Remember that you were the one who wanted to do it the hard way.
When you entered my house, I left you alone. Perhaps you had a reason to be here. Perhaps I needed to learn why. Perhaps there would be a lesson at the end of all of this.
Perhaps I was wrong.
I am a firm believer in live-and-let-live, but when you started bothering my family, I knew something had to be done.
I tempted you with gifts to get you to leave: Candy. Fruit. Alcohol.
But you refused.
I tried to reason with you, give you a way out of a situation that had clearly gotten out of control.
But you ignored me.
Finally, I gave you one last chance. I believed in my heart that you wanted to do the right thing. I assured you that my threats were not to be taken lightly. That what would follow would be earth-shattering.
But for the third time, you denied my request.
Instead, you kept up your reign of terror over the ones I love.
And I knew that I had to make a choice.
Does the Mama Bear take joy in protecting her cubs form harm? Or does she do it because it must be done?
I slaughtered you in your tracks.
Those who did not immediately succumb to the poison* I afforded a small dose of mercy, throwing a cloth** over their writhing bodies and crushed in my hands. When your fragile skeletons snapped, and I knew the life had left your tiny body.
Some of you escaped. That was intentional. I want you to go back to your families. Go back and tell them.
Tell the tale of the woman with poison on her belt and death in her heart. Tell them of that day, that day where you were hunted in corners and under furniture, where you were flushed into the light of the afternoon and then killed. Tell them that next time, I will not negotiate with terrorists.Tell them of the Great Housefly Massacre of 2010.
*Not POISONpoison, but a spray bottle of warm water and dish soap.
**A paper towel. Do you think I wanna clean fly guts off my dish towels?
(It looks cooler when it's all centered and big and stuff.)
But here's where you come in: you gotta vote for the panel.
I mean, you don't GOTTA gotta. There's no law passed saying that you have to vote for the panel. (YET.) And I guess people get annoyed when you ask them to vote for their panels but I always vote for everyone's panels but I've never asked anyone to vote for mine because I've never gone to SXSW (despite someone's insistence that they met me there.)
So...couldja vote? And pass it on?
The panel is here.
(You hafta register to vote. Don't worry, there are no chads involved.)
And while you're there and registered, you could vote for these guys too. I mean, it's on the way and all.
It starts with finding the door.
A few weeks ago, Will scored a reservation to Disneyland's uber-exclusive Club 33. At first I thought it was a joke. I wrote for a hit series for the Disney Channel and even though we begged and pleaded, we couldn't get in. Flash forward ten years and my husband and I are weaving through the throngs of tourists to do our "test run."
You see, Club 33 has rules. A dress code. And they expect you to be on time.
We found the door in New Orleans Square, tucked next to the Blue Bayou Restaurant.
A few hours later we were back, dressed in our finery. Here's the thing: you don't see a lot of finery in Disneyland. We received more than a few raised eyebrows as we wandered through the park (me in my flip-flops and dress, as I tucked my fancy shoes in my purse. So it wasn't as fine as it could have been.)
When we returned, a couple of tourists were taking a picture in front of the sign. We waited until they were done, then stepped forward. They grabbed each other and gasped
THEY'RE GOING INSIDE!
Except that we weren't going inside, not just yet. Because we were at least ten minutes early. So we took a photo instead.
Goin' to the Show.
By this time, a small crowd had assembled, all whispering they're going to ring the bell! He's going to ring the bell! I wondered if they were going to break into a musical song-and-dance number, and if that was part of the Club 33 experience.
Will rang the bell and the door opened. He gave his name. The door closed.
A hush fell over the crowd.
The door opened again, a tiny bit wider.
Welcome to Club 33, the voice said.
I have been lucky enough in my life (and my career) to attend events and activities that many people do not. But I was never so excited as I was walking into Club 33. The dark wood, the clink of glassware, the servers who don't blink twice as you gawk at everything around you.
Is this your first time? our server asked.
How could you tell? I responded.
We started off with a cocktail (a Manhattan for Will, a Kir Royale for me) and then ordered the tasting menu (with the wine pairing, natch.) The food was good. It wasn't the best meal I've ever had, but you understood it was all about the experience...
I didn't take photos for most of the meal, preferring to just live in the moment rather than document it.
Two hours later we finished up with some espresso and looked out the window, realizing we were going ot have to return to earth with the mere mortals.
It's going to suck to be a regular person again, Will said.
But it was sure fun while it lasted.
(Just click on the demand link and it'll get you where you need to go.)
Saturday night, 8:32pm
(After a day of doing nothing but sitting on the couch and watching The Wire, Season 2.)
Will: I want cake.
Me: But you have to leave to get cake.
Will: There needs to be a cake delivery service.
Me: But until then...there's no cake.
Will: That's it. I'm getting cake.
Me: Now that I think of it, we're going to Jay's birthday party tomorrow. There'll be cake there.
Will: But that's not now.
Me: But we're cake-adjacent.
Will: Yeah, but when it gets dark, we don't sit in the around complaining how dark it is. We turn on a goddamned light.
Note: We did not get cake. But we did get it the next day. It was magic.
I don't know what it is, but I can't stand living where we're living anymore. The lack of electrical outlets, the mold that grows back in the shower (which has two settings: super-fucking-hot and rendering-flesh-from-your-skin-hot), the wood counter tops which are softening with age, the formica counter tops that were installed last year that pool water in random places, the cabinets that are hanging on by a solitary hinge, threatening to tumble at any moment and take us with them....
But then I come back to the rent. The rent is cheap. And the place is big.
We can save for a house! I keep telling myself. But even though the market is prime for buying, we're still not in a position to do so.
I have always had an internal cut-off point. That cut-off point is 40.
I can't live there when I'm 40, I told Will the other night. We'll either have to be ready to buy or just bite the bullet and rent a nicer place that's fit for humans to live in.
I've been thinking the same thing, he told me. That means we have a little over a year.
A little over a year?
Because you're turning 39 this year.
I raised an eyebrow.
Wait! he realized. You're turning 38! We have an extra year!
No matter how much older you try to make me, you know you're probably dying first, I reminded him.
I should be so lucky.