We started our evening getting drunk at Bella Napoli. Their pizza is amazing and I ate a whole one. By myself. Then we had Tiramisu (the best I’ve EVER had…and I’ve had it all over the world). While delicious, our getting drunk was completely thwarted by eating. I need to remember not to eat when I drink.

We headed off to the Sommet Center or the Bridgestone Arena or the Gaylord Entertainment Dome or whatever corporate Nazi has named it this week to get our Gaga on. I have to admit that I’ve been poopoo’ing this experience from day one. Mark bought the tickets for the show without asking me. Since it was his birthday, I couldn’t argue, but I thought it was strange. You see, Mark goes to concerts for a living. He HATES going to concerts unless he’s being paid. He doesn’t even like to go to concerts when he can get free tickets. In the 15 years we’ve been together, I don’t think we have EVER paid to go to a popular musical concert like normal people. Ever.

So why Gaga? I think I know why. In October of 2009, Mark (and his musical partner Howard) were asked to perform in a charity concert being produced by Bono and Hal Willner (SNL). During that trip, Hal invited us to come watch a mid-day SNL rehearsal. The musical guest that week was Lady Gaga. Admittedly, Howard, Mark and I mocked her as we sat alone in chairs and cast/crew scurried around us rehearsing sketches. We hadn’t even seen her yet, but…come on!…we all know she’s horrible.

Yeah, she’s not. We apologize.

When it came time for her to rehearse her two SNL numbers, she came out in one of her crazy costumes (a movable gyroscope that required 20 minutes of just practicing how to SIT DOWN at the piano because she couldn’t reach the keys without one of the sphere’s bars hitting her in the head) and we practically went blind rolling our eyes at each other. But when she finally got the “technical” issues out of the way, she started noodling on the piano. Just Gaga. No one bothering her. She seemed comfortable and intimate sitting there, singularly playing unbelievably beautiful melodies. If I were an 1800s poet, I’d say something cheesy on how her fingers battement glisse’d all over the ivory. But I’m not. I am an 80s television kid, so I’ll say her fingers were like that episode of The Littles where Dinky tries to rescue Lucy from that leaf that’s being washed down the sewer water.

ANYway, we only continued to be impressed with m’Lady that day at 30 Rock. She began to sing as she played the piano. Gorgeous voice. Soulful. Throughout her rehearsal time, she was extremely professional and not diva like at all. She even came over to where we were sitting and chatted with us for a few minutes while they prepped for the next sketch (that she was in with Madonna – we were right there for that, too…but that’s a different story). Gaga was down-to-earth and normal. Sure, she was in her underwear as we talked (where I happily made mental note of her thigh cellulite), but you could tell she was not what she perpetrated to be in the public eye. The three of us admitted later that we were wrong. She actually is quite talented.

Now cut back to last night. Why, given my new found respect for her, did I dread going to her concert? Because I had seen her perform already and anything else would now be over the top and annoying. Especially with all her “little monsters” around. And I was right. Little monsters were everywhere. Looking just like monsters, actually. But these monsters were not Gaga fans. These were poor, teenage African-American girls who were clearly “encouraged” to stand in front of the entrance to the concert wearing the following:

I say “encouraged” because as we passed by, they listlessly muttered “God hates gays…Sinners Repent. God hates gays…Sinners repent.” as if they worked at Walmart and had to tell each passing customer about the clearance sale on bananas. I even asked to take this picture of them and they perked up (Someone was actually TALKING to them!), said “Sure!” and posed like I was yearbook editor for Homophobe High. They were sweet, and I almost felt badly making fun of them. But I did anyway. God probably hates comedians, too.

We entered the insanity that was the arena lobby. Gagas everywhere. Male Gagas. Females Gagas. Not-Sure Gagas. They even had a Little Monster Pix booth, so you could one day show your kids how ridiculous you were when you were 42.

Before we could grab our seats, I had to get earplugs. I’ve never worn earplugs to a concert before and only did this time because I’ve been having some eustachian problems lately…but now that I’ve worn them, I may never not wear them again! They’re great!! I might even wear them at home, at church…there are so many uses!

We arrived at our seats just in time to be tortured by the opening act. Semi Precious Weapons….which the leader singer elongated every time he said their name…which was a lot. The Andy Taylor-esque lead singer called us bitches about 10 times within a minute. As a performer, I usually like to have people like me, so I’m not sure I would choose his audience-warming technique. But he seemed comfortable with it. AS comfortable as he seemed in his very high heeled boots. He did the splits and a cartwheel in them…that is, after he ripped off his regular pants to reveal only nylons. It was impressive…and painful looking. If, by chance, I were to run into him personally at some point in the evening, I would’ve have already felt like I had intimate relations with him. We’d all seen everything he had to give.

Wait! Not everything! He had t-shirts to throw to the crowd!! Oh man, did I want to get one of those….hold up…did he just wipe his crotch with that shirt? I don’t want it anymore. But thank you.

This act went on at 8:30 (concert was supposed to start at 8PM) and lasted about 40 minutes. They were set up in front of Gag’s stage, so the turnaround should’ve been quick. Nope. We sat there…and sat there…and sat there. Mark and I began a discussion on how Lady Gaga would enter for the first number. I voted in a giant peanut shell as Mr. Planter. Mark voted as a cowboy on a real live horse. “You know, for Nashville!” he said.

That conversation grew old quickly, especially since I kept screaming “WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU WITH MY EARPLUGS IN!”

As we patiently waited, the nice young flamboyant gentleman next to me touched my arm and leaned in, saying “Do you have any gum? My mouth is so dry.” I did! I always have gum! … And I’m guessing me, sitting quietly with my earplugs in, my big mom purse (which I prefer to call a “tote”) clutched on my lap gave this fact away. If I had been grading papers as I waited, it would have completely clinched the becoming-your-parents transformation.

During this time of silent observation, I noticed a suspicious absence of beach balls in the crowd below. Is that concert phenomenon passe? Please don’t tell me! I so enjoy standing (at 5’3″) in a crowd, barely breathing beneath the taller nostrils stealing all oxygen before it reaches me, only to be suddenly smacked on top of the head by colorful fun! Please say I will experience this again at my future Jessie J concert!!

Finally, at 10PM, Gaga starts her part. Oh shit. We have to stand. I mean, I knew it was coming…but so soon? I should’ve used that precious hour and a half between Semi Duran Weapons and now to bribe my section with glitter! I could have gotten them to sit the entire time! WHAT WAS A I THINKING!?!

Too late. I’m standing. Tote clutched. The curtain is rising. Oooh, this is gonna be BIG! I can feel it! I’ve been cringing at the thought of this moment for weeks, but now that it’s here I’m excited. I almost WANT to be standing!

WTF?? No pod. No peanut shell. No horse. Just a shitty ridiculous looking green prop car with smoke machines under the hood. And Gaga’s not even in it. She’s up on a riser, singing, making poses.

And her outfit? Nothing to write about. (Although I guess I will…since you’re still reading. You’re kind of diehard for doing so, by the way. You’re my Little Diehard.) She wore a bikini with fishnets and a Michael Jackson military jacket with pointier shoulders. Black. Boring.

I have no idea what this first song is. Then I don’t know the second song either. I sit back down. It’s not like I don’t know any of her songs. I know the hits. Who doesn’t! She has not sung one of those yet. All of the sudden the music stops dead. The crowd goes wild. What am I missing?? I stand back up. Oh, she just dramatically turning to face the audience. That takes approximately 18 seconds. The crowd loves it. I can’t decide if I’m the douchebag or they are.

Wait! I know this one!! JUST DANCE…IT’LL BE OKAY…RECORD BABY…DANCE…DOO DOO DOO DOOOO. I’m dancing…with my purs, er, tote. I think my husband has fallen asleep. I look over and he gives me a tired look and mouths “I’m ready when you are.” What! I finally know a song and he wants to leave? No way. I’m dancing so hard, I don’t even notice that the stupid green car is gone and now Gaga is wearing a funny purple hat. It’s not a great hat. But it’s funny looking, so it serves its purpose. She sings another song I don’t know, so I sit down.

Then it starts. The “thing” that will eventually ruin the evening. She starts talking…and talking. This is “the place” where all her “little monsters can be super free.” A “place where all the freaks are outside,” but SHE “has opened the door.” “FOLLOW THE GLITTER!” She’s making me hate glitter. And I love glitter!

All of the sudden, she’s gone again and suddenly there’s a subway car on stage. I get it! A transportation theme! Chiseled men in white jockstraps pour out of the subway car like an ejaculation scene in a Woody Allen movie. Gaga exits lasts wearing a…nun outifit? I’ve seen this one before. Lame. OOH! But she sings another song I know. The disco stick one! She has a claw or something on her hand, yet she never utilizes it. Curious. It doesn’t even come up when she randomly screams “Get your dicks out! I heard they make some pretty cocks in Nashville. Now DANCE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!”

There’s something going on here that is just now starting to become noticeable. Before (and/or) After every song, she tells the audience that she loves them, for about 5 minutes. At this moment, she says that she used to not be brave “before her little monsters.” Before they did what?, I wonder inside my muffled head. She continues, “Forget your insecurities! I used to wear a mask because I was afraid and wanted to hide. I still wear a mask, but now it’s with pride!” She’s so full of shit. And it’s so obvious. I look back at Mark, who is no longer looking tired but annoyed that he’s still sitting there. I press on. I must know more!

The next song is “dedicated to all the Tennessee gays.” The handsome lesbian couple in front of me embrace. I suddenly feel excluded. I’ve never wanted to wear a mask and be gay more than I want to right then. But I am suddenly snapped back into my reality when the Jockstrap Joe’s take over the stage. That’s not dancing, I proclaim loudly to no one. Gaga leaves and comes back to sing another unknown song and breaks one of her nails on the keytar she played dramatically for a second. She notes the breakage to the crowd, and a dancer comes to take it. She stops him. “One of my FANS might want this!” And they do. They want her broken fingernail. Fabulous.

Someone is smoking a cigarette in my section. I do not like this, but I stop caring when Gaga announces something about a “Telephone.” The third song I know! Woohoo!! But before we can get to that, she pulls out a cell phone and says she’s going to call someone in the audience. Someone who has been selected, mind you, and placed in a perfectly lit spot. He is dressed like a flaming Capt. America. He cries a lot. She speaks fake British a lot. It reminds me of Swept Away. Gayptain America cries even more when Gaga announces she’s going to donate $20K to an LGBT organization…though I’m not sure why. HE’S not getting the money.

“Telephone sans Beyonce” is played. I like it. She calls us all bitches again. I’m starting to not like that. The acoustic portion of the program has begun. Mark and I hit a wall, which is punctuated by more pandering to the crowd. The fans are her “blood flow” and if you “cut them off,” her “heart will stop beating.” She loves them so much, she says. In fact, so much that she has written a new song (that will conveniently be on her new album available in the fall) dedicated to Nashville. That’s right. NASHVILLE! NO OTHER CITY!! ONLY US! She plays the song and starts pandering some more. Something about how a fan made a vest that was delivered to her dressing room before the show and she cried when she put it on (which must’ve been why she was so late…they were waiting for the bomb squad to dismantle the thing.)

We couldn’t take any more and left. How’s that for a full recap?! We left! We saw nothing more. The pandering was killing us. Appreciating your fans a couple of times is cool. After every song is phony. I wonder if God hates phonies. We went outside to ask the African-American girls still standing there. All they said was “God hates gays…sinners repent.” Then their wires short circuited. It was definitely time to go home.

Ultimately, I was disappointed with the concert. I was planning on thinking it was over-the-top and crazy, but really it was boring and wordy (just like this review!). It’s a concert…SING! Entertain me! We expected a Michael Jackson style “spectacle,” instead we got a Lee Press-On sleeper. Also, while she continued to inspire her little monsters, she called them bitches and motherfuckers at every opportunity. The entire show was filled with a bitterness and anger that could not be hidden by a plastic nun hat and cliche love poems. It was sad. She made me sad. She made me not want to take a ride on anyone’s disco stick. And, let’s be honest, that’s what I came for.  Perhaps my husband did, too.  Oh well.

I’ve never really liked Disney anything. I didn’t even like cartoons, truth be told. I had a Gem and the Holograms thing for a few months and went through a short Smurfs phase, but I pretty much jumped right into sitcoms and pirated-interference-ridden Spice Channel porns by the age of 7. I like to think it’s because I was on a higher plane than other children. Or a hormonal imbalance.

But long before that, Disney made one of the worst creative decisions since Song Of The South. Pete’s Dragon. Although, I’m now realizing I liked Song Of The South, too. Fascinating. I need to process this…grab a knapsack & hobo into the freight of my thought train, if you’d like.

Both have live action mixed with animation. As I’ve already noted, I wasn’t a fan of cartoons, but being the compromising, flexible person I naturally am, I was apparently comfortable proceeding with each film’s 50% non-practical life applications.

Both had songs. If I was Christina Aguilera, you would already know from my A&E Biography how into singing and music I was coming out of the womb.  ESPECIALLY bland heart-stroking songs about hope for tomorrow and black people.

Both had rascally influential friends. Most people identify with the protagonist in movies; not me. In my mind, I have and will always only ever be the “funny friend.”

Most importantly, both movies were something my father and I shared. My dad used to read to me from this very big yellow Uncle Remus book, with its smelly old pages and slightly torn jacket.

I’ve kept it all these years because it meant so much to me. My dad would do all the voices. He was terrible at them – butchering the English language even further than Joel Chandler Harris wrote it – but he did it with gusto. Because he knew I loved it. I didn’t know what the stories were about. Guess that’s why I liked him to read Little Black Sambo, too. Wait. WHY DID WE OWN THESE BOOKS?!

I prefer not to address the white elephant in the room. I mean…!  Moving on.

Pete’s Dragon came out in 1979. I was five. I would attempt to blame naivete for my immediate fixation on Helen Reddy in lace-up boots and barrel dancing petticoats, but I still like that shit. My dad, meanwhile, got the biggest kick out of the Doc Terminus character (played by Jim Dale). Because of this, he didn’t mind watching this movie 5 times a day, as I insisted. It probably grew to an unhealthy situation at some point, but I was sitting in front of a television not bothering my parents, so what the hell did they care.

I still know every line of Pete’s Dragon. Every lyric. Every lip slap & snort. Every hitch-step. It’s never really paid off with any significance, except that my Elliot impression once scared off a creepy guy I dated AND I’ve never let a household chore get me down.

And now, decades later, I have become one of “those” people. I collect Pete’s Dragon pins. It’s the only thing I collect. (So all your Star Wars fucknuts need to pipe down.) And because some are slightly hard to come by, I find fun in the challenge of hunting down the rare pins.

I keep them in a really shitty shadow box I got at a craft store. But I like them. They remind me of my past. My childhood. When I was the center of the universe. …I have revealed too much.

Thank you, Charlie Callas. Thank you turning “[Dragon Scatting]” – as the script officially called for – into unforgettably stupid noises that still bring great joy into at least 263 human’s lives. You will be missed…by your family most likely. I mean, I’m good. I own the movie on DVD. No, but seriously, rest in peace.

Due consideration is not one of my strong suits, so here I go…

First of all, I don’t have children. Technically, this may invalidate everything that is to follow. However, I do have dogs that my husband and I treat as children, so much so that we only go out of town if we can find someone to live at our house and adhere to the dogs’ schedule as we would. Since live-in dogsitters are harder to find than one might think, we usually end up taking anyone that will do it…regardless of physical attributes.

Secondly, I don’t even know anyone that has a nanny. I am of the age where all my friends have newly gestated humans, but not one of them has a full-time nanny. They painstakingly take them to daycares or begrudgingly have their mother-in-law corrupt them on a daily basis. Ms. Bradley makes the argument that hot nannies are only really a problem if you’re a celebrity, but who else necessitates a honny in the first place?

Thirdly, are honnies that easy to come by? Are there model-esque debutantes standing on every street corner, just waiting for their big break into hardcore babysittingland? The real life nannies that I have seen tend to be…how shall I say this…more maternal looking. And usually of a different nationality than the couple doing the hiring. Where are these hot nannies?! And how can I look like one?!

Since I am dedicated to the truth, I called up my friend who owns a high-profile nanny agency in a town primarily focused on musical entertainment. For the purposes of this hardly-important-to-the-betterment-of-the-world article, I have decided to protect her identity, but I asked her how many “hot” nannies she has in her cache and how many, if any, have been linked to breaking up a family. She answered: “The reality is that we do have a lot of truly pretty/beautiful and I guess ‘HOT’ nannies in our group, but it has never been a real issue.  It’s been brought up jokingly when I meet with families and ask about what they think of as being the nanny that might work best for them.  But really, I haven’t heard of any of those ‘nanny broke up the family’ stories.”

What does she know.

Fourthly, men are men. No matter how lovably dorky you think your husband is at this point in your marriage, they still have eyes and they notice pretty, young ladies. Why wouldn’t they? We do. They are a ghost image of our former-selves. Before real life occurred.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting these coquettes are more interesting, more seductive or more attractive than the wives hiring them, but I am saying that we all recognize there is a reason why people of beauty are described as “fair.” Because their life is…and the rest of us are on our own. While that doesn’t mean that a husband is going to run off with the first Teen Vogue reader he sees buying a Victoria’s Secret bra, don’t think they haven’t had an intimate fantasy or two. We are all sexual creatures; men lean towards the sex part.

And, while Ms. Bradley is correct: it is most likely that any honny you hire will NEVER be interested in the man you call Snugglebuns, there are a lot of smart, ambitious, lovely young ladies out there that prefer the attentions of a wiser, more charming version of their high school sweetheart.

It is now in this text that I admit I am married to someone 27 years my senior. Relax. I didn’t “steal” him from anyone. And, in my defense – for the sake of society’s norms, I never had an interest in older men before I met my husband. We have been married for over ten years now, but I was 22 when we became a couple. In hindsight, it was his life experiences, his lack of having anything else to “prove” and his genuine joy in ME that made him that much more attractive. (Luckily, I still find that to be true.) But I was twenty-two…with far fewer gray hairs, less “cake frosting” on my behind and certainly less naggy than I am today. If I were married to someone closer to my age (with all the same daily-mid-life-crises that I have), I would wonder when – not if – my husband would start to wander. And if I planted a compelling alternative in front of him on a recurring basis…well, I’m just asking for it.

Fifthly, finally and most judgmentally (yes, that’s possible), honnies are suspect child-watchers in the first place. If they’re that siren-like, they spend way too much time thinking about themselves and not your children. What makes you think your kids won’t set the living room on fire while the temptress is texting and applying extra mascara?

I think you see my point: I have trust issues. But ALSO hiring a hot nanny is like setting out a super size bag of M&M’s on your desk everyday for a year. Sure, you’re smart, disciplined and full from that “yummy” salad you had at lunch…but why take the risk?

BUT two wonderful human beings (or at least lucky sons-a-bitches) WILL get a present for Chrismahanukwanzakah! Here’s all you have to do:

#1: Follow me on Twitter (so I can DM you with prize info after you win – see, I’m already thinking positively for you!!)
#2: Tweet the following message on December 16th OR 17th ONLY, which will serve as your entry form. (One per person, please)
“My holiday wish is for @emilyvolman to give me a subscription to @NeverNotFunny along w/ @ComedyDeathRay’s charity Xmas CD! And world peace.”

That’s it! Easy, right? Two winners will be announced on December 18th and will receive a season-of-their-choice (audio & video) subscription to the Never Not Funny pardcast, as well as a copy of Comedy Death Ray’s xmas cd 2010 benefiting the Los Angeles Regional Food Bank. (A big thank you to my longtime friend -and infamous producer/comedy record co. mogul- Matt Belknap for helping put this together.)

I wish you much luck and Happy Whatever-the-hell-you-celebrate!

In some regions it’s called the White Elephant Gift Exchange, Parcel Pass or Yankee Swap (appropriately named by Southerners because the rest of the country is not to be trusted). No matter what the name, it’s the crux of all good holiday parties. Eats, drinks and merriment cannot exist without fights, steals and piece of shit pawn-offs from the back of your closet.

I know you’re wondering where this ritual came from. You’re in luck! I’m naturally didactic!! White elephants are sacred in Southeast Asia. Because of this, laws protect them from being used as work animals. Thus receiving one as a gift is simultaneously both a blessing and a curse: a blessing because the animal is sacred and a sign of the monarch’s favor, and a curse because the animal has to be retained and can’t be put to much practical use, at least to offset the cost of maintaining it.

As far as how it became a party game, nobody really knows. Many attribute it to rich socialite Ezra Cornell (co-founder of Western Union and Cornell Univ)…which is why I should NOT be looked upon with disgust when reflecting aloud “I wonder what the poor people are doing…” while shoving Peppermint Bark down my piehole this year.

I admit. It’s no longer 1842. The game has changed. What was once, I assume, an intimate-friends-only trading tournament of exotic birds and trunks full of spirit photographs is now a humdrum social obligation of school coupon books and free credit card enrollment t-shirts.

So in honor of this calendared giving month and to help you endure another holiday party procedure, I have put together a Dirty Santa Survival Guide. Print it, store it, live it, re-gift it! You may just go home with that Darth Vader voice-changing mask this year after all!

There are only two types of parties where this game will take place: The Friend Party and The I-Hardly-Know-These-People Party

The Friend Party is easy. You know the other guests well enough to know they’ll either all be fighting over those hilarious fake teeth ice trays or selling the crap out of the Morris Day & The Time CD to everyone else. It’s fun. It’s lively. It’s the way Ezra intended.

The I-Hardly-Know-These-People Party, on the other hand, takes a little more Machiavellian reservation. Your festivity foes here are people you work with/for, people your significant other works with/for, people you go to church with or people with whom you share some sort of self-righteous interest. All that is to say, these are the people you don’t want to know “the real you.”

Of course you don’t want Betty Boop salt and pepper shakers. Nobody does! But you can’t go all Classic Die Hard Christmas about it. You have to control yourself to get what you want, and the best way to do that is to know the move of every Hans Gruber in the room.

#1) The Fake-Out Wrapping:
You think this is a no-brainer, but hold up, yo. This shit’ll trip yo’ ass.

Yes, there’s at least one scrapbook supply seller at every party in America who can turn that disgustingly smelling votive into a Tiffany’s wrapped dream, so it is wise to beware of pretty packages. BUT, remember SALAD! : “Scan, Assess, Listen and Deceive” Single men can’t wrap for shit. Don’t try to argue that you’re going to a theatre company’s party and they’ll be lots of single gay men. Hear me! Single men don’t wrap! However, when going to I-Hardly-Know-These-People Parties, they like to impress, so be on the lookout for store wrap jobs. What do those look like? It’s all in the bow. Fake fruit or glitter bobbles attached = dead giveaway.

Let’s recap: Scan incoming guests for single men (if you’re a single woman, you’ve already done this). Assess their package (not that one…stay focused!). Listen for clues (if he b-lines to greet the boss, gold is in them their hills!). And Deceive everyone in the room by going right for his present when your number is called.

#2) The Present Placement Pickle:

Going for SALAD gifts could prove difficult depending on when he arrives. If the party is being dictated by a hostess, the SALAD schmuck was doted on the second he got there and his present was whisked away to safe keeping. Basically, I suggest staking out a spot near the gifts with your jacket, purse or stadium chair, getting your food as soon as it’s uncovered and let the party come to you! This way you see each gift as it’s brought in.

This is also good if you brought something you really want picked. Some of you losers may have gotten your Dirty Santa gift months ago and have been checking Facebook every day for a holiday party invite. If you’re early to the party (which, if you’re that into this fucking game, you probably will be), your present will be buried by cooler guests’ gifts. You may want to continuously move your gift to the top of the pile. No one will care if you do because no one ever pays any attention to you anyway.

#3) The Extra Gifter

You know who they are. They’re every party’s camp counselor. They’re the person who comes early to help in the kitchen. They’re the person who greets people even though it’s not their house. They’re the secretary…be it at the office or of the club. But when it comes right down to it, they know they’re better than you. They know you are an idiot and will not remember to bring a Dirty Santa gift for every person in your family and then they can sweep in as the hero when your 3 year old daughter is crying because she doesn’t have a present to open. Don’t be fooled. The Extra Gifter is not there for you and your kid. She/He is there for personal glory.

Problem is, The Extra Gifter brings the shittiest, cheapest gifts of all because they had to spread the wealth. They bring items like LED Pig-Shaped Keychains, Hello Kitty Magnet Notepads and Plastic Faux-M&M Filled Candy Canes. They NEVER taste like M&Ms!

#4) The Nonchalant Gamer

This person rolls their eyes throughout most of the game. (No, this is not you and I – we roll our eyes internally – never show your hatred! Just smile and drink more.) No, this person is outwardly against the trivialities of this game and the consumerism of the season in general. But wait until he/she gets that Over-The-Maximum-Spending-Limit-Amount Starbucks Gift Card. Suddenly they’re not so loud. In fact, they may even try to escape the room altogether by going to get more food. It won’t work. Everyone wants what he/she’s got. Your job is to be patient, Danielsan, and hold off taking it from him/her until the second dope has. In the words of Ezra Cornell, “Don’t be deterred, be the third.”

#5) The Punk Kid

If the I-Hardly-Know-These-People Party that you’re attending is open to families, this might be the end of you. There will be at least two families there with terrible little spawn and you CANNOT hurt them…no matter how badly you want to.

You will be in particular trouble if these human-like creatures are between 8 and 11 years old and are the boss’ kid. You will have no choice but to graciously accept the fact that you will not be able to choose the gift you want from the pile. This self-appointed gift-dispensing brat will give you what he/she thinks you should have. And if you’re not good-looking, you’re probably screwed. (Don’t scoff…kids like good-looking people better. That’s science.) You will want to knock them to the ground when they bring you the “gift bag” gift (we all know what gift bags mean: lazy gift givers), but take it in stride because when that kid gets the iTunes gift card, you’re going to walk right over, pat him/her on the head and take it out of their elf-like hand while loudly proclaiming, “You’ve just made my Sponsored Chilean Orphan’s* Christmas wish come true.” The kid will cry, but even your boss will not feel bad at that point. Who knows, you might even get a bigger year-end bonus! (*Note: Always have a picture of a clothed Chilean kid in your wallet, should you need to prove it.)

———

I’m sure I’ve overlooked something in this Dirty Santa Survival Guide, so, in the spirit of giving, please comment below if you have other tips, tricks or trivialities regarding this ritual. It can only help us all. Perhaps one day, Ezra’s vision will be reclaimed…or we’ll all get so savvy about this game that people won’t want to play it anymore.

And finally, I wish you luck. Luck in competition. Luck in gifts. Luck in life.
For, the better you do, the better chance I get to take it from you! Happy Holidays!!

Anyway, as I was throwing the hammer down and giving it hell, I started to think how cool Sally Field’s character Carrie (or “Frog” as Bo Darville called her because she “hopped around” and he wanted to” jump her”) was in that movie. If I was a guy, I continued to ponder, I think I’d like to have her around more than just on high-stakes roadtrips. The guy-me imagined roaming around the countryside, drinking beers with her. She was so carefree and fun on our trips…a real firecracker but not too opinionated…hot AND adorable…can drive a car…she needs me, yet doesn’t need me. We’d be perfect together.

I was almost hit by a car at this point on my run and jumping it wasn’t really an option by foot, so I stopped daydreaming about being a man and spending my life with Sally Field. But damnit. Quickly enough, guy-me sucked me-me back in by wondering what other cool chicks would be good to marry. After all, guys like to collect girls, right? Especially polygamists.

So, here are my “Top 5 Coolest Female Movies Characters I’d Marry If I Were A Guy”:

#5: Marge the Police Chief (Frances McDormand) from Fargo
She can crack a case, build up her man’s self-esteem, capture a killer and speak out for human decency, all while in an advanced state of pregnancy and at sub-zero temperatures. She may not be the hottest woman in the world, but if we’re living in North Dakota, choices are limited.

#4: Rachel (Kelly McGillis), from Witness
From strapping farm widow and obedient adherent of a marginal anti-modern, pacifist religion to luminous maiden straight out of de la Tour to passionate heretic and soul-changing lover. And she makes a mean glass of lemonade after a hard day’s barn raising.

#3: Kay Adams-Corleone (Diane Keaton) from The Godfather
If guy-me was in charge of an entire enterprise and community, I would want Kay to come home to. She quietly puts up with crazy family members, knows how to keep a secret and is always waiting for you when you’re ready for her. She also doesn’t ask questions. If she does…BAM! You can just lie to her and she’ll believe you.

#2: Dr Caroline “Cathy” Ryan (Anne Archer) from Patriot Games
This listing is admittedly influenced by a previous boyfriend who swore this was his ideal wife. Guy-me tends to agree, though, so she’s way up there. Beautiful, successful, supportive, a good mom, knows when to run when she’s told to and isn’t afraid to tell her husband to kill people for the sake of her family. What’s not to love?

#1: Mary Hatch Bailey (Donna Reed) from It’s a Wonderful Life
This is a no-brainer. It’s Donna fucking Reed, people! Quiet, unfussy, allows her husband to go completely mental looking for something better than what he already has. And why? Because she’s also smart and knows that men aren’t.

As I gathered my list, I noticed a pattern. All of the women guy-me was choosing were quiet-yet-intelligent, tough-but-innocent, not-too-needy-but-not-too-independent, beautiful, never too emotional and stands by their man no matter what they do…basically, me-me decided guy-me is an idiot. Or, at the very least, not living on this planet. Women aren’t like any of these women. Wait! I should say: Real women are exactly like these women PLUS a whole lot more.

I’m sure you can argue my list, but guy-me doesn’t give a shit what you think. And guy-me can kick your ass.

But me-me is more opened-minded and thoughtful. If you could be a man, are actually a man or were a man but now a woman, what are your top cool movie chicks worthy of marriage and why? ….Perhaps this wittle woman can learn a thing or two from all you smarter, stronger, manly-types out there.

Their disappointment – and my many friends who have catapulted past me in this entertainment race we all started together – has continued to drive me. I’ve chalked it up to having always been a late-bloomer: Boobs, not until ninth grade. First kiss, not until summer before tenth grade (probably ’cause I didn’t have boobs). Interest in reading, 1998. Exercise, three years ago. Understanding how to calculate tips, five months ago. In looking back at these minor accomplishments, I think they took such a long time because of fear. Um, wouldn’t YOU be terrified of your chest skin having to stretch into bags?!

I turned 36 years old one month ago (there you go, person who has googled “emily volman’s age” nine times). On that day, I ran my first half-marathon. The day before that race, I ran a short 5 miles in Griffith Park in Los Angeles. I didn’t really know where I was going in that park, and I was afraid. Was I allowed to run here? Is this path for horses? Will they trample me? Are rapists hanging out behind bushes? Will a car randomly jump the drainage ditch between the freeway and the golf course and kill me? That run was exhausting and I don’t mean on my legs.

To make matters worse, I saw a very old sign along part of my path. I could barely read it, it was that old. It said “NO RUNNERS BEYOND THIS POINT.” Oh, shit!! I knew it!! I looked around and there was no one in sight. I’m totally going to get yelled at! Or tased by a Park Ranger! Or…yelled at!

I then looked at the sign again. It really said “NO R N RS BEY D THI PO N T.” I looked around again. There was a lady running not more than 100 yards in front of me…long past the sign. My heart was pounding at the rhythm of my feet, my adrenaline was coursing through wherever adrenaline courses and my emotions were high. That is my excuse for this next part.

I stopped dead in my tracks. I was so pissed at myself. For the last 36 years on this planet I have followed the rules because I’ve been SCARED! And 9 times out of 10, I have been scared of getting yelled at! What a waste. I totally know how to yell back (ask my husband)! So at that moment, I charged through the bushes (penis-wielding violators be damned!) and kicked the post holding the sign. It really hurt. Toe throbbing, I loudly proclaimed to the two Asian golfers on the other side of the safety net, “For the rest of my life, I vow to FUCK THE SIGN!”

Since then, amazing things have been happening. I won’t go into details, but I will tell you that it does not involve golf balls. Instead my new outlook has shined a light on new and old faces and opportunities, which has inspired me to say “fuck you” to other success-sucks…..like age.

You’ve always heard that “age is just a number.” But unless you’re that facebook punkass, I know you’re thinking you haven’t done all you could have by now in your life. Yeah, me too. In the book The Rhythm of Life; Living Everyday With Passion and Purpose, author Matthew Kelly sites various people who didn’t really achieve their greatest accomplishment until later in life. Between that list and the interwebs, I compiled a quick list for you to reference when you’re feeling like a big fat failure:

• Julia Child – Being a government spy until she was 36 seems cool to me, but as she wrote to her sister-in-law, “To think it has taken me 40 years to find my true passion [in cooking],” I guess it wasn’t.
• Peter Mark Roget – Actually, Roget had done some cool scientific shit long before he was 70 years old, but it wasn’t until he was forced to retire at that age that he focused on what he really wanted to do: make a book listing similar words in classifications. He got his first thesaurus published when he was 73.
• Ray Kroc – Maybe you don’t know his name, but he was a 52 year old milkshake mixer salesman whose best customers were two brothers that owned a few hamburger restaurants. Kroc liked how fast and cheap these brothers served people and he suggested that they franchise on a national level. The brothers were too scared to do that, so Kroc said ” fuck the sign”…and, 9 years later, created a whole new sign:  “McDonald’s – More Than a Billion Sold.”
• Colonel Sanders – Speaking of fast food empires, Harland Sanders didn’t start cooking chicken until he was 40 and didn’t franchise KFC until he was 65.
• Rodney Dangerfield – He started doing stand-up in his teens, but not having any luck, he quit. He could have been the most famous acrobatic diver in the world, but there’s no respect in that! He finally got back into stand-up at age 40.
• Andrea Bocelli – The dude’s blind!, so you’d think being a lawyer would make him feel complete. Nope. He liked his “fun” job as a piano bar singer much more, but he didn’t catch a break with that until he was 34.

How about these people? No one recognized them until they were dead.
• Vincent van Gogh – 2,000 pieces of art, but rarely seen until the end of his life. In 1990, his “Portrait of Dr. Gachet” sold for $82.5 million and is now valued at $134 million.
• Emily Dickinson – Infamously recluse caused by a romantic breakup, Emily wrote poetry that hardly anyone saw. Only 7 poems were published while she was alive, and those were highly edited.
• Edgar Allen Poe – He sold The Raven for $9 during his life. He published other works but was either paid nothing or very little…and certainly didn’t get famous from it. He died at the age of forty, moving from town to town to avoid staying out of legal trouble from debt and drinking.

That might not seem inspirational, but at least you’re alive…and not homeless (or if you are, at least you get internet access at the library you’re currently in)…
• Halle Berry was 21 and living in a homeless shelter while trying to make it as an actor/model in NYC.
• William Shatner had just wrapped the Star Trek series, so it seems surprising that he had to live in a truck camper with his dog. Divorce’ll do that to ya.
• David Letterman, Jim Carrey and Jewel…we all know they were once car sleepers waiting to be discovered.

I was also going to list famous people who married their cousins, but I would like to go eat lunch. Neither of which has anything to do with anything.

So what’s the point of this blog, you ask? At this point, I have no idea, and I really don’t have the patience to be your personal Deepak Chopra, okay. But if you remember anything, let it be “fuck the sign!”  Use common sense, of course, but run on whatever path you’d like! You’ll eventually finish and feel really good about your accomplishment; regardless of recognition. And if you’re truly lucky, someone will yell at you along the way! Start thinking of a response now.

But when I started living in sin with my eventual-husband, I had to ditch my clique. (Isn’t that what you do when you get in a serious relationship?) Being the responsible one of the couple, my husband got rid of his television long before meeting me because he knew it would distract him while he was getting his college degree. Since I barely got my college degree and was FINE, I didn’t get it.

I should clarify, my husband and I had a television. We just didn’t have it hooked up to cable; it was only for VHS/DVD. In 2004, we bought a 12″ television specifically to be used with our karaoke machine, but I figured out that you could get two channels with the rabbit ears, so…I now admit to having a secret daytime rerun affair with a few of guys named Doug, Ray and JerrY!JerrY!.

Three years ago, long after having attained his bachelors and masters, I demanded that my husband allow (read “let the cable guy in when he showed up at the door”) us to reconnect with the television world. Oh my gosh, you guys!!! Have you seen that show FRIENDS!?!?

Yes, I’m just now seeing and loving shows you people watched two decades ago. Yes, I’m just now caught up on what’s actually new on tv. And yes, I have NOT seen a lot of stuff because there’s just too much to see.

So, it is now that I ask you, my online friends – which is SO MUCH more normal than only having television friends, what scripted show(s) am I missing that will make my life complete? Help me. Mold me. Bend me. Shape me…anyway you want me… see, that’s how eff’ing far behind I am, folks!

Here’s what I have seen since 2007, so don’t suggest these:
Prime Suspect • Arrested Development • Entourage • Mad Men • Party Down • The Tudors • Secret Diary of a Call Girl • Dexter • 30 Rock • Glee • The Office • Flight of the Conchords • Extras • lots of dumbass reality shit, so don’t even think about suggesting one of those

I promise to watch at least two episodes (specify which, if you must) of the show(s) you suggest and report back to you. I don’t promise to like the show…or you, for that matter…but I will be appreciative of your time and your fake virtual friendship. God knows I need friends!

Speaking of…did you see the one where Joey speaks French? “Welcome to New York City! Or should I say ‘ghe deu flooff New York City’?” HA!

Ah yes, Twitter. “Nobody wants to hear about when you’re going to the bathroom,” is the first thing people say to me when I tell them I’m on it, but I’ve never seen anyone telling me they’re going to the bathroom. Wait. I think I tweeted that once. Anywho…

I like Twitter. I like to read what people are up to, are thinking about or find amusing. I also like to entertain others but hate leaving my house. This way I can do both..

..and go to the bathroom…like I am right now.

So, in honor of my second year love affair with Twitter, I am inviting you to celebrate by participating in my contest! Here are the intimate details:

Why A Contest?
About two and half (maybe three) years ago, I was sitting in my temp Los Angeles apartment with @MattBelknap working on a project. At some point, we became distracted by this new social communication site called Twitter. We then ripped it a new one.

If you know Matt and/or myself, you know we might be considered judgmental. Twitter was at the top of our Dumb-Ass Things list. Then about 4 months later, my husband had a surgery. I knew I would be at the hospital for a few days, but I knew family and friends would want to know how Mark was doing and they would be calling my cell phone constantly…which was no good. I remembered Twitter! So I set up an account for my husband and texted in tweets. Voila! People could be informed of every blood spurt if they so chose, right from their home or office! At the end of that week, I received an email from Matt saying that, “This is the only usage of Twitter that I deem acceptable.” Now look at us.

The Prize:
So, after I dreamt up this silly contest idea, I pondered what I could give away…. Well, I do comedy, so it has to be something funny. And Twitter makes me think of Matt Belknap. Hmmm. OF COURSE!!

Matt is the producer of a wonderfully funny and charming podcast called Never Not Funny. He and host Jimmy Pardo invite a guest (usually a comedian but sometimes an actor, musician, etc.) to sit in on each episode, and they basically shoot the shit. Past guests have included: Conan O’Brien, Paul F. Tompkins, Jon Hamm, Jen Kirkman, Chris Hardwick and my husband Mark Volman, to name a few. So basically, awesome people. (Most awesomely: the late Andrew Koenig. Andrew was the video producer of NNF and an amazingly sweet person that will be forever missed by friends, family and fans.) It’s a great show and more people need to hear it.

Therefore, I will be awarding NOT ONE but TWO (because it’s my 2nd year, huh? huh? Clever, right?) tweeters a one season gift subscription to the @NeverNotFunny Pardcast!!

My favorite pic of Matt Belknap (left) and host of NNF Jimmy Pardo (right)

How To Win:

1) You have to follow me on Twitter to win. It’s funny, I see that my tweets are retweeted by people that don’t follow me. How did they even see it? The internet is creepy and mysterious. But it also has porn.

2) Then on Sunday, April 25th and Monday, April 26th ONLY , you must tweet the following: “I’m celebrating @emilyvolman’s 2Yr Twitterversary by entering a chance to win a season subscription to @NeverNotFunny!”

You only need to tweet this once on one of the two days. You can tweet it more, but multiple times will not get you more entries. BUT ALSO PLEASE NOTE: It’s my contest…added compliments about how great I am in your tweet will increase your chances of winning.

3) If you are already a current subscriber of Never Not Funny, fear not! The winners will get a one season subscription to use whenever they feel like it. Also, this ain’t no cheap contest…the prize is an audio AND video subscription.

4) The winners will be chosen at random via a high-tech selection process…like pulling a name out of a hat or shortest straw or entering the data into a calculator so it says “boobs.” Just be sure to use “@emilyvolman” in your tweet so I will see you!

5) The winner will then be notified on Wednesday, April 28th via a tweet. Get it? ‘Cause we’re on Twitter…where you can announce things…while you’re peeing. I’ll also DM you, then you can email me directly to get your subscription info. Then we can be email pals and probably become lifelong friends and take vacations together.

Welp, happy tweeting! And Happy Twitterversary to me!!

NOTE: I’ve just used the word panties four times even though I HATE the word “panties.” It doesn’t matter who uses it, either. My grandmother innocently speaking about laundry. The sales woman checking you out at a lingerie store. A guy looking to buy some used on craigslist. Nobody can say that word without it sounding gross. It’s right up there with the words “purse” and “moist.” Imagine them being used in the same sentence! BLEUCH!

Well, I am going to now use the word “panties” all over this blog post…if only to make myself vomit that amazing waffle breakfast I had this morning.

But I won’t be talking about just ANY of my panties. (thank goodness, right!?) Today’s discussion is about a specific pair of panties that I just bought:

My Ruffle Panties

I bought these ruffled panties about a week ago at Target. Suuuure, you may not think of Target as the highest of lingerie potential and quality…and you would be right…but you will be even more impressed when I tell you these particular panties were on the clearance rack for $2.00. TWO DOLLARS! Nothing but the best for my cheeks.

But who doesn’t love ruffles. Little baby ruffle butts are the cutest thing!

I like ruffles on shirts, coats, hats, shoes…but I’ve never splurged for ruffled panties. This is probably because all the previous items I mentioned are on the outside of what you’re wearing. Panties, on the other hand, are underneath the rest of your clothes. Even this little girl’s ruffled panties make her cute little lavender shirt pop open. Let’s face it, ruffles are bulky.

Which is why, I’m sorry to say, my ruffled panties have turned out to be a poor purchasing decision on my part. You see, not only are they cumbersome under my jeans, but they don’t look that good by themselves.  And, while I obviously didn’t try them on at Target before I bought them, I thought for sure when I got them home (and washed them…always wash your panties before you wear them), I thought I would look like this girl:

But I looked more like this girl:

(Um…not that she looks bad….)

I mean, I’m NOT going to throw my ruffle panties away or anything…they cost me 2 BUCKS! But I probably won’t be investing in new ruffle panties. At least not until it becomes my work uniform…or I Benjamin Button my way back to 18 months old.

Well, that’s all I have to say on this subject, really. If this has been helpful to you in any way, I’d be f’ing surprised, quite honestly. BUT I always like to look on the bright side (*cough*), so at worst you just got to look at soft-porn on the web while at work! You’re very welcome.