Um, I invented Post-its
July 11, 2012 § Leave a comment
I don’t think there would have been much of a movie if Romy and Michele had checked Facebook before they decided to go through the trouble for their HS reunion. Maybe if they had FB they would have known those chicks were just preggo.
Recently, I’ve been beckoned with this summon. I know, GASP! That means I’ve aged in a way that was unfathomable for most of my life. I’m beginning to notice there isn’t an age past 25 that doesn’t scare the shit out of you.
Personally, I’m declining the invitation. It seems like a hangover I don’t want. There are a lot of reasons beyond not winning an Emmy for the creation America’s #1 sitcom and excepting the HHS Class of 2002’s Most Noteworthy Achievement Award like I had fantasized about and believed to be a real possibility up until just a few months ago. Allow me to make a list for you.
And if you’re one of those super-sensitive “awwwwe you’re not goinggggg?!” people, then just stop reading. You aren’t going to like it.
Reasons For Refusal To Attend My 10 Year HS Reunion:
1. Facebook. I already know who got fat, who got knocked up, who has an AMAZING job, who married for money or looks or a bun in the oven, who got a nose job, who’s desperately lonely, who did to much peyote, who dropped out of college, who’s can’t stop going to college, who is obsessed with their dog or has too many cats/kids, who’s been to too many Phish concerts, who’s gotten divorced, who spent too much on their wedding, who got slutty in college, who got slutty last weekend, who’s baby mamma won’t leave them alone, and I’ve seen every picture of your kids ever taken ever. Facebook is my gossip magazine, you can’t get touchy about it if you don’t think before you post.
2. Facebook. I’m on the FB too, so I can’t lie and say I invented post-its. Actually my lie was to be a champion pool hustler posing as a dental hygienist with a checkered past. Seductive. But anyone with the internet knows the real me. I’m an unmarried, reality TV producer specializing in dating shows, living paycheck to paycheck, just wishing she could travel. I’m a serial monogamist without even a hamster to care for, who yo-yo diets depending on her stress levels and hasn’t had air conditioning in her car for at least 3 years. But I live by the beach so… suck it.
3. What would we talk about? From the context clues I can gather that your wedding was awesome although you’re dress was super ugly and your bridesmaids got shitfaced. I already know all about your job that you never want to go to and your boss who’s a tool. I know all about your love for meatball subs and what you were for Halloween the past 4 years. And then there’s your kids. A stranger having access to photos of someone else’s kids is still used as a dramatic plot point in some action films. [deep creepy voice] I have your son… I’m kidding, I don’t have your son, I know you had a girl. She’s adorable, but I can already tell she’s going to a spoiled brat. See, we’re all caught up. I don’t need to be reunion-ed with you.
4. Frankly, I don’t think you care about me! I haven’t even gotten so much as a poke since we became friends on the FB which tells me one thing… you were only snooping. I know you can’t tell by my crass remarks, but I’m really good at keeping in touch with people. At least the people who want to be in touch with me. I send monthly emails, bi-monthly phone calls, and semi-annual visits with friends and colleagues, some of which attended our very same grammar school. Then there are the people that I’d like to run into from time to time so I head down to Cleary’s Pub around x-mas, or I see you at Triangle Lake on the 4th of July. And if any of you actually wanted to grab a drink while you are in Los Angeles, provided you have no known felonies, I’ll entertain you. All you got to do is reach out, technology these days has gotten sorta useful for that. So don’t be so sore I can’t come to your little nostalgic get-together when you can’t even call me when you visit the Pacific Ocean.
Which brings me to my next point…
5. I’m not really into being non-traditional. Sure we got to get with the times and quit the Dewey Decimal System and finally recycle our cassette tapes. But somethings will never die, like decorating coniferous trees in December, or coasters being the best protector for your coffee table, or how about Thanksgiving weekend being the best time for a class reunion! I didn’t go home for Christmas last year, you think I’m going to make the 3000 mile trip on some random weekend in September to see a bunch of people I can visit on the internet for $29.99/month from my couch? No, I’ll just wait until y’all post albums and then I’ll photoshop myself into them. No one will know, everyone will be drunk and I wasn’t that popular. Plus, my real friends will lie for me later.
6. I’m horrible with names. Even if you’re wearing a name tag. I’ve lived in 4 metropolitan cities (5 if you think the Valley is practically a different country), attended 2 colleges, and have held countless freelance jobs some of which last for only 3 days. I’ve tapped out at max name capacity a few years back, I had to let the rusty ones go. If you don’t use it you lose it, and I’m not going to place some schmooly my locker was next to. I’m sure not everyone remembers me either, but after a few drinks it gets personal. All of a sudden I’m dodging left hooks from someone who was allegedly my 9th grade lab partner and now raging because I can’t place him even though he’s grown a full beard and packed on 50lbs or has recently been stung by bees. I can’t take the pressure of someone questioning, “You don’t remember me?” Well, no. It’s been ten years.
7. I have nothing to gloat about. Since I have yet to create the #1 sitcom in America or write a best seller or pop a whole baby out of an orifice the size of a thimble, what’s the point? The only reason to go to a reunion is to gloat, right? I did hit the jackpot on this one thing, but I couldn’t possibly ask him to spend money on my petty vanity. My boyfriend is positively kind, hilariously funny and devilishly handsome. I’d have to actually bring him in person, if I just showed people a picture they’d think I made him up and airbrushed his face to be perfect. Even people who have met him in the flesh have thought he was fake. Like wax or animatronic or a vampire or something, which is weird because you can totally tell he’s breathing. Anyway, he’s that perfect and I’m still confused as to why he’s with me. Well, he hasn’t left me yet. Although, he might… if I ask him to go to my 10 year HS reunion with me. So no… nothing to gloat about.
8. I’m a bubble burster. I work in reality tv, everyone has a question for me and mostly I don’t have the answer. I’ve worked on a bunch of shows, none of which are probably your favorite. Just don’t ask. Then people start asking me about celebrities, like their my neighbors. I can’t just go over to Jessica Alba’s house and ask for a cup of sugar. I don’t have tea with Fergie or go jogging with Reese. I can’t even tell you the last time I saw a celebrity. In street clothes they look just like you and I but shorter and skinner than the average human and obviously with a lot more money. Everyone thinks that reality tv is fake. To you people, stop living in denial. Sure the deck is stacked with the crazies, but imagine how many bat-shit narcissists didn’t make it past the first casting call! This is your America… it’s really real and super serious. There are enough crazy people out there for 20 more seasons of The Bachelor. So lock up your sons and daughters, may they never be reality tv bait. Most people hear this and challenge me. Uh no, these people actually say and do this shit, and you are just as crazy when you are drunk too. There are a lot of drunk people on tv, but we cut them off before they slur their heads into toilets. Now that I’ve burst several bubbles, fantasies and truths you tell yourself I’ll be having a another drink.
…And that’s why I will NOT be attending my 10 year High School Reunion.
Michele: “Shut up and what are you picking on us for anyway? We are not the ones who got fat.”
Christie: “We’re pregnant, you half-wit.”
Michele: “Oh yeah, well, I hope your babies look like….monkeys.”