Today’s guest post comes from a Russian blogger named Marinka who is freakishly hilarious (notice the word “freak” in there). You’ve PROBABLY seen her skulking around such blogs as Motherhood in NYC and The Mouthy Housewives. I’m also speaking with her on a panel at BlogHer so I figured I should play nice in the sandbox with her for awhile before I throw sand in her eyes and pee on her dress.
Plus we’re friends, although I’m guessing that I probably won’t be inviting her to any dinner parties any time soon. She might have rabies or try and use one of my crotch parasites as a coaster. If she offends you, blame it on being lost somewhere in translation. I always do, although she probably doesn’t ACTUALLY speak a single word of Russian and is actually just insulting me every time we talk.
Remember, any insults should be directed AT Marinka, not Your Aunt Becky, who loves you and thinks you look fantastic in those pants. Wait, are those MY MISSING PANTS? Because 7 days later, the pants are still gone.
I’m so happy that Aunt Becky asked me to guest post because I have something to get off my Marilyn Monroe-like chest and I sure as hell don’t want to do it on my own blog.
Let’s say that you’re invited to a dinner party. Would you appreciate being told in advance if one of the guests were a dwarf? Because I’m firmly in the HELL YES! camp whereas my friend who hosted the party was all “what? Oh, yeah, I guess he’s a dwarf” about it. Which is fucked up.
So I walk into this dinner party and see the people and THEN there’s this short person and of course I immediately think “OMG” because I am very socially awkward and am only allowed to mingle with people occasionally, (ed note: GEE, I WONDER WHY) so I’m worried about how I’m going to mess this up.
Of course I don’t want to appear like I’m ignoring Peter the Dwarf because I’m uncomfortable, so I rush to him and engage him in some kind of conversational torture that he would like to end as soon as possible, without actually going through the exertion of having me killed.
During the whole conversation, which I totally dominate, because I don’t want him to think that I only came over there because he’s small, I am hyper-aware not to use words that imply shortness at all, even a little bit. Therefore, I am choosing my words carefully, but also speaking really fast, for a complete psychotic freak touch.
“You could have warned me,” I seethed to my friend later.
“What? Peter’s great,” she said.
“He is great, but he’s SO SHORT! And I was completely unprepared. I made a fool out of myself.”
“How do you prepare for HEIGHT?” she asked.
“Fuck do I know. I wouldn’t have rushed over to him like a moron and started talking nonstop. I would have been nonchalant. Like oh, hi!”
“Yes, the oh, hi would have been a nice touch. You were fine.”
And then I married a man whose secret pet peeve, unbeknownt to me (because apparently that’s how secrets work if you’re not a blabbermouth) is how badly dwarves are portrayed in movies. “I don’t understand,” he told me. “Why does Hollywood think that dwarves are funny and that it’s ok to laugh at people because of their height?”
“Why are you talking about dwarves?” I asked.
“It bothers me,” he said.
“Well, since we’re sharing,” I decided to strike, “if you were going to a social event, would you want to know if there was a dwarf in attendance?”
“What social event?”
“Like a dinner or a party.”
“No, just with friends. For fun.”
“Why would I need to know who was attending?”
“You know, to prepare yourself.”
“Prepare myself for what?”
“For…for the dwarfhood.”
“Why do you need to prepare for meeting a dwarf?”
“So that I’m not unprepared, obviously.”
“I wouldn’t want to look surprised.”
“I’m not the weird one here.”
He sighed the sigh of the ages. “Maybe people should warn their guests that you will be attending.
“Also a good idea,” I conceded.