finslippy

The big time: basic cable.

There’s a chance I will be on television on Thursday night.

The show is called "“Great Things about the Holidays.” It’s one of those list shows—you know the kind. In which “celebrities” no one has heard of contribute ironic commentary on cultural events that hold no special significance for anyone. It’s the kind of show that we will all mock in a few years. I am proud to have been a part of it.

Anyway, I was interviewed a while ago; it was summer, and like the rest of the world, I didn’t believe that these “holidays” I was asked to speak of would ever return. But my friend was one of the producers, and she put me on the list to be interviewed, and then for some reason the Powers that Be said okay, and I said okay and I showed up and had makeup applied to my face with a trowel.

I had been given a sixty-page list of questions regarding everything holiday-related that anyone had ever thought of. Many of these things I found myself to be far too old to talk about. I mean, if they wanted to talk about Rankin and Bass, I had things to say. Or the Judy Garland Christmas special in which Judy was insolent to Mel Torme—yes! But what is this “O.C.”? And who is this Kwanzaa?

(For the record, I actually have never seen a Judy Garland Christmas special. I’m not that old.)

(Kids: Judy Garland was Liza Minelli’s mommy.)

(And Liza Minelli! Well, she's a nearly dead saucer-eyed songstress with a drug problem. Of course, I’m not one to point fingers right now. My fingers are too blurry.)

So! I read these many, many questions, and Scott and I spent a night coming up with witticisms regarding them. And then, in front of a camera, I relayed my jokes to the producer and the cameraman and my friend Jen and some other random person in what I hoped was a breezy and off-the-cuff manner. While I was attempting to be funny, my underarms destroyed my festive burgundy satin shirt by pumping out cupfuls of sweat. Eventually, when I realized everyone was actually laughing at my jokes, I relaxed and made some truly off-the-cuff remarks, which is probably when I said the idiotic things that they will put on the air.

My “friend,” who claims to care about me, quit the show shortly after editing one segment in which, she says, I appear. She seems to think that therefore they’ll include me in the rest of the show, because it would look weird to have a person only show up for one segment. (This segment I know I’m in deals with the “Jingle Cats,” which I guess is a video in which cats sing Christmas songs. We should all own it, because it is a Great Thing about the Holidays.)

So it turns out that the show is actually a four-part monstrosity, airing for two straight hours on Thursday night (from nine to eleven) and then for two more hours on Friday night, also from nine to eleven. And I have no idea if I’m in it at all. Luckily, according to this schedule, Bravo will be airing the show repeatedly, or at least until its audience begs them to stop airing it. So if you’re not thrilled about wasting four hours of your life on the off-chance that my glorious visage might appear, you could wait to see what I tell you about it and then waste four hours of your life. Or you could use one of those newfangled inventions, like your videotape recording machine gadget or your TiVo, and then fast-forward through it until you see me. I’ll be the one with the short hair and the damp shirt.

Withdrawn.

Hi! I’m back! How was your Thanksgiving! I am using multiple exclamation points to mask my growing despair!

Last week, I was down to five granulettinos of Effexor; this week I am officially drug-free. Last week I was merely crazy and unhappy; this week I am crazy and sick and miserable. Perhaps this makes me more entertaining. Whee! Look at the crazy lady! Is she wearing an oven mitt on her head? No, that’s her hair. Has she ever heard of a hairbrush?

If you are going to wean off of a drug that has a nightmarish withdrawal, you may want to wait until after the holidays have passed. Unless, that is, you have absolutely no problems with any member of your family and absolutely no issues regarding your childhood. In which case, why are you on drugs, you freak? And what’s that on your head?

If you cannot wait, you should avoid Thanksgiving altogether. Tell anyone who calls that you forgot. Better: don’t answer your phone. If, despite your careful planning, you find yourself confronted by your family and an enormous turkey, stay calm. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. Drink.

Try not to think about all the things you think about whenever you’re with your family. Try not to notice that your family has revived the hateful nickname your brother had for you when you were six. Imagine a name that made you feel like you were the ugliest girl in the universe. They think it's funny. Don't be so sensitive! Why are you so sensitive? It’s cute! they say. We’re using it again! Try not to hyperventilate. Drink more.

Do not attempt any conversation, for inevitably some relative who you’re pretty sure has a problem with you will utter a clumsily sarcastic remark that will send you reeling into the bathroom to plug up your leaking eyeholes with tissue. Don’t talk to your husband; he’s all concern and meaningful hugs but you know he’s minutes away from sending you to the emergency room. Notice that the alcohol isn’t helping the shaking and the rapid heartrate. And why was your mother looking at you like that? Was she looking at your ass and thinking my ass was perfection when I was her age?

Hide out with Henry, who is (sensibly) watching a movie, far from everyone who thinks they have clever things to say. Wait for time to pass. Tell your husband it's Henry's bedtime. Tell everyone else it's Henry's bedtime. Say goodbye. Keep your head down. Get out of there.

Go home. Hide under the bed. Repeat as necessary.

EDITED TO ADD: My family members are not "vicious" or intentionally cruel, and if I made them sound that way, it has more to do with my clumsy writing than anything else. The combination of family dynamics and my wonky brain chemistry was the culprit, here, not anything any one person did. (And they read my blog. And my mom's ass is still perfect.)

At least it’s for me and not at me.

Scene: Apartment. Alice is running from room to room, cursing under her breath. Henry is sitting amidst the piles of Star Wars guys.

Henry: Play with me. Play with me, Mommy. Play with me. Play with me. Play with me, Mama. [He knows this gets me.]

Alice: I can’t find my book. Where the hell did I put my book?

Henry: PLAY WITH ME.

Alice: I’m so frustrated! I have been looking everywhere for my book, which I just started, and I didn't want to like it but I do and I WAS JUST READING IT WHAT THE HELL DID I DO WITH IT?

Henry: I’m so frustrated too because you can’t find your book. Now play with me.

Alice: You have to give me a minute.

Henry: I am so mad at you right now.

Alice looks at the garbage bin. Could it be in there? But how? Why? What? She flips it open.

Alice: Henry! Do you want to hear a funny story?

Henry: I do want to hear a funny story.

Alice: My book was in the garbage, Henry. I put the book in the garbage. Because I am a crazy lady.

Henry: And I am laughing and laughing for you!

Three years, one month, and ten days ago.

I was reluctant to share this story, because it feels self-indulgent, somehow (unlike, say, the rest of this blog? This blog that is all about me?) but then I read this and thought, hell, that's good reading!

So here's mine. This is not for the squeamish; there are bodily fluids and shrieking and Dan Rather sightings.

I am haunted by hotness.

There’s something that’s been bothering me. And I think you know what it is.

That’s right. It’s the other Alice Bradley.

For years, Google searches for me have suffered at the hands of the other Alice Bradleys of the world.

There’s Depression-era cookbook author Alice Bradley. (I have a few of these books, so if you have a craving for Mock Veal in White Sauce or Anchovy and Catsup on Toast Points, I can help.)

Then there’s former slave Alice Bradley. (Do yourself a favor and look at that link. I’m not sure whether to be amused or horrified. Or both!)

Not to mention pseudonymous science fiction author Alice Bradley. And Alice Bradley, author of "The Governor's Lady," and some Alice Bradley who wrote books under the name Cousin Alice, and then a whole heap of dead Alice Bradleys.

Still, my ex-boyfriends could usually find me in the first few Google pages. Find me, and see all that they were missing.

But not anymore. And it’s all her fault.

I’m sure she’s a very nice person. She has pleasant hobbies, such as candle-making, and knitting. And lounging on floors of hotel conference rooms. She’s not afraid of a little dust, or off-gassing! She also enjoys striking suggestive poses near plants. And I’m glad for her!

Not to mention, she shows that models “can be hot and live a regular, quiet lifestyle.” And for years I had feared that my quiet lifestyle would destroy my looks. Thank you, Alice Bradley, for showing me how I wrong I was.

But lately she’s been cramping my style. Recently I’ve had to interview some wary subjects, many of whom Googled me and discovered that young men on the Internets are calling for “more hot pics of Alice!!” One subject actually emailed me and asked, “Is this you?”

Yes. For when I am not interviewing physicians, I am inevitably lying nude on a wood floor, rose petals tastefully shielding my nips. (Link NSFW, more or less.) Then I settle in for a quiet evening of candle-making. Nude candle-making.

There must be a term for this. Google-impaired? Google-hobbled? Someone! Come up with something!