Tag Archives: magazines

Vision Bored

And for that reason I'm outOn New Year’s Day, I texted “Come over, we’re making Vision Boards!” I don’t know why I woke up and conjured that one up, because that is stupid magical thinking Oprah/hippie crap, but it seemed like cutting little pieces out of magazines while drinking mimosas might be a reasonable way to pass a slightly cotton-fluff-wrapped day.

To my shock, no one protested, and everyone showed up with bags of magazines and booze. We snipped and shredded a collection that ranged from the Amex Travel mag that always reminds how unrich I am to the Harvard Business Review to High Times to American Bungalow. We were lost in a flurry of diamonds and safaris, sticky rainbow buds and tasteful woodwork, plus pithy quotes like “To really motivate someone, shut up already.” American Bungalow also started to sound dirty if you said it enough times.

The kids finished up first, but the adults know how to really fill a page. Negative space has no place in a vision board! That would be so…negative. And we sniffed the glue sticks, I admit. Hours later, we moved on to pasta, and the course of the year was set in stone.

Everything started falling into place almost immediately: 11:11 on the clock at least twice a day, patterns in license plates, old friends coming out of the woodwork, full moons, black cats, and dead birds. If you can auger with it, it showed up.

As of now, everything I put on my board as an abstract hope has already come true for the year. I guess I should have used a bigger board or dreamed a bit bigger. It’s always sad to be confronted with the limitations of one’s creativity.

What if I had pasted in a picture of Buzzfeed and juxtaposed it with a mushroom cloud? Then Lambchop could stop being plagued by quizzes that help you find out what kind of hummus you are based on your favorite Dr. Who character, or those 93 sloths that are perpetually unable to handle anything in their lives right now.

Still, it’s good to know magical thinking really works! Next year I’m going to make my board all about swimming in a money bin, and I’m going to take care of that North Korea thing, AIDS, cancer, people who talk about the paleo diet and/or Ayn Rand, and the practice of not finishing sentences because Lambchop can’t even. I mean THIS. For days. Because whatever.

Let’s get it on

If I published a wedding mag, I would call it either Big Fat Bride or Fucking Crazy. The simple fact is that weddings bring out the worst in everyone. Welcome to disordered eating (not because you’re trying to lose weight, but because you simply feel sick all the time), the worst fights of your relationship, and every decision you make being scrutinized by your mother’s neighbor’s manicurist.

Today while accomplishing some tedious footwear errand, I got to talking with the shop girl while someone was packing my stuff up attractively. She’s getting married soon, and we were comiserating about the last minute details. She mentioned she wasn’t even on speaking terms with her fiancee.

“Ha,” I said, “that’s what no one ever tells you when you get engaged. Did the fight go like this by any chance? ‘You’re an idiot, what was I thinking, I hate you, Oh God, I can’t wait til we’re married so we can get divorced!”

“YES, so I’m not the only one! Don’t forget ‘What do you mean you told your mother THAT?’ and ‘I wish we were both dead!'”

So there you have it, ladies and gents. Premarital rage. Mike Tyson-style. Perhaps Mike said it best when he said “I’ll fuck you til you love me, bitch!” Ah, just the thing to put on the programs! I do love an epigraph.

In short: go. to. Vegas.