(ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MCSWEENEYS.NET IN APRIL 2008)
BY JEN STATSKY
- - - -
DAD: I don’t think we should ever talk about feelings.
MOM: Never.
- - - -
DAD: I’ll take the greatest number of photographs of her when she’s in her most awkward stage, right in the depths of puberty.
MOM: Good idea. I’ll make sure to send them to all our immediate and all our somewhat distant family and friends. Oh, and make sure you forget your camera the one night in her life that Billy Sherman talks to her, so that no proof exists of said event.
DAD: Got it.
- - - -
DAD: We should talk very loudly about the truth about Santa Claus.
MOM: Yes, and let’s not make any attempt whatsoever to disguise Santa’s handwriting from our own.
- - - -
MOM: Let’s make sure we avoid the topic of sex so masterfully and so consistently that she begins to wonder if it’s something made up by people on TV.
DAD: Good idea. Let’s also ignore the existence of any of her long-term boyfriends, no matter how harmless, awkward, and acne-prone they are.
- - - -
MOM: She should never have to worry about money, especially when she’s young.
DAD: I agree. That way, she can spend all her time worrying about us getting a divorce.
- - - -
DAD: When I teach her to ride a bike, I will tell her that my hand is on the seat, but then I will take it away just as she is getting the hang of it.
MOM: That will not turn out well.
DAD: No.
- - - -
MOM: I’ll make sure to give her a haircut that matches mine. Mine in 1972, that is.
DAD: Great. I’ll wear an awkward comb-over.
- - - -
DAD: I think I’ll always be a little bit weirder than necessary around her friends. Especially the “cool” ones who are just over to copy notes for Ms. Reardon’s AP Physics midterm.
MOM: Sounds good. I’ll always talk one decibel louder than a normal person.
- - - -
DAD: She will beg us to get a dog for many, many years.
MOM: And I will repeatedly tell her how I am allergic to animal hair.
DAD: You will wear a fur coat.
- - - -
MOM: Whenever she does something that really upsets me, I’ll always make sure to tell her that “her grandmother is rolling over in her grave.”
DAD: Even though we will cremate her.
- - - -
DAD: I will demonstrate a total lack of understanding of the proper grammatical way to use quotation marks, and sign every birthday card with “Love.”
MOM: That will keep her on her toes.
- - - -
MOM: I think the most important thing is that we will criticize her, no matter what she does or who she becomes.
DAD: And that she knows we criticize her just as much as we criticize each other.
- - - -
DAD: Let’s not give her a little brother or sister.
MOM: No. That might function as some sort of coping mechanism.
- - - -
MOM: We can’t take her on those classic but trite kid vacations that every other child in the Western world gets to experience, like trips to Disneyland.
DAD: No, for she will gain great popularity and respect from her second-grade classmates when she wears her “I Went to Vermont and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt Made From 100% Recycled Compost-Heap Materials” T-shirt.
- - - -
DAD: We should always give her what she wants.
MOM: That way, we can hold it against her when she’s older and can finally provide for herself.
Follow @jenstatsky on Twitter. Or don't. Whatever.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tonight Is The Night I Destroy My Frontal Lobe
I cannot wait to get totally, utterly, face-bendingly SMASHED tonight.
I'm talking absolutely obliterated here. Oblit to my obit, that's how tonight is gonna go.
Seriously, I am gonna get so ridiculously plastered. I'm probably going to get so out of control that I have to remove my own shoelaces with my teeth and tie myself to a chair. That's how outrageous tonight is gonna be.
I hope that before this night ends, my skull EXPLODES; that is how insanely tanked I want to get. And then I want to go around and pick up all the pieces of my skull and put it back together with only the sticky stuff from the back of used post-its, just so I can just keep on getting more and more positively HAMMERED.
I don't think you understand what I'm saying here: I enrolled myself in a thirteen-week long SAT practice class, just so I could create more brain cells, which I will now proceed to absolutely DESTROY on this very eve. If that isn't absolutely corybantic, then I don't what is.
Listen, after tonight, you might as well tell everyone that you’ve been to ancient Greece, cause I am going to turn my entire body into one giant pit of RUIN.
For real, though, my head is going to be like a car crash you see on the side of the highway, but this time, traffic will actually speed up, cause it’ll be so bad that people can’t even look. Yeah, yeah, that is EXACTLY how absurdly sloshed I’m going to be in a mere matter of hours.
I don’t even KNOW what blitzkrieg means, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be doing a total and absolute blitzkrieg on my mind tonight. (Side note: they should really cover ‘blitzkrieg’ in an SAT prep class, don’t you think?)
Whatever, DOESN’T MATTER, because after tonight, I’m gonna thoroughly annihilate my ability to formulate new thoughts, ideas, sentences, words, even noises. Do you realize what that means? After tonight, I probably won’t even be able to produce a single sound that resembles something a human makes, cause I’m getting so ridiculously, wildly, insanely, totally FUC --
Oh, what? You think you’re just gonna stay in? Yeah, no, that’s fine. I think there’s a “Big Bang Theory” marathon on, anyway.
I'm talking absolutely obliterated here. Oblit to my obit, that's how tonight is gonna go.
Seriously, I am gonna get so ridiculously plastered. I'm probably going to get so out of control that I have to remove my own shoelaces with my teeth and tie myself to a chair. That's how outrageous tonight is gonna be.
I hope that before this night ends, my skull EXPLODES; that is how insanely tanked I want to get. And then I want to go around and pick up all the pieces of my skull and put it back together with only the sticky stuff from the back of used post-its, just so I can just keep on getting more and more positively HAMMERED.
I don't think you understand what I'm saying here: I enrolled myself in a thirteen-week long SAT practice class, just so I could create more brain cells, which I will now proceed to absolutely DESTROY on this very eve. If that isn't absolutely corybantic, then I don't what is.
Listen, after tonight, you might as well tell everyone that you’ve been to ancient Greece, cause I am going to turn my entire body into one giant pit of RUIN.
For real, though, my head is going to be like a car crash you see on the side of the highway, but this time, traffic will actually speed up, cause it’ll be so bad that people can’t even look. Yeah, yeah, that is EXACTLY how absurdly sloshed I’m going to be in a mere matter of hours.
I don’t even KNOW what blitzkrieg means, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be doing a total and absolute blitzkrieg on my mind tonight. (Side note: they should really cover ‘blitzkrieg’ in an SAT prep class, don’t you think?)
Whatever, DOESN’T MATTER, because after tonight, I’m gonna thoroughly annihilate my ability to formulate new thoughts, ideas, sentences, words, even noises. Do you realize what that means? After tonight, I probably won’t even be able to produce a single sound that resembles something a human makes, cause I’m getting so ridiculously, wildly, insanely, totally FUC --
Oh, what? You think you’re just gonna stay in? Yeah, no, that’s fine. I think there’s a “Big Bang Theory” marathon on, anyway.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
A Few Simple Rules Before You Enter My Moon Bounce
Hi there! Glad you could make it, and glad I could squeeze you in. Moon Bounce Mondays have really been taking off ever since that write up in my diary.
I see you’ve begun to untie your shoelaces. That’s a great start. It goes without saying that my Moon Bounce is a no shoe-zone ... unlike my wife’s closet! Ha! Ha!
I don’t have a wife, but the joke doesn’t work as well if I say “my landlady.” I’m allowed to do that out here, but inside the Moon Bounce, there’s a pretty strict rule against hyperbole, especially in regards to how high one may have just gotten on his last in-air-somersault.
Which brings me to a few more quick, simple rules before you step into my Moon Bounce. Please pay careful attention, because I’ve unfortunately had to kick out more than one bouncer who did not properly adhere to the very thorough, but nevertheless very reasonable, rules for entering my Moon Bounce.
1) Absolutely no sharp objects. No pens, no scissors, no pocket knives, no outside-of-pocket knives, no antennae, no hair-dos done at a trendy Japanese salon, and no tridents (with the exception of any Greek God-themed Moon Bounce days.) Now, I know what you are going to say. “But I have a life-threatening allergy to peanuts, and I need my EpiPen in the case that someone comes into the Moon Bounce and shoves a fistful of peanuts down my throat.” Well, I’m sorry, I really am, but that is the risk you’re going to have to take. I’m of the belief that allergies can be overcome with the mind, anyway, which is why the end of My Girl is particularly frustrating for me to watch.
2) No cursing. The Moon Bounce should be a place where naive, innocent children can roam about freely. Which brings me to rule #3 ..
3) No children. They’re neither innocent nor naive anymore, and I’d rather not infect my Moon Bounce with sin and Robert Pattinson and sexting. Save that smut for the ball pit at McDonald’s Playpen.
4) No socks with individual toe holes that make your foot look like a hand. I know they’re fashionable, but it makes it too hard to judge handstands properly.
5) Treat my Moon Bounce as you would a public pool. Meaning: wait 2 hours after you eat before entering, keep your hair tucked back neatly with a swim cap, and if a stranger hops on your back and screams, “CHICKEN FIGHT!!”, just go with it. Even if you’re the only ones in there.
6) No jumps that end in a split landing. I loan out too many personal pairs of pants to risk the type of tearage that often occurs when an inexperienced Moon Bouncer attempts a split landing. (Note: Really not my rule, more my tailor, Christof’s. If you really feel passionately about being able to attempt a split landing while in my Moon Bounce, please contact him directly. Also, if I have any shirts that are ready when you visit Christof, please pick them up and bring them to me the next time you are to enter my Moon Bounce.)
7) No pets. If you don’t have the ability to reason, then you won’t be able to make the proper decision as to who to save and who to forsake in the unfortunate event that my Moon Bounce should deflate.
8) No gum chewing. I didn’t install a chewing tobacco spit bucket for my health, you know.
9) Please remain cognizant of even weight distribution at all times while in my Moon Bounce. If, at any point, you look around and everyone else is at a significantly higher altitude than you are, then perhaps it is time to consider pursuing a higher-intensity workout regiment than playing on my Moon Bounce. Or, perhaps you did not pay attention to rule #9, that being ...
10) Please empty your pockets of all solid gold bars before entering my Moon Bounce.
11) Please keep any and all jokes told within my Moon Bounce topical. There has been some chatter amongst the Things-That-Inflate community that Moon Bounces are becoming out-of-date and obsolete, and telling Leno-style monologue jokes while in my Moon Bounce is the best way I can think of to combat this fallacy.
12) If my Moon Bounce is to deflate, do not panic. For I will be panicking, and your panicking will only further cause me to hyperventilate, and available air will be precious and fleeting as is.
Ok, then, I think that just about covers everything! You may now enter my Moon Bounce! Enj --oh, wait just one gosh darn second there! What’s that in your back pocket? Is that a ... oh my God. A pineapple.
Just get the hell out. Get the hell out right now.
I see you’ve begun to untie your shoelaces. That’s a great start. It goes without saying that my Moon Bounce is a no shoe-zone ... unlike my wife’s closet! Ha! Ha!
I don’t have a wife, but the joke doesn’t work as well if I say “my landlady.” I’m allowed to do that out here, but inside the Moon Bounce, there’s a pretty strict rule against hyperbole, especially in regards to how high one may have just gotten on his last in-air-somersault.
Which brings me to a few more quick, simple rules before you step into my Moon Bounce. Please pay careful attention, because I’ve unfortunately had to kick out more than one bouncer who did not properly adhere to the very thorough, but nevertheless very reasonable, rules for entering my Moon Bounce.
1) Absolutely no sharp objects. No pens, no scissors, no pocket knives, no outside-of-pocket knives, no antennae, no hair-dos done at a trendy Japanese salon, and no tridents (with the exception of any Greek God-themed Moon Bounce days.) Now, I know what you are going to say. “But I have a life-threatening allergy to peanuts, and I need my EpiPen in the case that someone comes into the Moon Bounce and shoves a fistful of peanuts down my throat.” Well, I’m sorry, I really am, but that is the risk you’re going to have to take. I’m of the belief that allergies can be overcome with the mind, anyway, which is why the end of My Girl is particularly frustrating for me to watch.
2) No cursing. The Moon Bounce should be a place where naive, innocent children can roam about freely. Which brings me to rule #3 ..
3) No children. They’re neither innocent nor naive anymore, and I’d rather not infect my Moon Bounce with sin and Robert Pattinson and sexting. Save that smut for the ball pit at McDonald’s Playpen.
4) No socks with individual toe holes that make your foot look like a hand. I know they’re fashionable, but it makes it too hard to judge handstands properly.
5) Treat my Moon Bounce as you would a public pool. Meaning: wait 2 hours after you eat before entering, keep your hair tucked back neatly with a swim cap, and if a stranger hops on your back and screams, “CHICKEN FIGHT!!”, just go with it. Even if you’re the only ones in there.
6) No jumps that end in a split landing. I loan out too many personal pairs of pants to risk the type of tearage that often occurs when an inexperienced Moon Bouncer attempts a split landing. (Note: Really not my rule, more my tailor, Christof’s. If you really feel passionately about being able to attempt a split landing while in my Moon Bounce, please contact him directly. Also, if I have any shirts that are ready when you visit Christof, please pick them up and bring them to me the next time you are to enter my Moon Bounce.)
7) No pets. If you don’t have the ability to reason, then you won’t be able to make the proper decision as to who to save and who to forsake in the unfortunate event that my Moon Bounce should deflate.
8) No gum chewing. I didn’t install a chewing tobacco spit bucket for my health, you know.
9) Please remain cognizant of even weight distribution at all times while in my Moon Bounce. If, at any point, you look around and everyone else is at a significantly higher altitude than you are, then perhaps it is time to consider pursuing a higher-intensity workout regiment than playing on my Moon Bounce. Or, perhaps you did not pay attention to rule #9, that being ...
10) Please empty your pockets of all solid gold bars before entering my Moon Bounce.
11) Please keep any and all jokes told within my Moon Bounce topical. There has been some chatter amongst the Things-That-Inflate community that Moon Bounces are becoming out-of-date and obsolete, and telling Leno-style monologue jokes while in my Moon Bounce is the best way I can think of to combat this fallacy.
12) If my Moon Bounce is to deflate, do not panic. For I will be panicking, and your panicking will only further cause me to hyperventilate, and available air will be precious and fleeting as is.
Ok, then, I think that just about covers everything! You may now enter my Moon Bounce! Enj --oh, wait just one gosh darn second there! What’s that in your back pocket? Is that a ... oh my God. A pineapple.
Just get the hell out. Get the hell out right now.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Frequently Asked Questions By Rejected Applicants To HottPeople.com
Frequently Asked Questions By Rejected Applicants To HottPeople.com, the Internet’s Premier Dating Website for the Genetically Blessed and/or Cosmetically Enhanced
Thank you for your application to HottPeople.com, the dating site designed exclusively for Hotties. Unfortunately, we regret to inform you that our team of incredibly chiseled judges has deemed you unworthy of becoming a member of our site.
Often rejected applicants will inquire as to why they were denied acceptance to HottPeople.com. Please allow us to tell you why you were determined to be physically inferior and rejected before you even make this inquiry, by referring you to the FAQBNAP (Frequently Asked Questions By Not Attractive People) below.
Was I rejected because I'm ugly?
This is a concern that you should banish from your possibly misshapen head, for only about 49.6% of our rejected applicants are what we would call 'ugly.' So there is a good chance that it's not that you are ugly; it's just that you simply are not Hott. Also, in a few rare instances, it may be that you ARE indeed Hott, but are not a Person. We are hard at work on a system that will enable our server to automatically filter out applications from animals, plants, and anyone who has appeared on an MTV reality show.
How many people apply for membership to HottPeople.com?
Too many to count, but a good estimate would be the entire population of Brazil, both in number and in the level of knock-your-Crocs-off-hott. Our application pool consists of an incredibly high volume of incredibly attractive, hard-bodied, certified grade A Hotties, and if we accepted every single one of them ... well, then our site would remain exactly as is, because that is what we do. Nevertheless, rest assured that you were fairly denied acceptance to HottPeople.com based upon the faults of your physical appearance alone, regardless of anyone else’s Hottness or Nottness.
How are applicants rated?
HottPeople.com utilizes a very dependable and thorough Flame Rating system. Each applicant's set of three photos (one headshot, one full body, one wearing a bathing suit while mounted upon a roaring wild tiger) is reviewed byHottPeople.com's panel of judges. Each judge gives an applicant a score from 1 to 5 Flames (1 being the type of flame that could be blown out by your dying grandmother on her last birthday cake's candles, 5 being what killed the dinosaurs.) The highest ranking applicants are awarded membership to HottPeople.com, as well as an exclusive graphite HottPeople.com member card that gains you free, unquestioned entry into 50 of the participating hottest clubs in the continental United States.*
Who are these judges that are determining I'm not attractive enough, anyway?
We assure you that our judges panel consists of five of the hottest employees at the Santa Monica branch of Hollywood Tans.
I'm embarrassed that I was rejected by HottPeople.com, and I don't want anyone to know about it. Do you keep your applicants' personal information secure?
Of course! We take great care to make sure that the identity of each and every HottPeople.com applicant remains confidential. The only way anyone could retrieve information about rejected HottPeople.com applicants would be to log into the password-protected "Bottom of the Barrel" section on our website.
Well, who knows the password to that?
The password to our highly secure Bottom of the Barrel section is your favorite word.
Wait a second ... how do you know what my favorite word is?!
Don't be silly; we have no way of knowing what YOUR specific favorite word is. The password is the favorite word of the person who happens to be entering the password. Any word will do, as long as it the person's favorite.
This is a load of crap, I know I'm a hott person!
Yes, that's all well and good, but this is a dating site is for Hott People, not just hott people. And please, don't even try to plead your case by telling us that you are merely a HOT person. The extra T isn't just there for the sound it makes, you know.
C'mon! Just let me reapply.
Sorry, but we think we've been through enough having to look at your set of photos ONCE. Please don't make us do it again. They're only funny the first time, then it just becomes depressing for us, and we've learned that no amount of Muscle Milk can help that type of sad.
OK, that's fair. But can I work on losing some weight, getting my dimpled butt that had no business wearing a bandeau top in the first place in shape, and possibly purchasing a new nose, THEN reapply?
Now you're talking! We whole heartedly encourage applicants who are branded as Un-Hott People to reapply once they take the necessary steps to stop focusing on what's just on the inside. In the meantime, we encourage eligible rejected applicants to consider applying to our sister dating site, LoadsOfMoneyWhereShouldIPutItAll.com.
But wait; don't you care about my mind, my personality, or my overall benevolence towards every human being I come in contact with? Are good looks all you really want in a partner?
No, and yes. In that order.
*No clubs currently participating in this offer. However, we have received an exorbitant amount of interest from an establishment by the name of ‘SnowBallz’ in Bethel, Alaska, if any Hott Person should ever decide to travel to Alaska.
Thank you for your application to HottPeople.com, the dating site designed exclusively for Hotties. Unfortunately, we regret to inform you that our team of incredibly chiseled judges has deemed you unworthy of becoming a member of our site.
Often rejected applicants will inquire as to why they were denied acceptance to HottPeople.com. Please allow us to tell you why you were determined to be physically inferior and rejected before you even make this inquiry, by referring you to the FAQBNAP (Frequently Asked Questions By Not Attractive People) below.
Was I rejected because I'm ugly?
This is a concern that you should banish from your possibly misshapen head, for only about 49.6% of our rejected applicants are what we would call 'ugly.' So there is a good chance that it's not that you are ugly; it's just that you simply are not Hott. Also, in a few rare instances, it may be that you ARE indeed Hott, but are not a Person. We are hard at work on a system that will enable our server to automatically filter out applications from animals, plants, and anyone who has appeared on an MTV reality show.
How many people apply for membership to HottPeople.com?
Too many to count, but a good estimate would be the entire population of Brazil, both in number and in the level of knock-your-Crocs-off-hott. Our application pool consists of an incredibly high volume of incredibly attractive, hard-bodied, certified grade A Hotties, and if we accepted every single one of them ... well, then our site would remain exactly as is, because that is what we do. Nevertheless, rest assured that you were fairly denied acceptance to HottPeople.com based upon the faults of your physical appearance alone, regardless of anyone else’s Hottness or Nottness.
How are applicants rated?
HottPeople.com utilizes a very dependable and thorough Flame Rating system. Each applicant's set of three photos (one headshot, one full body, one wearing a bathing suit while mounted upon a roaring wild tiger) is reviewed byHottPeople.com's panel of judges. Each judge gives an applicant a score from 1 to 5 Flames (1 being the type of flame that could be blown out by your dying grandmother on her last birthday cake's candles, 5 being what killed the dinosaurs.) The highest ranking applicants are awarded membership to HottPeople.com, as well as an exclusive graphite HottPeople.com member card that gains you free, unquestioned entry into 50 of the participating hottest clubs in the continental United States.*
Who are these judges that are determining I'm not attractive enough, anyway?
We assure you that our judges panel consists of five of the hottest employees at the Santa Monica branch of Hollywood Tans.
I'm embarrassed that I was rejected by HottPeople.com, and I don't want anyone to know about it. Do you keep your applicants' personal information secure?
Of course! We take great care to make sure that the identity of each and every HottPeople.com applicant remains confidential. The only way anyone could retrieve information about rejected HottPeople.com applicants would be to log into the password-protected "Bottom of the Barrel" section on our website.
Well, who knows the password to that?
The password to our highly secure Bottom of the Barrel section is your favorite word.
Wait a second ... how do you know what my favorite word is?!
Don't be silly; we have no way of knowing what YOUR specific favorite word is. The password is the favorite word of the person who happens to be entering the password. Any word will do, as long as it the person's favorite.
This is a load of crap, I know I'm a hott person!
Yes, that's all well and good, but this is a dating site is for Hott People, not just hott people. And please, don't even try to plead your case by telling us that you are merely a HOT person. The extra T isn't just there for the sound it makes, you know.
C'mon! Just let me reapply.
Sorry, but we think we've been through enough having to look at your set of photos ONCE. Please don't make us do it again. They're only funny the first time, then it just becomes depressing for us, and we've learned that no amount of Muscle Milk can help that type of sad.
OK, that's fair. But can I work on losing some weight, getting my dimpled butt that had no business wearing a bandeau top in the first place in shape, and possibly purchasing a new nose, THEN reapply?
Now you're talking! We whole heartedly encourage applicants who are branded as Un-Hott People to reapply once they take the necessary steps to stop focusing on what's just on the inside. In the meantime, we encourage eligible rejected applicants to consider applying to our sister dating site, LoadsOfMoneyWhereShouldIPutItAll.com.
But wait; don't you care about my mind, my personality, or my overall benevolence towards every human being I come in contact with? Are good looks all you really want in a partner?
No, and yes. In that order.
*No clubs currently participating in this offer. However, we have received an exorbitant amount of interest from an establishment by the name of ‘SnowBallz’ in Bethel, Alaska, if any Hott Person should ever decide to travel to Alaska.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
McSweeney's: Excerpts From My Mother's Editorial Notes On My Letters To Santa, 1987-2000.
New holiday themed McSweeney's piece here.
If you're the type of person who loves heart-warming Christmas movies like It's A Wonderful Life and Winter Wonderland ... you should go watch them instead of reading this.
--
EXCERPTS FROM MY MOTHER'S EDITORIAL NOTES ON MY LETTERS TO SANTA, 1987-2000.
BY JEN STATSKY
- - - -
1987
Jen,
I think there's some good stuff here. It's too bad that it's buried under a pile of holiday clichés and trite generalizations. You've been a "good girl?" What is the reader supposed to gather from that? Is that the author's subjective opinion about her behavior over the past twelve months, or rather a more objective assessment based on society's standards of what qualifies as a "good girl?" A little clarification would go a long way and most likely garner better results for what the author is trying to get, which, at the most superficial of levels, is apparently a Teddy Ruxpin doll.
With love,
Mom
PS. All your "J's" are backwards.
- - - -
1989
Jen,
I've always made it a point to start off any notes I give with some positive comment first. Unfortunately, your work here has made it virtually impossible for me to do that this time.
This letter is meandering, lacking in structure, and just an overall mess of what should be a very personal, intimate correspondence with Santa Claus. One gets the sense that the author was high on pixie sticks while writing it, and upon review of the mess that was discovered underneath your bedroom this morning, I gather that this was exactly the case.
You begin the letter with what is perhaps a pure intention of inquiring about the reader and turning the focus onto him. I am all for work that breaks the audience's suspension of disbelief and forces them to become a participant in the art itself. However, asking questions such as, "if it's really cold up there?" and "where do all the reindeer sleep?" are completely offensive and demeaning to the reader's intelligence and show an utter lack of real concern for who your audience is. Sure, if this was the first Christmas in the history of the world, then those are perfectly valid, wonderful questions to present, ones that surely need to be ask. But, as timeless readings of The Night Before Christmas, have surely informed you, those questions are old, outdated, and a literal waste of ink and paper, not to mention cookies.
And while we're on the topic of baked goods, I was also disappointed with your choice of Lorne Doones in lieu of the traditional homemade chocolate chip. Though, in retrospect, I suppose the leaving of a bland, tasteless, out-dated cookie was the perfect fit for this letter.
Merry Christmas, honey!
With regards,
Mom
- - - -
1990
Jen,
I am so glad you decided to resume writing again this year. Very much so welcomed, especially after last year's lock-yourself-in-the-closest-with-all-the-egg-nog fiasco.
While this letter is far from perfect, it is certainly an improvement from past work. I get a real sense that you are coming into your own, and learning the difference between nouns and verbs. That's a big step forward for you. I also sense an inclination to a more subversive tone and overall direction. Your hesitance even to believe in the validity of your audience is right on-point. Let's take this premise and expand it further in your coming work, yes?
Oh, one last thing: The forgetting of the milk: intentional or not? If intentional, I think it's a great utilization of withholding something from your audience to achieve a desired effect. If unintentional, it's probably because I asked you to get milk on your way home from Laura's the other day and as per usual, you used the money to buy Fanta.
Also, why even make mention of your cousin Zach? He's Jewish.
Love,
Mom
- - - -
1993
Jen,
This one seemed a little indulgent to me. You devote an exorbitant amount of time to discussing your activities visiting your grandmother at the elderly home this year. It just came off as transparent and needy to the reader, an obnoxious attempt to TELL him what you deserve, rather than allowing him to decide for himself. Also, bringing the death of Lucky into it? Please. You might as well just have written "Toys! Give me toys!" and saved yourself the wrist work. I'm surprised the paper wasn't artfully decorated with tears to drive your overly sentimental point home.
Love the Rudolph stickers, though. Great use of empty space there.
Love,
Mom
- - - -
1996
Jen,
I'm not one to make accusations, but this letter read eerily like your sister's 1988 piece to the tooth fairy. I hope you would have the character not to have simply switched around the names and details to plagiarize your sister's hard work and dedication for your own gain. Don't bother answering this question; I'd rather not know. For the record, I just have a hard time truly believing this is your work.
That being said, it was brilliant. A tour-de-force of Christmas wishes.
Love,
Mom
- - - -
2000
Jen,
Your leaving of rancid milk and dog biscuits were noted, and highly unappreciated. A writer who can't take cannot accept criticism is no writer at all.
Best,
Mother
P.S. Mark Twin wrote that. Yup, both of those sentences.
If you're the type of person who loves heart-warming Christmas movies like It's A Wonderful Life and Winter Wonderland ... you should go watch them instead of reading this.
--
EXCERPTS FROM MY MOTHER'S EDITORIAL NOTES ON MY LETTERS TO SANTA, 1987-2000.
BY JEN STATSKY
- - - -
1987
Jen,
I think there's some good stuff here. It's too bad that it's buried under a pile of holiday clichés and trite generalizations. You've been a "good girl?" What is the reader supposed to gather from that? Is that the author's subjective opinion about her behavior over the past twelve months, or rather a more objective assessment based on society's standards of what qualifies as a "good girl?" A little clarification would go a long way and most likely garner better results for what the author is trying to get, which, at the most superficial of levels, is apparently a Teddy Ruxpin doll.
With love,
Mom
PS. All your "J's" are backwards.
- - - -
1989
Jen,
I've always made it a point to start off any notes I give with some positive comment first. Unfortunately, your work here has made it virtually impossible for me to do that this time.
This letter is meandering, lacking in structure, and just an overall mess of what should be a very personal, intimate correspondence with Santa Claus. One gets the sense that the author was high on pixie sticks while writing it, and upon review of the mess that was discovered underneath your bedroom this morning, I gather that this was exactly the case.
You begin the letter with what is perhaps a pure intention of inquiring about the reader and turning the focus onto him. I am all for work that breaks the audience's suspension of disbelief and forces them to become a participant in the art itself. However, asking questions such as, "if it's really cold up there?" and "where do all the reindeer sleep?" are completely offensive and demeaning to the reader's intelligence and show an utter lack of real concern for who your audience is. Sure, if this was the first Christmas in the history of the world, then those are perfectly valid, wonderful questions to present, ones that surely need to be ask. But, as timeless readings of The Night Before Christmas, have surely informed you, those questions are old, outdated, and a literal waste of ink and paper, not to mention cookies.
And while we're on the topic of baked goods, I was also disappointed with your choice of Lorne Doones in lieu of the traditional homemade chocolate chip. Though, in retrospect, I suppose the leaving of a bland, tasteless, out-dated cookie was the perfect fit for this letter.
Merry Christmas, honey!
With regards,
Mom
- - - -
1990
Jen,
I am so glad you decided to resume writing again this year. Very much so welcomed, especially after last year's lock-yourself-in-the-closest-with-all-the-egg-nog fiasco.
While this letter is far from perfect, it is certainly an improvement from past work. I get a real sense that you are coming into your own, and learning the difference between nouns and verbs. That's a big step forward for you. I also sense an inclination to a more subversive tone and overall direction. Your hesitance even to believe in the validity of your audience is right on-point. Let's take this premise and expand it further in your coming work, yes?
Oh, one last thing: The forgetting of the milk: intentional or not? If intentional, I think it's a great utilization of withholding something from your audience to achieve a desired effect. If unintentional, it's probably because I asked you to get milk on your way home from Laura's the other day and as per usual, you used the money to buy Fanta.
Also, why even make mention of your cousin Zach? He's Jewish.
Love,
Mom
- - - -
1993
Jen,
This one seemed a little indulgent to me. You devote an exorbitant amount of time to discussing your activities visiting your grandmother at the elderly home this year. It just came off as transparent and needy to the reader, an obnoxious attempt to TELL him what you deserve, rather than allowing him to decide for himself. Also, bringing the death of Lucky into it? Please. You might as well just have written "Toys! Give me toys!" and saved yourself the wrist work. I'm surprised the paper wasn't artfully decorated with tears to drive your overly sentimental point home.
Love the Rudolph stickers, though. Great use of empty space there.
Love,
Mom
- - - -
1996
Jen,
I'm not one to make accusations, but this letter read eerily like your sister's 1988 piece to the tooth fairy. I hope you would have the character not to have simply switched around the names and details to plagiarize your sister's hard work and dedication for your own gain. Don't bother answering this question; I'd rather not know. For the record, I just have a hard time truly believing this is your work.
That being said, it was brilliant. A tour-de-force of Christmas wishes.
Love,
Mom
- - - -
2000
Jen,
Your leaving of rancid milk and dog biscuits were noted, and highly unappreciated. A writer who can't take cannot accept criticism is no writer at all.
Best,
Mother
P.S. Mark Twin wrote that. Yup, both of those sentences.
Monday, November 9, 2009
I don't know, either.
I Simply Cannot Meet You On The Canadian Side Of Niagara Falls.
Listen, I think I've been MORE than accommodating when it comes to your requests and needs in regards to making this relationship work.
I've done things I never thought I'd do for myself, let alone for another human being, over the span of these past few months. Looking back on everything, it's a little shocking, in fact. There's been blood. There's been sweat. And there would have been tears, if I hadn't have had that highly involved tear duct removal surgery you so vehemently suggested at the start of our courtship. You've pushed me to my limits, and at every step of the way, I allowed those limits to be nudged a little further back, all for you. So, that being said, let me make this perfectly, absolutely, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt clear: I simply cannot meet you on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls.
When you said you wanted to go see Bruce Springsteen in concert with me, but that you needed to sit four rows behind me so that you could properly observe how I act in the presence of an icon, I said fine. Keep in mind, I had told you that I do not particularly enjoy events that feature assigned seating or large group activities that do not involve some sort of prize that can be won and/or bartered for. Most of all, I had specifically told you that I do not like Bruce Springsteen. I used to tell people that I wasn't a huge fan, but that I did like that one song by him, "Hurts So Good." Then I found out that that song is actually sung by John Mellencamp, and that I didn't actually like ANY of Bruce Springsteen's music. But, nevertheless, I went, because I knew it was important to you. Did I enjoy myself? Not one bit. It was hot, it was loud, and I was forced to hold some large man from New Jersey's "sweat towel" for a good portion of the evening. And he didn't even play "Hurts So Good."
When you asked me to take a CPR certification course, not so that I would be able to save another human being’s life, but rather to confirm that I did not have any sort of strange, latent mannequin fetish because you “had been burned before,” I said fine. A big fat waste of a Saturday afternoon that was. All I can remember thinking was, “I canceled brunch plans for THIS?” It wouldn’t have even been so bad had we not been partnered up at the beginning of the SIX hour class. Lucky me, I got to do the whole thing with some Long Island kindergarten teacher who insisted on asking question after question about me and what I do and where I got my boots and what did I mean by saying her husband couldn’t be blamed for leaving once the baby weight didn’t come off. It’s sick, really, how some people use a nice, well-intentioned activity just to talk the ears off of innocent people. But I stayed there, all six, long, compression-filled hours, because I knew you wanted me to. And did you even ask me how it went when I came over that night? Nope! You just said, “Pool needs cleaning,” and went right back to stringing your cello.
When you told me that you wanted me to meet your parents, but that you didn’t want to introduce me to them, but rather, to have me assume a position as a waitress at their favorite local Cracker Barrel and get to know them through the development of a warm, tender client-patron relationship with them, I said fine. Every Friday night, they would saunter in at the cool dining hour of 5:30 PM, and I would serve them, under the alias of “Racquel.” In retrospect, it was a bit cliché of me, “Racquel the Cracker Barrel waitress,” but what could I do? You threw me into the situation before I knew which end was up. Nevertheless, your parents were absolute horrors. Your father with his blatant, reckless abuse of the free refills policy and your mother with her never-ending critique of Cracker Barrel décor. And don’t even get me started with their inability to remember the specials. Every time I came back with another Diet IBC, it was “Now, was there a WHITE fish on those specials you have?” But I kept up with it, because I knew you wanted me to get to know your parents without them ever getting to know me. Well, you and your parents can just kiss Racquel the Cracker Barrel waitress goodbye, because I’m putting her to bed. I don’t care how many embroidered souvenir pillows they’re paying me in.
Let the record state that I have really, truly bent over backwards for you. And I mean that both figuratively and literally, because let us not forget how you demanded I play Keanu Reeves in your regional theater production of The Matrix. And now, even after all this, after I have more than proven myself to you, you still come to me with your demands. Well, I’m sorry, buddy, but this well has dried up (again, I have been rendered physically unable to cry.) Do you get it? The buck stops here, the jig is up, the cheesecake stays in the glass display, whatever. Point is, I simply cannot meet you on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls.
I am willing, however, to take a trip to the American side of Niagara Falls. If you so desire, you may remain on your side, and when I arrive, I will make myself known to you with a hearty wave. Perhaps we can work things out from there. Let me know. I’ll be wearing that Hazmat suit you like me to wear on Tuesdays.
Listen, I think I've been MORE than accommodating when it comes to your requests and needs in regards to making this relationship work.
I've done things I never thought I'd do for myself, let alone for another human being, over the span of these past few months. Looking back on everything, it's a little shocking, in fact. There's been blood. There's been sweat. And there would have been tears, if I hadn't have had that highly involved tear duct removal surgery you so vehemently suggested at the start of our courtship. You've pushed me to my limits, and at every step of the way, I allowed those limits to be nudged a little further back, all for you. So, that being said, let me make this perfectly, absolutely, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt clear: I simply cannot meet you on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls.
When you said you wanted to go see Bruce Springsteen in concert with me, but that you needed to sit four rows behind me so that you could properly observe how I act in the presence of an icon, I said fine. Keep in mind, I had told you that I do not particularly enjoy events that feature assigned seating or large group activities that do not involve some sort of prize that can be won and/or bartered for. Most of all, I had specifically told you that I do not like Bruce Springsteen. I used to tell people that I wasn't a huge fan, but that I did like that one song by him, "Hurts So Good." Then I found out that that song is actually sung by John Mellencamp, and that I didn't actually like ANY of Bruce Springsteen's music. But, nevertheless, I went, because I knew it was important to you. Did I enjoy myself? Not one bit. It was hot, it was loud, and I was forced to hold some large man from New Jersey's "sweat towel" for a good portion of the evening. And he didn't even play "Hurts So Good."
When you asked me to take a CPR certification course, not so that I would be able to save another human being’s life, but rather to confirm that I did not have any sort of strange, latent mannequin fetish because you “had been burned before,” I said fine. A big fat waste of a Saturday afternoon that was. All I can remember thinking was, “I canceled brunch plans for THIS?” It wouldn’t have even been so bad had we not been partnered up at the beginning of the SIX hour class. Lucky me, I got to do the whole thing with some Long Island kindergarten teacher who insisted on asking question after question about me and what I do and where I got my boots and what did I mean by saying her husband couldn’t be blamed for leaving once the baby weight didn’t come off. It’s sick, really, how some people use a nice, well-intentioned activity just to talk the ears off of innocent people. But I stayed there, all six, long, compression-filled hours, because I knew you wanted me to. And did you even ask me how it went when I came over that night? Nope! You just said, “Pool needs cleaning,” and went right back to stringing your cello.
When you told me that you wanted me to meet your parents, but that you didn’t want to introduce me to them, but rather, to have me assume a position as a waitress at their favorite local Cracker Barrel and get to know them through the development of a warm, tender client-patron relationship with them, I said fine. Every Friday night, they would saunter in at the cool dining hour of 5:30 PM, and I would serve them, under the alias of “Racquel.” In retrospect, it was a bit cliché of me, “Racquel the Cracker Barrel waitress,” but what could I do? You threw me into the situation before I knew which end was up. Nevertheless, your parents were absolute horrors. Your father with his blatant, reckless abuse of the free refills policy and your mother with her never-ending critique of Cracker Barrel décor. And don’t even get me started with their inability to remember the specials. Every time I came back with another Diet IBC, it was “Now, was there a WHITE fish on those specials you have?” But I kept up with it, because I knew you wanted me to get to know your parents without them ever getting to know me. Well, you and your parents can just kiss Racquel the Cracker Barrel waitress goodbye, because I’m putting her to bed. I don’t care how many embroidered souvenir pillows they’re paying me in.
Let the record state that I have really, truly bent over backwards for you. And I mean that both figuratively and literally, because let us not forget how you demanded I play Keanu Reeves in your regional theater production of The Matrix. And now, even after all this, after I have more than proven myself to you, you still come to me with your demands. Well, I’m sorry, buddy, but this well has dried up (again, I have been rendered physically unable to cry.) Do you get it? The buck stops here, the jig is up, the cheesecake stays in the glass display, whatever. Point is, I simply cannot meet you on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls.
I am willing, however, to take a trip to the American side of Niagara Falls. If you so desire, you may remain on your side, and when I arrive, I will make myself known to you with a hearty wave. Perhaps we can work things out from there. Let me know. I’ll be wearing that Hazmat suit you like me to wear on Tuesdays.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Another video, another set, another dollar (minus the part about the dollar)
Click here to watch my set at the Bleak! show at The Creek last Thursday night
Thanks to Bleak! for a super fun show and for having me on. Hey, while you're in the clicking mood, why don't you check out some of their awesome videos here.
Thanks to Bleak! for a super fun show and for having me on. Hey, while you're in the clicking mood, why don't you check out some of their awesome videos here.
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hit counter Hits and self esteem are positively correlated, so please click "reload." My neighbors, who will benefit from a significant increase in the number of Haagen-Dazs pints available to them at our corner deli, thank you. And I do, too.