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My Idolization of McCarthy

Let me just tell you what’s amazing.

What’s amazing is feeling comfortable in your own skin. That, my friends, is indescribably amazing. (But watch me try and describe it!)

Melissa McCarthy. I have written about her before. I adore her. She’s hysterical, and funny, and touching, and gorgeous, and genuine. And and and.

So I haven’t seen her new movie yet – I am SO thrilled it’s getting good reviews – because I am currently doing a show with five very talented women.

Now to be totally honest, I did what we all organically and naturally do and I realized that I am the largest girl in the cast. This bothered me for all of five minutes, and after that I was laughing so hard that I pulled stomach muscles and I thought, “You know? Fuck it. This is what I am, but it is #4567 on a list of things.”

So I stopped even thinking about it because you know who people walked away from Bridesmaids loving? Melissa McCarthy. You know what made The Heat really funny? Melissa McCarthy.

I just idolize her. So I stopped searching for a dress that makes me look smaller (doesn’t exist anyway), and I started eating foods I liked (which are broiled or steamed anyway), and I let myself eat candy at night if I want it. I exercise when I can, but I don’t stress if I can’t. I have stopped comparing myself to other women in the room. My husband often tells me I’m gorgeous, so maybe I should listen. He’s the one who has to look at me. My kids think I’m awesome. That is more than enough.

Sometimes, life hands you Lemons. You know how that saying goes. DRINK UP.

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Sleepy

It’s actually been four or five nights since I slept well; I really can’t tell you how long because the nights are running together. At first, as always, I blamed the baby. But that’s not fair because he actually sleeps pretty well, as far as babies are concerned.

On that note, it is such a fickle thing, our sleep. Two years ago, the idea of ONLY getting six hours of sleep was INFURIATING. Those whining assholes don’t know how good they have it, I’d yell. And now, a couple nights in a row of six hours’ sleep has me struggling to function as a human being.

So anyway. Last night I was really restless. The dogs were incessantly barking at who knows what around midnight, so that was nice. Then, I woke up in the hall. STANDING IN THE HALL. I have no idea how I got there, or why I was there, so I naturally calmed myself down by assuming I was on my way to check on a crying baby. Look at how efficient a parent I am, I thought. I didn’t even have to wake up to walk down the hall! 

Boy, wasn’t I embarrassed when that baby wasn’t even crying? 

WHAT WAS I DOING IN THE HALLWAY? 

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Taylor-Heads (.. It needs work.)

SiriusXM is running a James Taylor channel now through I-hope-forever-please and, y’all. I never understood Parrotheads or Deadheads or any sort of heads that could listen to one artist nonstop to find peace, but I GET IT NOW. James Taylor can sing a song like “Junkie’s Lament” about a man being so coked out he doesn’t recognize his mom when she calls to him and it sounds like a damn lullabye.

So I listen to this channel all of the times that I’m in the car, harmonizing and just generally being really, really happy. I always loved the honeymoon period of his relationship with equally awesome and talented songwriter Carol King. I just imagine them, entangled in bedsheets, lanky limbs draped over eachother as afternoon light spills in through slatted blinds, just singing and humming and playing with chord structures and eachother’s hair.

(Of course, I am not crazy about the reality of their relationship, much like Bill Murray and Gilda Radner, but we are all young and stupid once.)(Hopefully, only once.)

My favorite little snippets are James Taylor himself describing how a song came to be – I mean, that’s the best part of a singer/songwriter showcase, right? – and one thing I’ve learned is that, as brilliant a musician as he was, he realized he wasn’t the best at everything. He’d often think, “Hm, this piece needs a (insert instrument here) solo,” and then he’d go find some really brilliant musician on that instrument, and hand them just the chord changes and say, “Do what feels good here.”

A brilliant musician – and dare I say, LEADER – trusts people to do what they’re best at and without any sort of micromanaging. Just give them the major chord changes, the parameters and the vision, and just let them go and complement the structure.

On a not-so-deep note, I love that his stuff sounds pretty damn near the same if he’s live or recorded, because that’s just the way his voice is. Props to authenticity.

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Treadmill TV

So I spend a couple of hours on a treadmill a week, and it involves a lot of bad TV.

Can we talk about what has NOT held up well over time? Sex & the City.

I watched an hour of that trite, awful bullshit, spending most of it absolutely cringing with embarrassment for Carrie. You guys! Did anyone notice what a horrible human being she is?

Of COURSE they did. They were all 35, like I am now, and scoffing at the twenty-something’s who run around brunching all the damn time.

(I miss brunch.)

And Big! What a hot mess of white trash that love story is! THAT was the romance of my generation? WHAT DID WE DO TO DESERVE THIS?

Full disclosure: Carrie’s hair is still something to be coveted.

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Pho Sho

My former-boss-current-friend Amanda took me to try pho some weeks back. I had heard of such a dish and was intrigued by its siren song of many toppings/additions, but my family is more of the “Are their chicken fingers on the menu?” type, so we never tried any.

One day, she and her husband (current-coworker) came to the office with what could be described as a small trash bag of stuff and two plastic tubs of broth. I WAS SOLD. Any meal that comes in a small trash bag has my full consent.

Since the fateful day that I learned the method – bean sprouts in first, to soften – I have been a pho junkie. I can make it super spicy! I can add TONS of shit in there! IT’S A GIANT BOWL OF TRASH BAG GOODNESS.

I have no deep thoughts tonight. Just longing for more pho.

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