The Onion Presents a Book of Jean's Own! Read online

  Instead of mining the toilet bowl for jokes (eww!), I use as my inspiration the great newspaper humorists and columnists that I grew up with and who paved the way for my own career. I’m thinking, of course, of the late, great Erma Bombeck. Also, Art Buchwald, when he wasn’t being political, Ann Landers, when I wanted someone to tackle the truly hard stuff, and the “I’m not making this up” guy who writes in capital letters a lot. Not only did they make newspapers readable beyond the comics, they also showed that you can turn your fun hobby writing about ordinary life and stuff into a viable career! Well, in my case, semi-career. The Onion only pays me $40 per column. (No, it’s never been adjusted for inflation.) In fact, I provide what my editor refers to as “filler.” When they’re a little short on editorial content, or they didn’t sell enough ad space, plop goes a pre-written Room of Jean’s Own onto the page, where it fits as snugly as chocolate around nougat (Mmmm)!

  Okay, so I get paid peanuts and they only use my articles when they fit. But heck, I’m published, aren’t I? Goes to show how a true labor of love can eventually pay off in a small way. Besides, money’s near the bottom of the list of my priorities, believe me. Put another way, I love to sing, but “Dough-Re-Mi” is not in my repertoire! Also, I ask you: How many books have you read that are decorated with actual doodles by the author? It’s soooo intimate—almost like glimpsing into my notebook! Why isn’t that done more often by these bestselling authors everyone thinks are so great? (I’m talking to you, Jacquelyn Mitchard!) Had I the time and budget, Jeanketeers, I would crochet book covers for every copy, complete with a handle and an attached pom-pom bookmark. That craft definitely needs to develop beyond just Bible covers.

  Without years of dedication to what I believed in, this book would not exist. And yes, I am getting paid an advance for it. So what if, after taxes, it will pay off only part of my massive credit-card debt. Sure beats the heck out of court-ordered wage-garnishing, if you ask me!

  I Am Jean Teasdale.

  I am all around you.

  I see the joy and beauty of life.

  In even the most small and ordinary things.

  I am the smell of rain in the air.

  I am a daisy growing on the roadside.

  I am a soap bubble bursting on a dog’s nose.

  A chalk hopscotch game on the sidewalk.

  The reassuring, ever-present hum of a fluorescent light.

  A playground swing that has slipped one of its chains.

  I am the pilot light on a stove.

  A toy koala bear dangling off a rearview mirror.

  A sparrow nesting in the Pamida sign

  I am a pair of XL panties on the bottom of a clearance table.

  A square of lint caught in the dryer lint trap.

  A bag of chips stuck in the corkscrew spiral of a vending machine.

  I am a rainbow slick of oil in a rain puddle.

  I am the frayed cord of a hair dryer.

  A pant leg caught in a bike chain.

  A bent hair pin.

  The missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle.

  The stuck wheel on a shopping cart.

  I am the last remaining cheese puff in the barrel.

  I am a really good ballpoint pen.

  I am the cracked coffee mug the ballpoint pen is in.

  I am a desk drawer.

  I am a computer mouse.

  I am a computer screen.

  I am a computer keyboard.

  I am Jean Teasdale.

  Say It Loud and Proud—“I Feel Sorry for Myself!”

  Could somebody please tell me what’s so wrong with self-pity? I don’t know about you, but for me, feeling sorry for myself is like smearing Carmex on my chapped brain. By calling it a stigma, I fear we’re missing out on an unexpected pleasure. Even the term “wallowing in self-pity” sounds perfectly peachy—reminds me of relaxing in a nice, warm bubble bath!

  After all, if I don’t feel sorry for myself, who will? Certainly not Hubby Rick—when he’s not working, he’s out getting wasted. My pal Fulgencio wants to “keep it fun” (his words). As for my family, forget it. They’re far too self-involved to get involved in my self-involvement! My dad is a thrice-divorced shopping mall Santa whose whereabouts are currently unknown. When I call my mom, she always mentions the $100 I still owe her for a roundtrip Greyhound bus ticket eighteen years ago. And, saddest of all, I don’t have any children to confide in and give me reassuring foot rubs. So you can see how I have little choice but to cry on my own shoulder. Sure, it might look a little strange, but you have to work with what you’re given. Am I right?

  If you’re in the middle of a streak of bad luck, or you feel misunderstood or maligned in some way, don’t be some stoic fuddy-duddy—just give in and self-indulge! And I’m mainly talking to you, ladies! Women are so good at feeling sorry for others. Our hearts go out to virtually anyone with a problem. Well, it’s about time we directed some of that generous pity toward ourselves! Because if you think about it, we have a lot to feel sorry for ourselves for.

  Self-pity needs to stop being taboo, and your old pal Jean wants to bring it smack-dab into the mainstream. If you feel sorry for yourself, don’t hide it and don’t fight it—surrender! Say it loud and proud! Call in sick. Stay in your bedroom. Don’t wash your hair or brush your teeth. Dressing down is an absolute must—wear your old, worn, but comfy nightshirt (my Tweety Bird one is my personal fave!), or just your undies. Play fun mind games with yourself. Pretend that you never existed It’s a Wonderful Life–style, and envision the ways in which your family and friends would be deprived. Imagine revenge against people who have wronged you. Is this all mere bitterness? No way! In fact, it’s sweeter than a peppermint patty! It’s like muscle relaxant for the soul!

  Now, don’t worry, I’m not asking you to starve yourselves to death or deny yourself any contact with the outside world—far from it! A party is hardly a party without yummy snacks and entertainment and other creature comforts. When organizing a self-pity party, make sure you stock up on all your favorite snacks. I prefer a combination of the savory and sweet—cheese puffs (preferably the barreled variety, because they’re easier to seal than bags and stay upright on the non-level surface of a bed) and of course, my trusted old3 standby, chocolate (good ol’ reliable Hershey’s normally, but sometimes Fannie May Trinidads, Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs, or Ferrero Rochers for special self-pity occasions, especially those that fall around the holidays, or after unexpected events like job firings). Watch TV shows and DVDs to your heart’s content, preferably ones whose lead characters are heroic, misunderstood types who are ignored or mistreated (Lifetime Movie Channel is generally your best bet on this one).

  The cardinal rule about self-pity parties is that you have to go it alone. It doesn’t really work to invite people to your self-pity party; otherwise it becomes a plain old party. True, at a regular party, you can try to shift the focus onto yourself, and get all passive-aggressive with guests who have slighted you in the past, or put them on guilt trips for various things. But in general,4 self-pity is a bit too tricky to incorporate into a normal party. I guess it’s because of all the distractions.

  Besides, most parties with people only last an evening; a self-pity party can go on for days if you want—weeks, even! I’ve never done one for that long, but I did once spend nearly a week just floating, floating, floating on my waterbed, getting up only to go to the bathroom and eat chicken pot pies. (We keep a mini-fridge in the bedroom, and I moved the microwave in there, too, so I didn’t have to go to the kitchen—clever, huh?) Sadly, the fun ended when Rick called 9-1-1. Leave it to Mister Insensitive himself to completely misread my intentions and send a squad of paramedics over! Long story short, we ended up owing a big, fat $500 ambulance fee, and it was all I could do to persuade Dr. Plimm, my physician, from putting me in the psych ward. Apparently Hubby Rick isn’t the only type of person who thinks that someone who wants to be in bed for six days is loco in the cabeza. I swear, Rick only did that to humiliate m
e! I think he only cared that the microwave wasn’t in its usual spot. Really, Rick was the only downside to that whole experience. I felt just dandy!

  So the next time, when something unfortunate happens to you, or you just feel like saying “poor little me” in a special way, take a cue from your old pal Jean and throw your very own self-pity party! You have my guaranTeasdale that you’ll emerge from it feeling as relaxed, renewed, and revitalized as from any expensive day at the spa!

  Now, may I also ask what is so all-fired awful about the concept of “coasting through life”?

  What’s Better than Sex? Well, I’ll Tell You!

  I was inspired to do this list as I was making my patented “Better Than Sex” Cocoa Brown Sugar Caramel Brownies with Hazelnut-Mint Glaze. I had once heard the expression “better than sex” used to describe a sinfully tasty treat, and decided to “adopt” it for my own use. But then I thought, hey, wait—isn’t eating in general better than sex? Well, of course it is. Then that led me to think about the dozens and dozens of other things that are better than sex—so many that I got distracted and poured half a cup of baking soda into the brownie batter! Yuck!

  But come on, admit it—TONS of things are better than making whoopee. Answer me this: If sex is so great, why is it so many people have other things on their minds when they’re doing it, like what they’re going to have for breakfast in the morning, or wondering what that schmutz is on their pillowcase? Don’t tell me that never happens! Anyway, here’s my list of the 20 greatest things that are better than sex. (I originally came up with 161, no big chore, but the hard part was paring them down to the very best just for you!)

  Twenty Things that Are Better than Sex

  A rainbow after a rainstorm.

  The feeling you get after finishing a project you’ve put off for a long time.

  Finding $10 in a coat pocket.

  Leftover cookie batter or frosting!

  The first day of the year when your glasses don’t fog up as you come in from outside.

  A sudden cool breeze on a stiflingly hot afternoon.

  The feel of a stuffed animal against your cheek.

  An empty parking spot mere feet from the mall’s main entrance!

  Discovering a long-lost earring.

  The warm, fragrant scent of clean socks just out of the dryer.

  3-for-1 Fajitas Nite at Cactus Bill’s!

  Suddenly seeing a hot-air balloon in the sky.

  A snow day!

  Ice cream soup.

  An all-day Knots Landing marathon on SOAPnet.

  Putting a hat on your cat!

  Candlelight.

  A cozy afternoon nap.

  Scratching an itch (NOT in a dirty place!).

  Polarfleece.

  Lovin’ from Jean’s Oven

  No. 1: “Better Than Sex” Cocoa Brown Sugar Caramel Brownies with Hazelnut-Mint Glaze!

  Oh please, would I mention this mouth-watering recipe in the “Twenty Things That Are Better Than Sex” chapter and then not share it you? The cruelty would be unconscionable! Trust me—if you make these brownies, you’ll be wondering how a plate of fudgy-dudgy heaven could be so devilishly decadent at the same time!

  Ingredients:

  ½ cup (1 stick) butter

  1 cup unsweetened cocoa

  1 tsp. vanilla extract

  3 eggs

  2¼ cups brown sugar, packed

  ¼ tsp. salt

  1½ cups flour

  20 caramels

  ½ cup half-and-half

  For glaze:

  8 tbsp. marshmallow creme

  2 tbsp. water

  1/3 cup brown sugar, packed

  1/3 cup chopped toasted hazelnuts

  1/3 cup finely chopped mint chocolate candies (such as Frango mints)

  Preheat your oven to 325º F. Or just wait until a few minutes before you’re about to pop the batter in—nooooo pressure! This is all about having fun.

  Melt your butter in a saucepan, then pour into a large bowl. Add the unsweetened cocoa and stir until completely combined. Then add the vanilla, eggs, brown sugar, and salt, and beat. Once it’s all mixed, add the flour.

  Now set the brownie batter aside and turn your attention to the caramels and half-and-half. Melt the caramels with the half-and-half in a double boiler, stirring constantly. Keep an eye on them and make sure they don’t boil! Once completely melted, pour the caramel goo into the brownie mixture and mix thoroughly. Pour into a greased, 8-inch square baking pan and bake for 45–50 minutes, or until brownies are firm but still slightly gooshy in middle.

  We’re not done yet! While the brownies bake, prepare the glaze. In a saucepan on medium heat, stir together the marshmallow creme, water, and brown sugar. Add the hazelnuts and the mint chocolate candies, and stir until it’s all one big, brown, nutty, minty mass, melted and heated through but not boiling. Spread glaze across the still-warm brownies, then cover and refrigerate for about an hour.

  Once cool, cut the brownies into 2-inch squares and enjoy. Or just enjoy one 8-by-8 inch square—what the heck, you deserve it! Trust me, after this experience, you’ll never have sex again!5

  The Name Game

  I’ve been thinking a lot about names lately. Like, why are some of us named Mildred and some of us Brandi? No offense to the Agathas and Ediths of the world, but why would your parents give you an ugly old-fashioned name when there are much, much cuter ones that would look fantastic on a birth certificate or crib headboard? Like Jenni and Jessi and Kathi and Lyndi and Lori and Kelli and Kristi and Wendi and Merri? You know, names that signify fun, bubbly, and carefree. They make the tongue literally jump for joy, because it doesn’t have to gag itself on saliva (gross!) pronouncing something harsh or phlegmy. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that if your name ends with an “i” or an “ie,” you’re pretty much guaranteed a great life.

  At school, I always noticed how girls with cute names tended to have the coolest clothes, the most friends, and the highest popularity. (Our homecoming queen was named Shanni, and she went on to be a successful realtor in our area.) I think the Kerris and the Candis of the world will back me up on my theory. I don’t know if there’s anyone named Iiii (pronounced “Eee-eee”), but if there is, she has to be the happiest person on Earth!

  Granted, sometimes these girls could be kind of spoiled, even a tad rhymes-with-itchy, probably because they were treated like princesses for their entire childhoods. But it wasn’t hard to imagine why: They clearly meant the world to their moms and dads, who, from the moment Mr. Stork arrived, wanted to spare their daughters the lifelong pain of having a long, embarrassing, hard-to-pronounce name. I remember this popular girl Missi used to go around checking if the less popular girls who wore jeans to school had made sure to straighten out the interior of their front pockets right after putting them on. She’d actually stop them in the hall and carry out an inspection if she suspected them of slacking. If their pockets were still all bunched up (you could tell if they had a hard time slipping their hands into their pockets), they caught some real h-e-double-hockey-sticks (I know firsthand!). Is it normal to care about stuff like that? I suppose, since all the kids acted like Missi was the greatest thing since Madonna! Now imagine if Missi had been named Grizelda instead. She wouldn’t have been nearly the superstar she was.

  I know, you’re thinking, “Envious much, Jean?” Well, count me as an honorary member of the Cute-Name Club, because since I was knee-high to a pair of knee-highs, my dad has called me “Jeannie.” But it’s only my nickname, not the name I was born with, and I think that has something to do with the way my life has gone. I’ve been within grasp of the brass ring more than a few times (I almost got a job at Claire’s once, to name just one example!), but I always end up tumbling off the carousel horse. Maybe if I had been baptized a Chrissi or Missi, things would have a lot been different.

  To complicate matters further, my middle name didn’t exactly do anything to counteract the plainness of my first name. When I was bo
rn, my parents gave me the name Jean Meleanne. Meleanne? An interesting choice, you must be asking. Was that a traditional family name? Were my parents’ best friends named Mel and Leanne? Was it a play on “melons,” their favorite fruit? Or a tribute to their faithful old melamine dinnerware set?

  Heck to the capital N capital O! My middle name is not pronounced “Mel-Leanne.” Instead, it’s meant to be the name Melanie. My parents didn’t know for certain how to spell “Melanie,” and this was the closest they could figure. Ah well, they could have done worse—they were just off two letters. That’s not bad for people who only write checks, sweepstakes entry blanks, and Christmas cards. Of course, my parents (they’re named Horvel and Lillian, by the way) could have avoided the mistake by consulting a baby-name book or asking one of the nurses in the obstetrics ward, but who am I to judge? Parents have so much on their plate as it is, a daughter’s misspelled middle name amounts to a piece of spit-out gristle! I know because my mom told me this during one of our screaming matches. I was plenty devastated at the time (I was 17), but through the years I eventually arrived at her hard-won wisdom. Same with my old selfish assumption that my dad was out getting crocked at the supper club every night—truth be told, he owned a roofing company, and he had to wine and dine his clients to get business. Recognizing your parents’ sacrifices is part of the maturing process.