Pajama.

Jeans.

What’s wrong with this picture?

I first saw them in Rite Aid on my lunch break with my friend Lindsay. I was all, “Whaaaaaaat the fuuuuuuuuuuck????” Since then, I’ve seen a few ads and have watched the infomercial, none of which did anything to make me less horrified.

Here’s the thing: I like that clothing has become more casual over the last century. I appreciate that I can go shopping without a corset, a petticoat, tiny, pointy high heels, and even without pantyhose. I like that I can even go to work in pants, a sweater, and flats. But there is a line. And pajama jeans have crossed it.

One of the tag lines in the ads is, “Just because you’re busy doesn’t mean you can’t look sharp!”

REALLY? Are they saying that we’re too busy to get dressed in the morning??? I wonder what we’re supposed to be doing that takes priority over putting on clothes. Texting? Skyping? Checking Facebook? Taking the kids to lessons? Answering work calls? What?

Is this true? Are we too busy? Or are we too lazy? Have we, as a society, reached a point where we can’t be bothered to change from our pajamas into our jeans in the morning? Or from our jeans back into our pajamas at night? Is this too much effort? Do we have to sleep in our clothes and go out in our nightclothes? We’re already apparently too lazy to walk to the TV to change the channel, flush our own toilets, and push or pull a button to put soap on our hands. Are we now too lazy to dress ourselves?

I can kind of understand the appeal if you’re over 90 years old and have a lot of trouble reaching and bending, but that’s really the only acceptable situation. I feel like the main target audience for pajama jeans is people who have just plain given up on life. Because, honestly, if walking from your bed to your dresser is too much effort, something is very, very wrong. And need I mention, if we’re lumbering out of bed and starting our day, wearing our jammies as jeans, does this mean we’re also skipping our shower? Because if you’re taking off the pajama jeans to take a shower, you might as well put on regular jeans. Or, if you’re showering at night, you might as well put on regular pajamas. Unless you’re SHOWERING in your pajama jeans, which I’d believe, because at this point, I’d believe anything.

There are many disturbing things happening in our world today. Pajama jeans may not seem like a disastrous turn of events to you, but I see it as a deadly omen; a harbinger of things to come. Mark my words.

(By the way, someone needs to tell the woman in the ad that she’s too old to wear pigtails.)

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m in L.A. One thing I’ve done this year is a lot of baking and giving baked goods to people I need gifts for. Last night I made a big batch of 7-layer bars, which are gooey and decadent and amazing. The thing about them is that the gooeyness quickly hardens and becomes sticky and still very decadent, but also really hard to get a knife through. I thought I had cut them at the right stage this time, before they hardened, but come to find out, they still needed more cutting. And in trying to slice through, I was twisting the knife a little bit, and then something bad happened. I felt a little “snap!” and pulled the knife out, and the tip of the knife was missing. Oops.

I looked around in the baking dish, expecting to see the broken-off part right away, but I didn’t see it. I looked at the bar I had just cut. Nothing. I got a different knife, cut the rest of them (without twisting), sat down at the table and pored over the crumbs in the pan. Nothing!!! Where the H did it go???

So… what do I do? Throw them all out? There are some people in my life — people I’m very thankful for — to whom I could probably give a container of bars and say, “Yeah, just take small bites and chew tentatively.” But I can’t say that to my agent or my therapist. I can’t leave a batch on my landlady’s stoop and say, “Hi Sandy, I hope you and your sisters enjoy these 7-layer bars I made! Oh, there might be a knife blade in one of them. Merry Christmas!”

My instinct is that not giving any gift is better than giving the gift of a stab wound to the hard pallet.

I think I need to give Operation Find the Blade one last go-round. (Never mind that I’m totally manhandling all of these bars in the process.) If I don’t find it… what will I do?

Only the ghost of Christmas future can answer that.

Something's missing...

Do you see part of a knife in here? Me neither.

One of these bars is not like the other/may contain a knife!

So, what I’m saying is, it’s all going in the suitcase.

I have a weird relationship with clutter. I grew up among a lot of it. Not to go into too much detail, but there is a pack-rat lurking in my household, and when I was little, I was never made to get rid of anything. So I didn’t. Then I went to college, and since I only brought what I needed, a whole new world was opened up to me. A world in which it was easy to keep my room clean! It was clean, and spacious, and I had plenty of room to breathe. That began an insatiable desire to eradicate all clutter in my life. However, like most things, it’s easier said than done. It’s still hard for me to tell what I need and what I don’t. And I get attached to things (see: purple towels). And I kind of believe that anything with a face has feelings, and also, that some inanimate objects have feelings (see again: purple towels). So I want to make sure things get good homes and are appreciated.

It’s also complicated because of this:

My need to eradicate clutter extends beyond my personal space. It extends beyond my house and my parents’ house and my friends and family’s houses to the entire earth. Just knowing that any clutter exists anywhere stresses me out. I wish people would just stop making things. I get stressed going into stores, especially big ones with tons of stuff in them, because it’s all new stuff. Where is it going to go eventually? One day, are we going to drown in stuff? Will we send it out to space and clutter up the universe? It’s like, no matter how un-cluttered I am eventually able to get my space, there is no real escape from it. It’s everywhere. Why are people still making new things? So many things! So many cluttery, useless things! Have you ever been to a Big Lots???? Aaaaaaaaugh!!! And trash!!! Plastic going into the trash!!! And that’s not even getting into the clutter on my computer, or cyber-clutter (I would rather have fewer Facebook friends, because the ones I don’t really know… clutter.) And of course, mental clutter.

So, that makes things complicated. I can’t just get rid of something without thinking about where it’s going. don’t want to throw things away and let them clutter up a landfill. I don’t even want to clutter up Goodwill. I just want to wave a magic wand and make things spontaneously combust. I guess I could burn them, but I don’t want to cause pollution and toxic gases; that’s hardly going to solve anything.

Stress is probably a form of clutter, too, right? It’s a vicious cycle. A vicious, cluttered, cycle of clutter.

If I were Cathy from the Sunday comics section, I’d have little beads of sweat around my face, and I’d be saying, “Ack!”

Lindsay: http://www.ktla.com/news/landing/ktla-homemade-guillotine-accident,0,3086419.story

Marcy: UM, WHY had he built a guillotine? Was that question never raised?

Lindsay: nobody seems even a little worried abotu that fact that this bum has a GUILLOTINE IN THE WOODS
Lindsay: I KNOW

Marcy: And how did he *accidentally* put his arm between the blades? I’m sorry. You build a guillotene and you cut off your own arm. You are an idiot.
Marcy: Yah, WTF??? Whose arm (or head) did he INTEND to cut off???

Lindsay: exactly

Marcy: Well, the good news is, it will now be 50% more difficult for him to murder someone.

“Beeeellllllt!” I called. It didn’t answer.

But then I found it. Around my waist. Where I had put it minutes earlier.

I see a lot of these ads come out of the beautiful town of Flossmoor, wherever on Planet Earth that might be. They must know something we don’t, you guys. They seem to have all the answers!

My main question on this one is:
What exactly is the job she’s doing at home? If I click on the link, will it take me to the fololowing job posting?

Wanted: Administrative Assistant for Busy Office
Ideal candidate should have:
3-5 years’ experience in administrative position
Ability to juggle multiple tasks in a fast-paced environment
Bachelor’s Degree in Communications or related field
Experience wearing blue face paint a must
Ability to hold fish in teeth preferred
Telecommuting OK

Citizens of Flossmoor, I’m directing this question to you.

My combination favorite / least favorite ads are the ones that claim that a “mom” discovered some miracle cure or loophole in the system. Why is the fact that a mom discovered it supposed make it so much more appealing? Like Betty Johnson in Somewheresville, USA, is going to all of a sudden do a double take at her computer screen and go, “DALE, GET IN HERE. It says a MOM discovered this weird old trick that is going to make my teeth 10 shades lighter while also putting money in my pocket and infuriating my dentist. And I know I can trust her, because I’m a mom, too! Never mind that I know nothing about this particular mom or if she knows anything about dentistry, or even how to tie her shoes, for that matter. She’s a MOM, Dale. A MOM!!! I’M CLICKING THE AD!!!”

Another question I have is: Why is it always a weird old trick? Do people think it’s more legit if it’s old? and weird? Because I know of some weird old tricks that I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. (Don’t come near me with those leeches, please!) Science has come a long way, and if given the option between a “weird old trick” and “modern science,” I think I know which one I’ll choose.

I’m going to leave you with a trick from a mom in Lyndhurst (wherever the hell that is; are we supposed to know where Lyndhurst is, or is it a generic town name that anyone in an English-speaking country can realte to: “OH, yeah, someone from Lyndhurst, Dale. WE’VE HEARD OF THAT TOWN! I’M CLICKING THE AD!”)

So this mom discovered this clever wrinkle therapy that makes botox doctors furious (and are there really such things as “botox doctors”? That’s very specific).

I clicked on the ad to find out what the trick was, and as it turns out, she stopped doing meth.

That is a clever trick!

Stephanie had “How rude!”
Michelle had “You got it, Dude.”
Joey had “Cut it out!” (complete with hand motions)
Uncle Jesse had “Have mercy!”

Now what about Danny, DJ, Aunt Becky, and Kimmy Gibler? I’m sure Kimmy had to have one, right? OK, so now that I’ve got them written down, it looks like only half the main characters had catch phrases. But that’s still more than your average family.

I watched so much Full House, I could maybe win some kind of Full House trivia game show, and with the amount of reality TV happening, a game show about a real show wouldn’t surprise me at all. So it could happen! Facts I know, without visiting any kind of website, include:

Their phone number is 555-2424.
Stephanie’s full name is Stephanie Judith Tanner.
DJ’s is Donna Jo Margaret Tanner.

Actually… I think that’s all I know, other than all the obvious stuff. I would lose that game show so hard! Oh, man. Those are good facts though, right?

bum's bum

AWESOME!

Then he got up and picked up some trash in his area. “Well, at least he’s cleaning up,” I thought. “That’s something.”

No. he threw the trash on the street. Isn’t it cool how he doesn’t want trash, his own trash, in his little area, but he’ll put it out for the rest of us to enjoy?

Street, trash can -- so hard to tell those pesky things apart.

I’ve had enough. What do I do???

Do I shout out the window at him? Leave him a note of warning? Do I call someone? Who do I call? Opinions, please. I’m done getting bummed.

But… then there’s the third kind. These are the ones who, for one reason or the other, choose to be homeless. Maybe they think the world owes them something. Maybe they fancy themselves as being off the grid, not controlled by anyone else. Or maybe they are just plain lazy. I know it’s super un-PC to say that, and I truly believe that the majority of the homeless population, especially in LA, falls into the first two categories. But this third category does exist. I used to pay them no mind, but starting recently, they’ve really started to grind my gears.

I will pinpoint for you the exact moment when this shift in my perspective occurred.

The shift occurred a few months ago when I walked over to the living room window and saw a 60-something-year-old bum get up from where he was sitting on the bench in front of the church across the street, walk to the edge of the sidewalk, pull out his floppy little willy, and pee right into the street. Right into the street, on my nice, residential street. Then he SHOOK OFF his disgusting, floppy weiner, tucked it in, and sauntered back to the bench like he hadn’t just PEED INTO THE STREET IN BROAD, BRIGHT, SUNNY DAYLIGHT. And people, that is a sight that I can never un-see.

That was the first day I saw him, and he was with a woman, and they had backpacks, and they sat on that bench in front of the church and smoked cigarettes. So I guess he’d just gotten into town from somewhere, and decided that this was his new home? Indeed, he has since taken up residence right next to the church, on a small piece of sidewalk in front of a side door to the next building, which I assume isn’t used. And he’s got all the setup. It’s like he’s taking a camping trip. Tarp, blankets, clothes, all the goods. The other day I came home and he had all his clothes laid out all over all the bushes nearby. He’s reeeeeallly getting comfortable. And oh yeah, that whole side of the street is awash with the delicous, acrid smell of fresh urine mixed with dry, stale urine. Mmmm.

And tonight, folks… tonight he reeeeally upped the ante. Yes. The ante was upped. I came home and noticed that the “money spot” was free… that is, the best parking spot near my apartment. It’s not under any trees or power lines, and there aren’t any spaces in front or behind it, and when I leave for work in the morning, I’m already facing the right direction, so I just hop in and go. When I get that spot, it is a victory. It’s right across the street.

Right in front of the homeless man’s new “home.”

SON of a bitch.

So I moved. I moved my EFFING car, because you know why? Because when I saw him peeing into the street, he stood right next to someone’s car, so close that I would be surprised if some pee didn’t splatter on that poor, unsuspecting, tax-paying citizen’s automobile. There are quite a few substances I don’t want on my car. And can you guess what’s on the short list of those substances? Correct. BUM URINE.

So I parked in our garage behind my roommate Mary, but now I realize that she’s probably leaving early in the morning and I’ll be blocking her in, so I have to go move it again right now, in the black of night (OK, 11:15, whatever) to a different spot on the street. A spot under both a tree and a power line. So that the bum will not pee on my car.

I hate to say what I’m about to say, for so many reasons.

But seriously.

Get a job.