Heeeere’s Wendi!

So my guest posts are drawing to a close, because apparently I can only milk this pseudo-depressive state for so long. But I couldn’t end this without having my friend beautiful and talented friend Wendi Aarons chime in. There are many funny Wendi stories, but I was recently thinking about last summer when we were roommates at BlogHer in NYC and we talked late into the night. Finally, she wished I’d shut up and told me, “I have to go to sleep now and dream that Justin Bieber is my son.” Oh, that Wendi.

Definitely check out Wendi’s Third Annual Rejected Valentine’s Day Hearts</a>!
And whatever you do, make sure you’re following Wendi on Twitter. More laughs per tweet, guaranteed!
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When Marinka sent me an email asking me to guest post on her blog, I responded the same way I do every time I hear from her: “Who are you and why do you keep bothering me?”

Then she told me she’s depressed, so I became very concerned and immediately signed her up for Scientology. Because what lifts your spirits more than learning about your volcano alien ancestors while you’re putting chrome on Tom Cruise’s motorcycle? Not a whole hell of a lot, my friends. (And “putting chrome on Tom Cruise’s motorcycle” is only a euphemism if you’re an 18-year-old go-go dancer with a mustache who’s just signed a 20 page confidentially agreement.) (Or Katie Holmes.) (Or maybe that’s the same person; I’m not sure because I never watched Dawson’s Creek.)

Where was I?

Ah, yes! Marinka’s desperate plunge into darkness. Since she didn’t seem very interested in Scientology, I then registered her for a triathlon. One of those charity deals where people ride their bikes to help eradicate Juvenile Lumbago or something. Unfortunately, that plan soon fell through because it seems that unlike the rest of the world, Marinka’s idea of a triathlon involves the three sports of eating, drinking and watching Toddlers and Tiaras until she develops hysterical blindness. I know. It’s like she doesn’t even want to get better.

But, since I’m a (very wonderful and amazing) friend, I still didn’t give up on the old girl. Nope. No litely depressed Russian bloggers on my watch, Jack. After all, this is America! We can FIX this! We’re the global power that invented fucking Pajama Jeans! (But seriously, people, save that “poor me” shit for the countries that end in
“–stan” cause it really harshes my mellow when I’m trying to relax at Yogalates, OK?)

Which brings us to why Marinka may soon be facing trafficking charges in Juarez. Now, in my defense, the only reason I sent her those antidepressants from DrugMule.com was because I was staging a one-woman protest against Big Pharma and thought they’d cheer her up. How was I supposed to know that the FDA banned those pills in 1982? How was I supposed to know there’s an ongoing FBI sting operation? And I’m sure I’m not the only person who’s ever confused “Sexapro” with “Lexapro,” so is it really my fault that Marinka’s body is now going through certain “changes?” My highly paid legal team certainly doesn’t think so.

But now, now I’m at a loss. I’m fresh out of ideas on what I can give Ms. MotherhoodinNYC that’ll make her smile and snap out of her minivan blues. A male stripper? Yuck. A cute, fluffy puppy? Yawn. A hot, nasty three-way with Donald Trump and Mark Zuckerberg in the health-code violating kitchen of a Brooklyn IHOP? Nah, that’d just make her feel even worse—trust me. (And Donald? That doesn’t actually happen to every guy. See a doctor.)

That’s why it looks like the only thing I can do for Marinka is write this guest post and tell her with complete sincerity that I think the world of her and consider her a true friend.

And maybe, if it helps, I’ll even stop sending her emails to my spam folder.

One year ago ...

• Have a Nice Day - 2012