No, I am not having a real dinner party, just a fake one. It’s too hot for a real one. You need proof? Here is a pic tonight of my sleeping area in the living room. I can’t even sleep in my bed on the third floor it’s so choke you in your sleep with dehydration uncomfortable. And so TA DAAAAAAAA, my living quarters for the week— a camp ground, if you will….kinda like camping in house, but not breezy, no campfire, no marshmallows, no bag made for 1 1/2 meaning 2, no fireflies, no stars above….just air that is 12 degrees colder than the air on the third floor, which is where that sleigh ride to hell bed is.
And so I sleep on the floor as I wait for Stuttgart to sell fans or for me to figure out how to install an AC unit. AC. How I would love AC but instead my house rules are stated almost daily–If it’s too hot, take off more clothes or spray yourself with the hose, Heather. If it’s too cold, put more clothes on or get the spare blankets. No one in my house cares if my hair frizzes like lightning came through or if my inner thighs are sweating unprovoked, or if I balloon up like a fat woman with child in the humidity and certainly no one cares in the winter if my nose drips and freezes as my fingers almost break off from frostbite. That thermostat is not meant to be moved.
And I’m an awful person when I’m too hot. The other night I was dying in the heat and needed everyone to know about my misery. Announcing my discomfort has always been key in making me feel better and so the other night, when it was at least 103 degrees in my house, I expressed this in a number of ways to really highlight my point. I rolled around with my arms flailing about, eyes rolling back in my skull in dramatic fashion, topless on the couch, sighing loudly like a sweaty troll, elevating my ankles that were attempting to turn into tree trunks, horrified the heat was giving me cankle disease. Then I’d switch positions and hang upside-down off the couch, one leg over my head asking no one in particular how hot it was, and whining that the whole free world was allowed to have AC but me. Even Moxie agreed, as we almost blacked out in the living room. I pout when I am sticky and I want to live in the shower and I don’t want anyone talking to me when it’s above 90 degrees. And no touching me. I will slap you. So, yeah, I’m a lot like a 5-year-old child when I’m hot, lots of FUN.
The good part about sleeping downstairs, though, is that I can watch TV until I fall asleep every night, or while more likely while I sweat until sunrise. Anyway, so I’ve been banging through episodes of Master Chef, an Australian cooking competition show that’s awesome for primarily because each show is just filled with fancy declarations like buggar! butchered! gutted! rippaaaa! (ripper, I think) cracka! –all delivered in a great, Aussie accent. One day I will tape me doing my favorite words in various accents and post it because I am so tired of my accent. I want to trade it in for a new one.
Anyway, on the show, the contestants occasionally get to cook with their mentors–famous chefs and restaurant owners and whatever the name of that job is when you’re an expert on wine that doesn’t sound like alcoholic. So anyway, there’s this one contestant Jonathan that is completely gay for this one famous chef, Heston Blumenthal, and so he meets him and seriously loses his shit. He’s smiling like a creep and giddy like a school girl and when Heston tries to talk to him he stutters and can’t form words and turns red and you just watch him expecting him to turn into the 10-year-old girl he’s behaving like and hopscotch off the set. It was more than uncomfortable, especially when they did a few confessionals where Jonathan gets all I love Blumenthal cock and is just talking about him like he’s a real dreamboat and it’s all very cute and very stalkerish. Seriously, his life was made.
So that got me thinking. Who would I want in a room if I got to have them all at one time? Who are my Leave Me Speechlesses? And so I spent part of the rest of the night planning my fake dinner party. Here’s who would come and why.
David Sedaris: So I already feel like David Sedaris and I are best friends and if I had more time to holiday, I’d be over in France stalking him. David would be the guest of honor and I’d make him a crown and he’d sit at the head of the table. He is hands down, my most favorite author and I would give up milk for a year to be able to meet him. (seriously, I love milk) He is one of the funniest people on Earth and I cannot get enough of his writing. He does something I haven’t mastered yet…He writes about his friends and family like they are dead. As in the truth. I’m still holding out on unveiling how nuts everyone in my family is until at least a few more die so they can’t turn on me with group mentality at Christmastime. Anyway, here is one of my most favorite stories, “Let it Snow,” which is actually a chapter in my most favorite book of his, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim. http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2003/12/22/031222fa_fact3
My most favorite part?
“Amy, in turn, pushed it off on Tiffany, who was the youngest and had no concept of death. “It’s like sleeping,” we told her. “Only you get a canopy bed.”
Sedaris is pee your pants awesome and he is always welcome at my dinner table.
Gary Gulman: I saw Gary Gulman perform back in 2001 maybe in Boston with Dane Cook, before he got all one million friends on FB and became all douchebag famous. (Not Gary, Dane) And it was this, his bit on cookies, that got me all wet in the pants and made me heart him in a bad way. Then he was on Last Comic Standing and I felt like I could claim him. He was MY discovery and he would be famous, traveling the country in a van meant for comics, trying out material on each other in-between having ridiculously tall guy/small girl sex. We would trade tips on hair gel for those blessed with curls and it would be amazing. Then I saw him in Virginia and I heckled some annoying couple in the front row and he made the mistake of saying, “Hey mouth, quiet down,” which would normally turned me on but I was sensitive that day and so he was banned. I’d still invite him to dinner, though. Funny, funny guy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LI7FNAWXAL0
Anne Lamott: I love Ms. Lamott’s style of writing and she is ruthlessly hysterical. Her book, Bird by Bird, is inspirational and when you want to write and you’re in a slump, it works. She’s honest and unpredictable and blunt and reading her books is therapeutic and thought-provoking. She’s a badass hippie and I want her at my table.
Jon Favreau: Mr. Favreau is Obama’s speech writer. He wrote his inaugural address and I want to shake his hand. It’s not because I voted for Obama and he won and it was OUR speech, or something weird and psychotic like that. It has nothing to do with the party. Yes, I love politics. Yes, I love speech writing. And yes, I loved that address, but it had more to do with what the speech made me feel, which was happiness and hope and pride. As I stood on the National Mall that freezing cold day, I listened to the President speak and felt goosebumps slowly take over my entire body. I was tingling with excitement, electric even, and I couldn’t talk or swallow due to throat emotional overload at its finest. My most favorite part was his, “Your people will judge you on what you build, not what you destroy.” The crowd was either dead silent or you couldn’t hear yourself think roaring with approval. That is fantastic speech writing.
So that should do it for my first dinner party. Idol and author, comedian, spiritual and inspirational mentor, political hero of the year and something to drool over. Dinner party indeed.
And lastly, here is my six word memoir for today.
She seeks neither permission nor forgiveness.