We are HUGE fans of Jenny Lawson, AKA The Bloggess, here at The Stir. And it's not just because we are lucky enough to have her as one of our columnists, but because ... what's not to love? The 38-year-old mom is charming (when not hiding in the bathroom), is off-the-charts hysterical, likes to use the word "motherfucker" as often as possible, and talks quite openly about her vagina. And if all that isn't awesome enough, Lawson's new memoir, Let's Pretend This Never Happened, packed with as many arm condoms and cougar vampires as you could possibly stand, hits the world Monday.
Lawson's book entertains just as much as it conveys the message that, in her own unique words: "The very thing that makes people weird is also what makes them great. I want people to know that the things we want to pretend never happened are the very things that make life worth living. I'd also like them to buy another 10 copies to give to their friends and family."
We really wanted to highlight some of the funniest, classic Lawson moments of her new book, but honestly it was just too hard because every line is incomprehensibly hysterical. So we asked Jenny herself to tell us her personal highlights, and here's what she said:
The Stir: What was the hardest part of this book to write?
Jenny: I think it was the one about the being stabbed in the face by a serial killer. Not just because it sucks to get stabbed in the face. Mostly because I had to describe what a panic attack feels like and it made me have a panic attack. It wasn't fun.
"So then Victor wakes up and sees my face covered in blood and is all 'WHAT THE FUCK?!' I related to the group of awestruck bystanders. "And I'm like, 'I KNOW, RIGHT? THE NIGHT STALKER STABBED ME! and right then Victor jumps up and unsheathes his sword and runs down the hall brandishing his sword after the night Stalker, which was weird, because the the documentary had said he was still in jail, but I guess when you wake up and your wife's been stabbed you probably aren't thinking terribly straight, and personally I was just impressed at how quickly he'd unseathed his sowrd to run down the hall after a dangerous serial kill--"
Victor interuppted me: "Please, for the love of God, stop talking."
I looked at him curiously and wonderd what part of the story he was most appalled by, and then quickly clarified, "Oh! When I said he 'unsheathed his sword,' I didn't mean his penis, y'all. I was referring tothe samurai sword we keep next to the bed."
The Stir: There are a lot of animal (dead, alive, vampire) stories in your book. Which one moved you the most?
Jenny: My favorite animal was my pet duck Daffodil who was eaten by homeless people. I liked him better before he was eaten though. (A 5-year-old Jenny set her beloved duck free under a bridge in town when he got too big to keep at home.)
A month later the local news ran a story on the fact that all of the ducks in the river had gone missing and had been eaten by homeless people living under the bridge. It was aparently a bad neighborhood for ducks. I started, wide-eyed, at my mom as I stammered out, "HOBOS. ATE. MY. DAFFODIL." My mom stared back with a tightened jaw, wondering wehtehr she should just lie to me, but instead she decided it was time to stop protecting me from real life and sighed, saying, "It sounds nicer if you call them 'transients,' dear.' I nodded mechanically. I was traumatized, but my vocabulary was improving."
The Stir: Did any part of this book have you laughing out loud at the recollection of it?
Jenny: I laughed when I realized that I sent my principal an email with the word "recto-vaginal" in it (to fact-check some details about an agricultural class she took back in high school in which students artificially inseminated cows). But it was one of those weird nervous laughs where I wished that I would stop sending emails when I was drunk.
[My sister] agreed that I should probably call his secretary and ask him to delete the e-mail from his account before he opened it. It was too late, though, because he'd immediately opened it and replied to it, and seemed entirely unfazed. Also, he assured me that practically no one was doing it rectovaginally back in the early nineties, which is totally so true on so many levels. He also looked for photographs, but never found any, probably because no one ever takes pictures of underage girls with their arms up cow vaginas. Most likely because those pictures are more likely to end up in evidence lockers than in books about golden childhood memories.