“When I think about my relationship with America, I feel like a battered wife: Yeah, he knocks me around a lot, but boy, he sure can dance.” — Sarah Vowell, “Take the Cannoli: Stories from the New World”
My most favorite photographs of myself are not the ones where I look comely or even come hither.
No, my most favorite photographs of myself are the ones where I look COMPLETELY OUT OF MY MOTHERFUCKING MIND.
“So true to life, Hubbell. So true to life.”
Knitter, PLEASE.
I wake up every morning with chunks o’ FUCKING DULLARD REPUBLICANS in my stool.
COME AT ME, BRO.
MY LOVE.
MY OBSESSION.
MY DELIGHT.
MY PROZAC.
I am sick in bed and in between unconsciousness-raising doses of NyQuil, I am just lying here dosing before dozing and feeling sleepily wistful about traveling the world…and wishing so much that I was somewhere else seeing glorious places and extraordinary things. Hoping perchance to remember and dream of sweet French apples on my tongue and my handsome husband serenading me with Elvis Costello as we strolled arm in arm down the Champs Elysees one fine night in Paris.
My bag is packed. Then again…my bag is ALWAYS packed. Quite literally. You never know when you may have to jam.
In the meantime:
Inane Muff Fact #827:
I am an EBULLIENT ADVENTURER, PATHOLOGICAL PACKER and RABID ACOLYTE of The Rick Steves Method…and can effortlessly pack for three days OR three months in my BELOVED garnet carry-on suitcase…because Mama don’t check bags. EVER:
Three black dresses, black cashmere cardigan, five pairs of Granny Panties, two pairs of black tights, black bathing suit, black Havaianas, Target schmata to sleep in, jewelry satchel with two pairs of black drop-ball earrings and five choice brooches, two vintage lady scarves, moisturizer, sunscreen, crystal deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, travel package of baby wipes, black Ace comb, medical-grade tweezers (I’M SICILIAN, BITCHES), small black umbrella, writing notebook, MACBook and charger, and a single tube of glorious MAC Russian Red lipstick because I am a fancy motherfucker.
You live your life right.
You get up every morning and be the absolute best person you can be.
You support art.
You give to charity.
You show gratitude for every kindness that is done for you.
You send love and light out into the world with your every thought and action.
You reach for your dreams and work hard with all that you are to make them come true.
And then one day you wake up…and find that you’re NOTHING BUT A ROTTEN, GODDAMNED, FRITO-SMELLING, NYQIL-GUZZLING, MOTHERLOVING, CHIHUAHUA MATTRESS.
#youhavenofuckingidea #therearemanyframiliesintheworldbutthisoneismine#jackiebeat #mariodiaz #seleneluna #nadyaginsburg #traviswalck#leslielemons #calperniaaddams #alecmapa #muffybolding#nevertakesidesagainsttheframily
So, I’m at Disney’s HUGE industry extravaganza/convention/shin-dig, D23 Expo, a coupla years ago with my old friend, Billy, and as we are making our way through all of the VINTAGE DISNEY FABULOSITY, I suddenly come across this random wall of bins with the letters of the alphabet labeled across the front of each one…and inside of these bins — Joy! Rapture! Bliss! — are old, vintage pins from park employees past. For fucking sale. To RABID, VINTAGE DISNEY FAN-HAGS LIKE ME. So, I planted my fatass and DUG DEEP. Tons of Kents, Russes, Jennifers, and Dougs from Disneyland California…and I shit you not, a HUGE GLUT OF Randys and Ambers from Disney World Florida. I swear to Christ there were 50 nametags from Disney World Florida that said, “Randy” on them. WTF?
At any rate, in a fever, I went through hundreds and hundreds of nametags — and in the end, scored a “Margaret” (for reasons which are WELL KNOWN to my genius writing partner, Doug), a “Wonetta” (just because it was SO gottdamned awesome), and this one…just because it was SO GOTTDAMNED ME.
I shall wear this pin with great affection and pride…in honor of the old Chinese broad who is out there in the great somewhere, sashaying the streets and back-alleys of old Hong Kong…sporting THE GREATEST NAME EVER.
THINK I WON’T?
Where the MAGIC LIVES:
PUI SZE.
I am a slut.
In fact, I come from a long line of sluts — USO dance hostesses, carnival gypsies, gangster’s molls, and straight-up trollops — broads who would cut your throat just as soon as look at your fucking face. With each beat, my heart pumps their scoundrelous, scandalous blood through my veins every moment of every day of my life, fueling my every thought, desire, and action, and in so many ways defining who and what I am. I move through this world like a man — and I don’t waste time apologizing for it. I take what I want…because it’s all mine. Women like us live life on our own terms, and we can’t be bothered with the petty minutiae of those who would dare attempt to subdue us. We are the Boudicas and the Betty Rizzos of the world, forged in the fierce, felonious fires of discord and want. Tell us we can’t do something, have something, be something…and you got a war on your hands, brother. You cross broads like me and my ancestors and my sisters and my friends at your own peril.
DON’T FUCK WITH US, BITCHES.
WE ARE. WE VOTE. WE RULE.
muffy bolding 