull, which this one did. And on this giant boob planet, aptly named Boob Planet, there lived a large society of people, and those people were total bros.

You can imagine that life on this planet was pretty freaking sweet. Bros were like, "Hey, 'sup?" and "Partyyyyyy," and cool stuff like that. There were no wars because everybody was all, "Hey, man. It's cool." Work started at 4 PM after everyone on the planet had recovered from last night's hangover and had time to order a pizza. And all the jobs were stuff like doing some yard work for cash, working in your uncle's garage, or collecting sports memorabilia and selling that shit on Ebay.

The only downside was that there were no women on the entire planet, so there was a lot of awkward fumbling in the dark when mating season started. 

But one time there was this one bro, and he was like, "I want to be an astronaut," and the other bros said to him, "Man, that is awesome. You should do that. Are you gonna go to college and stuff?" And he said, "Yeah, man." So, he worked hard and got his grades up and then totally got into college where he majored in Outer Space and Cool Stuff Like That. When he graduated, his bros were all, "Let's take him out and get him sooooo wasted." And the entire planet threw the sweetest party, after which time nobody did a thing for an entire month but lie around in their bean bag chairs, watch football, and eat can after can of Pringles.

Five years later, the bro who was an astronaut finally finished this totally awesome rocket ship and was all, "I'm gonna be the first bro to go to space, dudes! I guess I wanna see what else is out there before I get too old to party, like those older bros who do all their drinking at the bar at Applebee's," To which the entire planet responded, "Woo!"

So, one morning, he got up bright and early around 2 PM, climbed aboard the rocket ship, and blasted himself way out into space where there wasn't a single keg stand to be performed, nor was there a single college sports team to root for, and there certainly weren't any spring breaks to Cancun. In fact, it was pretty lonely. The astronaut bro spent a lot of time looking out the window at Boob Planet as it got farther and farther away, feeling kind of weird about it, and taking lots of long showers.

Several years went by and soon Boob Planet was far, far away, a distant nipple in the dark of space. With all that time on his hands, astronaut bro read some pretty cool books. He ate a lot of space nachos, space chili, and space Hot Pockets. He worked out a lot to maximize his glutes and delts. So, when the rocket touched down on a planet far, far out in space, needless to say, he was in pretty sweet shape. Which was awesome because this new planet, which was shaped like a man's toned buttocks, was occupied by a lot of smokin' hotties who had nothing to do all day but wear bikinis and totally make out with each other.


Tuesday, February 5, 2013

The Remedy for Your February Depression: A Happy Story About Sylvia Plath and Ovens

If you assume that I just wrote this story so that I could use this pic of Daniel Craig, then you are correct.

February is here! And you know what that means? Valentine's Day! Heart-shaped boxes of chocolate! Calling my mom on her birthday because I forgot to get a card again!

And depression. Because OH MY GOD, shut up, winter. Nobody likes you.

That is why I'm once again writing the happiest, cheerfullest, jolliest, blissfullest, least-depressingest story of all time to help you all not kill yourselves.

Here it is.

Sylvia Plath Puts Her Head in the Oven

Once upon a time, Sylvia Plath put her head in the oven. I know that sounds exactly the opposite of jolly and blissful, but she had a completely innocent reason for putting her head into an oven. And this Sylvia Plath was not the famous Sylvia Plath that you might know for her writing or untimely oven death. This was an entirely different Sylvia Plath and you can tell them apart in several important ways. First of all, the Sylvia Plath in this story has never been portrayed by Gwyneth Paltrow in a movie. Secondly, she had never written a book called The Bell Jar in her lifetime. And thirdly, this Sylvia Plath had a sparkling and jolly personality. The type that psychologists would never diagnose with depression. The fact that two women who are polar opposites share the same name is merely a coincidence.

The reason that the Sylvia Plath in our story put her head in the oven was that she was baking cookies and wanted to see if they were done. Now, you and I both know that you don't have to put your whole head into an oven to see if cookies are baked. Most people might remove the baking sheet from the oven, examine the cookies, and then either set them aside to cool or put them back into the oven for more baking. But this Sylvia Plath was not very smart. So it was lucky that her friend Virginia Woolf was coming over to visit and had much more experience in baking.

Now, I know what you're thinking, and don't worry. This Sylvia Plath's friend wasn't the famous writer Virginia Woolf who drowned herself by walking into a river because she was really depressed. This is an entirely different Virginia Woolf. You can tell because there are several differences between this Virginia Woolf and the famous writer. The first difference is that this Virginia Woolf was never portrayed by Nicole Kidman in a movie. The second is that she never wrote a book called Mrs. Dalloway in her lifetime. The third is that she always wore flotation devices everywhere she went because she hated drowning.

So, Virginia Woolf who was not THE Virginia Woolf arrived at Sylvia Plath who was not THE Sylvia Plath's house just in time to catch her putting her head in the oven. That's where the story really begins. And in retrospect not naming two exceedingly happy characters the same names as two famously depressed and suicidal writers would have saved me a a lot of explanation, but it's too late to turn back now.

"What are you doing?" Virginia Woolf asked, merrily.

"Checking on my cookies!" Sylvia Plath responded, pleasantly.

"Well, why don't you just pull them out of the oven using an oven mitt?" chortled Virginia Woolf.

"I can't believe I didn't think of that!" giggled Sylvia Plath.

"I'm glad I stopped by just in time then," sing-songed Virginia Woolf.

"Me too!" replied Sylvia Plath, with an extremely jolly twinkle in her eye. "You're just in time for a cookie because these are done!"

And then the two friends sat at the table and gossiped for the next hour, eating cookies in the least-depressing manner possible. They both lived to be 100 and remained the best friends ever.