Dear everyone: Stop asking me where the ring is. If I knew, it would be on my finger, not in his sock drawer–I mean–wait–what?

Sorry for the lack of blogs lately folks—it’s been a whirlwind of activity at Casa de Goodman between getting an awesome agent for my newest book (which is currently “out for submission”—love it!!!), school starting back up, and, in much sadder news, my grandfather dying.

I considered writing about him, but this is a humor blog (For anyone who may be new to my blog or who may have missed the fact that the entire thing is intended to be funny, that’s what I’m here for—entertainment value only. Most of what I do here is satire, designed to exaggerate and make fun of myself. The narrator of my blog is a caricature, not an accurate representation of me as a person.  I take events from real life and twist them out of proportion to make them funny through hyperbole.), and Grandpa loved nothing better than a good laugh, so I figured the best tribute I could give him was to stick to my normal posts.

(This was referenced in my uncle’s eulogy because my grandfather was, in fact, buried with his five wood.  And Grandpa would have been laughing the hardest of anyone in the room at the reference.)

And there IS something else big going on at Casa de Goodman right now. I’m just not supposed to know about it.

The boyfriend and I are rapidly approaching the one year mark of our relationship. In common parlance, known as an “anniversary.” And while prior to meeting him, I was staunchly in the school of advising everyone to wait before committing to anything, I’ve switched teams and now hit for camp “When it’s right, it’s right.” (Did I mix too many metaphors there? I feel like I’m yelling, “Hit a touchdown!” at a baseball game… oh well…)

Maybe it’s because I’m a little older. Maybe it’s because everyone I see is checking my left hand with unabashed frequency. Maybe it’s because six (yes, count them, SIX) of my Facebook friends currently have profile pictures of themselves kissing their significant other with an engagement ringed-hand in the shot. Or maybe it’s all of my relatives repeatedly asking “So nu ven?” (Which is apparently Yiddish for, “When’s it gonna happen?”.)

But whatever the reason, I’ve turned into the girl I never expected to be. The girl who is absolutely DYING to get engaged.

I still don’t want a real wedding. My dream wedding is still Rabbi Elvis in Vegas with NONE of you invited. But my best friend has vowed to stalk me and bring both my mother and grandmother to Vegas with her if I elope without telling her, and I am fully aware that if my mother and grandmother are not at my wedding, the level of Jewish-guilt/wrath will make the ten plagues look pleasant. So I’ll probably do some version of a real wedding, but that’s not what I’m interested in right now.

Right now, I’ve turned 100 percent into Gollum (but with better hair and makeup… although I may go on his diet plan if my mother plans to force me into a puffy white dress), desiring nothing more than that precious, precious ring.

Which probably wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t happen to know that he already has it. Yes. Sorry, honey, your secret is out.

You see, like all good Jewish girls, my grandma (or bubbe if you will) has a jeweler friend who has been telling me since I was five to go to her when it was time to get engaged. Actually, she’s probably been saying that since before I was five, but I only remember it starting then. I’m picturing her cooing into my cradle, Sleeping Beauty-godmother style, “And when she’s old enough, I’ll give her the gift of a gorgeous diamond at a wholesale price.”

And while my grandmother claims she’s able to keep a secret, with all the hullabaloo surrounding my grandfather being in the hospital, there was no keeping the secret that she and the boyfriend went shopping.

So now, because I know he has it, and because he knows that I know he has it, the boyfriend has begun an active campaign of torturing me. Okay, maybe it’s not an active campaign, but it feels like it. Because whenever I try to get any kind of a hint as to when he’s going to pop the question, the only answer he’ll give me is that he loves giraffes and monkeys that throw poop.

Like he’s started texting me with emojis of monkeys and poop.

Actual text from the boyfriend.  Which I interpret to mean, “Kisses to you, my angry chicken baby, monkeys throw poop and push penguins into volcanoes.”  Perfectly logical in every way.

Which yes, makes me laugh, but I’m not even sure if he’s ACTUALLY saying these things or if my weirdo girl lizard brain has gone completely Gollum-style ring crazy and if I’m just hearing utter gibberish whenever he ISN’T talking about the ring.

It also doesn’t help that there are a very limited amount of hiding places in our apartment, and when I can’t sleep at night (which is a frequent occurrence), I feel like there’s this odd, pulsating, diamond-like object calling to me from his dresser. I won’t get near it, because I know the pull of the One Ring is strong. But I can sense its presence.

And the only thing that he WILL tell me is that he’s planning something special. And I want to let him do this his way and let him make it special.  So I know better than to go looking, and I’m trying not to talk about it too often.

By which I mean that I’ve limited my questions about when we’re getting engaged to three times per hour. Relationships are full of compromises, people!

Lucky for him, my romantic standards are notoriously low. For which we can thank my parents, who got engaged when my mother told my father to “defecate* or get off the pot.”
*”defecate” was not the word that she used.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is the super romantic story of how my parents formed the union that created me. So I’ve warned the boyfriend that as long as I don’t have to use that particular expression, anything at all that he plans will be magical and wonderful and romantic.

Even if it DOES involve monkeys throwing their poop.

Thank you, mom, for instilling me with such low expectations when it comes to romance.

Which means that until he decides to make his move, I’m planning to wait patiently. Okay, as patiently as I can. But at least he knows I’ll say yes.


 K thanks!

(And if you still haven’t gotten the message that this is satire and are sitting there reading this thinking, “Oh my God, her poor boyfriend! Why does he put up with that girl?”, you should know that he reads my blogs before I post them, totally gets my sense of humor, and loves me for the crazy weirdo that I am—just like I love him for the crazy weirdo that he is. It’s a match made in crazy weirdo heaven. Which makes sense, since my crazy weirdo mom* and his crazy weirdo aunt* set us up. Crazy weirdo yenta-devised love all around!)

*Neither of you is a crazy weirdo. Please don’t hurt me. I love you guys! ❤

"Ask me about my wiener!" Just don’t ask Anthony Weiner about his…

Because I’ve been spending all of my free time working on getting my latest book out and packing up at school for my big move to Watkins Mill (go Wolverines!) for next year, I haven’t been paying much attention to the news.

Which is why I’m SO grateful to Anthony Weiner for screwing his life up SO utterly that his sexting scandal is still going on.

In fact, Nancy Pelosi telling him to get his ass out of Congress on Saturday kept it as some of the country’s top news.

Okay, officially she told him he needed to “step down.” But I’m positive that the conversation really went something like this:

Anthony (answering the phone): Hello?

Nancy: Weiner, you douche-asaurus rex, get your moronic sexting ass out of Congress before I kill and eat you.

Now that may not sound like much of a threat because Nancy Pelosi is pretty tiny (I saw her in the pit at a Springsteen show at the Verizon center once and she’s literally Snooki-short). But the tiny ones are usually the scariest. I feel like people would laugh at her if she threatened them and then it’d be like the rabbit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

That rabbit’s got a vicious streak a mile wide!  It’s a killer!

But I digress.

I’m kind of torn on whether Weiner needs to actually step down or not, to be honest. I mean, is he a cheating scumbag? Absolutely. Is he an idiot for putting his flirtations in writing/pictures? Definitely. Is he alone? Hell no.

I hate to break it to you, but I think everyone who has a phone/email address has sent a racy text message or email at some point in the last ten years.

People get so up in arms about teenagers sexting, but I think the problem there is more about their age than the fact that they’re sending dirty messages. And I’m pretty sure that men have taken pictures of their genitals starting back with Jacques Daguerre (the dude who invented the daguerreotype, which was basically the first widespread type of pre-film image). You can’t tell me that he invented modern photography and DIDN’T try to see what his junk looked like in a daguerreotype. Sorry. Not buying it.

And yes, even I have sent some less than appropriate messages before.

Wait, did you hear that?

It sounded like a banshee coming to steal my soul.

Oh wait, it was just the sound of my mother screaming in horror/rage.

Sorry mom.

So if we’ve all done it, do we have any room to condemn Anthony Weiner?

Well I don’t know about you, but I have plenty of room to.


Because I’m not married and I’m not an elected official who’s hoping to be the next mayor of New York City.

I also don’t have a last name that pretty much MEANS what he was sending pictures of.

Sorry Mr. Weiner. You lose.

But he’s certainly not alone, even in being a married elected official. He’s now joined a LONG list of cheating scumbag politicians who got caught. And I’m sure there are even more out there who just HAVEN’T been caught yet.

Lately, I’ve been hearing a lot of speculation in the news about the connection between politics and sex. And I know the answer. It’s much simpler than you’d think actually.

I’ll give you a hint.

Why do people go into politics?

If you said, “to help people,” congratulations, you’re NOT a cynical, jaded jerk yet.

If you said, “ostensibly to help people, but really because they like having the power to control what happens,” then congratulations! You’re a cynical bastard, but you’re also right.

So they like power, okay, who doesn’t? I mean, I personally fully intend to take over the world someday. Does that mean I’m going to sleep around as soon as I’m in power?

Hell no! Have you seen me? I don’t need power to get laid! I’m a chick.

But have you seen the men in our government? Yikes… NOT an attractive group over all. These are guys who weren’t exactly fighting the ladies off with a stick before becoming famous/influential/powerful. So when beautiful women start finding them fascinating (aka rich/famous), they don’t have enough experience/willpower/brains to resist them.

This isn’t anything new. Contrary to popular belief, Bill Clinton did NOT invent the sex scandal. This has been going on since the dawn of time. The only difference is that technology has made the extra-marital activities of politicians into TMZ fodder.

So what’s the answer?

You had to know I’d have one, right?

I’ve got a formula for calculating whether politicians are allowed to cheat in peace or whether they need to get their butts out of office before Nancy Pelosi launches herself at them like an angry Oompa Loompa.


We need to convert several factors into numbers first. So on a scale of 1-10, 1 being bad, 10 being awesome, we need to determine the politician’s positive influence on his or her constituency at the time of the crisis. We also need to rank the hotness of the politician’s wife, the hotness of the other women, and the efforts that the politician made to conceal the affairs.

Once you have all of that information, the formula is simple:

(Positive influence x hotness of other women) / (hotness of wife x effort to conceal affair) minus 3 if your wife is dying/pregnant/off saving the free world when you cheated on her.

If the number is greater than one, you can stay in office. If it’s under one, you’re out.

Let’s try this out with a couple of examples.

For Bill Clinton, I would argue that our formula looks like this (8 x 3) / (2 x 9). It’s greater than one, so he stays in office.

Arnold Schwarzenegger: (5 x 4) / (6 x 10). Less than one.  Therefore, if he’d still been in office, he’d have to go.  Sorry Arnold.  But good move not telling people until you were out of office!

Now that brings us to our dear friend Anthony Weiner: (5 x 7) / (6 x 2). His number is over one, would mean that he can stay.  But when you subtract 3 for his wife being preggers, he’s out.

It’s the perfect formula.

Which means that I’m terribly sorry, Anthony, but it’s over. You’re done. Thanks for playing though. And I’d recommend leaving on your own. Because you do NOT want Nancy Pelosi coming for you.

Which would probably look something like this:

(couldn’t get the video to embed, sorry!)

I love my phone. I just hate talking on it.

I hate talking on the phone.

Those of you who know me are sitting there with a very puzzled look on your face. I know. I always have my phone in my hand. Picturing me without my phone would be like picturing my dad without coffee. Like Linus without his blanket. Like Harry Potter without his glasses. Like Cher without an inappropriate outfit. Like Britney Spears without a baby bump and bare feet. It just doesn’t work.

I’m completely and utterly addicted to my phone. But I hate TALKING on it.

I think the reason for this is because I’m so ADD. I have trouble focusing on a conversation with no visuals to go with it. For example, I don’t mind talking on Skype. (Although, to be fair, if I’m talking to you on Skype, I’m probably looking at MYSELF while talking to you. Because I’m just that vain. But you really can’t tell. So it’s okay.) But JUST the phone? I can’t do it for more than a minute or two.

So I go to extreme lengths to avoid having to talk on the phone. I don’t have a landline for this reason. A landline has NO purpose except for talking on the phone, therefore I won’t have one in my house. Plus, the only people who ever called me on that phone when I had one were solicitors and my grandma. Pass. (Sorry Grandma. But you have my cell number, so I don’t feel TOO bad.)

I also NEVER answer my cell phone except when my dad calls. And I only answer his calls because they last for less than 30 seconds and if I DON’T answer when he calls, he immediately assumes I died and keeps calling every ten seconds until I do answer. I’m not quite sure how that logic works. If I’m dead, I’m clearly not going to answer ten seconds later, and if I’m alive, clearly I’ll call him back when I see the missed call. But I try to answer on the first call just so he doesn’t tell Facebook that I died and cancel my account because I missed his call while I was in the shower or something. THAT would be tragic.

The next step to avoiding using the phone is to never listen to voicemail messages. My outgoing message used to say not to leave a message because I wasn’t going to listen to it, but then people started leaving long rambling messages just to piss me off. It worked. But my friends know at this point that I’m not going to listen to their messages, so if they want to talk to me, they should text or email me.

In general, this eliminates all need to talk on the phone unless I have a story to tell that’s too long to text (which is, I think, EXACTLY what this blog is for).

Unfortunately, sometimes this doesn’t work out the way I’d like it to.

Like with my Grandma. Who I love dearly, don’t get me wrong. But she and technology are mortal enemies, and cell phones are no exception. She has a cell phone (the most basic phone possible. She says she wants all the technology that mine has. But I just can’t deal with that, so she has the type of cell phone that existed in 1986, just smaller), and she decided at one point that she wanted to learn how to send text messages. I thought this was great, because it meant there was one less person I would have to talk to on the phone.

I should have known better.

After an entire afternoon devoted to teaching her how to send, receive, and read text messages, I thought she had a pretty firm grasp on how to do it. So I showed her picture messaging.

Big mistake.

The next day, while I was at school, my phone kept vibrating. Finally I checked it during a planning period, assuming that there had to be some emergency because no one would so completely spam my phone while I was at school unless someone had died or at the very least was trapped down a well somewhere and I was the only number available to dial for help.


It was 47 picture messages from my grandma, all of my grandfather sleeping in his easy chair. Then 286 text messages asking if I got her picture.

When I called her to ask her to please stop blowing up my phone, she told me that when I didn’t respond, she figured it meant that none of the messages actually sent, so she just kept resending them.

Luckily, by the following day, she had forgotten how to text and I never re-taught her. I answer her calls now, just in case she suddenly remembers how texting works.

So if you call me, and I don’t answer, try not to be offended. It’s not you, it’s me.

Unless I don’t like you. Then it’s you.

So if you TEXT me and I don’t respond, then it’s definitely you.

And please don’t send me picture messages of my sleeping grandfather. It’s seriously creepy and weird. And old people, like dogs, look dead when they sleep sometimes. No one wants to see that.

The Stepford iPhones: Can anything stop them?

I know that I’m a latecomer to the Apple revolution, but I’m seriously getting into it all now.

For the longest time, I held out against getting a Mac. Everyone and their mother (although not my mother or her mother… the women in my family tend to be the least technologically savvy people on the planet. They’re also all insane. My future looks pretty bleak) kept telling me that I needed one, but I said no. I was happy with my Dell products.

I don’t say this often, but I was SO wrong.

The same with getting an iPod. I had little teeny tiny mp3 players for a while, and I didn’t understand why I would want an iPod. They were bigger and a pain in the butt. And the shuffles didn’t even have displays! I liked being able to see what song was playing, thank you very much.

Then my dad got me an iPod, and I don’t understand how I lived without it.

Now I have a Macbook Pro (which I typed all of these blog posts from), and I don’t have any idea why there are any other computer companies left. I thought I’d never get used to not having two mouse buttons and pushing “command+c” and “command+v” to copy and paste. But just a couple of weeks after getting the Mac, I now get angry at school because I push the wrong buttons on those stupid, worthless Windows machines.

As my dad says, Macs just work. And he’s right. My Mac is delightful.

And with my wonderful Mac came my first iPod touch.

Which means that it’s only a matter of time until I switch to the iPhone.

For years now, I’ve been telling everyone who will listen that I don’t want an iPhone because I like having actual keys for texting. I’m one of those ridiculous individuals who texts so much that I can do it completely without looking. Like I can hold my phone behind my back and text accurately. On a full QWERTY keyboard. That probably means there’s something wrong with me and I’ll have full-blown carpal tunnel syndrome and arthritis by my next birthday. (Even though I’ll STILL only be 25 on my next birthday. Amazing how that works. I’m not turning older than that until I have a publishing contract. So if you want me to disclose my real age, go buy more copies of my book!)

I’m not QUITE at vampire speed. But I’m close. (The video clip is kinda NSFW… but hilarious. I ❤ True Blood!)

But the problem now that I’ve played extensively with the iPod touch is that I realize that, with a little more practice, I could probably get used to texting without looking on an iPhone.

My main reason against getting the iPhone isn’t the keypad though. It’s that everyone who has one becomes completely and utterly obsessed with it. Like beyond how obsessed I am with Bruce Springsteen. It’s seriously scary.

When I look at my Facebook news feed, a good third of the posts on there are from my friends talking about their iPhones. And some of these people have families and pets! But they talk about their phones MORE THAN THEY TALK ABOUT THEIR CHILDREN. And if you try to take their phone away from them for ANY reason, they turn into Gollum from Lord of the Rings and start lunging at you talking about “my precious.”

My dad is a perfect example of this. He got his iPhone kind of late compared to a lot of people. He kept his Motorolla Razr WAY longer than anyone else I knew, and, despite usually being the first person to bring new technology home, kept claiming he didn’t need a smart phone.

Then he brought home his first iPhone, and I swear there was more fanfare for that than when he brought ME, his first-born child, home from the hospital.

Literally. (Although, as he pointed out, the reason for that was that I didn’t come with any cool apps.)  He was emailing me pictures of his phone for weeks. And when he upgraded to the iPhone 4, I’m pretty sure that became his favorite child.

He cradles it in his arms, and I’ve caught him talking baby talk to it a few times. At least his background picture is of Rosie, my puppy, and not of the iPhone itself. But I don’t think he has a single picture of me or my brother on there. Just the phone itself and my dog. There’s something wrong with that.

Family gatherings have turned cliquey because of the iPhones. The iPhone people sit together and compare apps, and the non-iPhone people sit together and form a support group for family members of iPhone owners. I’m not even exaggerating. My dad now says that he has a mixed family: he and my brother are iPhone people, my mom and I aren’t. (The implication being that my mother and I are far inferior beings because we haven’t evolved to using iPhones yet.)

I worry sometimes that he’s planning a Stepford Wives style takeover, where one day we’re normal people who are living non-iPhone obsessed lives, and the next day we’ve been murdered and replaced with iPhone-using animatronics housewives.

So while my conversion to using a Mac may hasten my switch to using an iPhone, if you get the idea that I’m no longer human because my phone is suddenly all that I talk about, send help! I may still be alive in a dungeon somewhere with an older, deactivated cell phone, while the fake version of me compares apps with my dad and brother.

But worst case scenario, I bet Stepford robots can text without looking, even on an iPhone.