At the Ring Boxing Club, boxers range in age, are both men and women, and include an award-winning author.
How does one describe Jenny Lawson?
There’s also her post about a Harry Potter-themed wig a friend knitted that’s supposed to resemble Ron Weasley’s shock of red hair. She also Tweeted Star Trek star Wil Wheaton to ask for a photo of him collating papers.
But “The Bloggess” is not all chickens and superhero capes. She’s upfront about her struggles to get pregnant, and her crippling anxiety.
“I’ve always felt that it’s very obvious to everyone around me that I am anxious, and nervous, and just about to hide under the table, which I probably will do at some point during this interview,” she told Here & Now‘s Robin Young.
Lawson has been named one of the top 100 bloggers of the year by the parenting website Babble, and her site gets two to three million hits a month.
Now in her new book, “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (A Mostly True Memoir),” Lawson writes about the bizarre upbringing that fuels her writing.
Robin’s Note: So many of you have enjoyed the Jenny Lawson conversation that we thought we’d throw in a web extra.
Here is a section that didn’t make it for time, but we think terrifically reflects her frank approach to life! Enjoy. As she would say, “You’re welcome.”
Advisory: There is explicit language in this excerpt
Hi. I know. The weird pattern in the butter dish, right? By now you’ve surely discovered it and are probably freaking out. Well, last night I discovered that if I make Eggos I can skip the butter knife and just drop the waffle directly in the butter tub. It’s awesome. Except that the hot waffle melts a weird pattern in the butter, like an all-yellow plaid, and the plastic tub melts a bit. I know you’d prefer I use a knife, because you’re kind of neurotic about this stuff, but honestly, I’m just not that kind of girl. Mostly because I’m trying to save the environment by not dirtying a knife that would have to be washed. I’m kind of a hero. Also, the knives are, like, all the way on the other side of the kitchen. Poor planning on your part. And by “on your part,” I mean “by letting me unpack the kitchen whenwe moved in.” I mean, I guess we could just switch the utensil drawer with the take-out menu drawer, but that seems like a lot of work. Unless I just pulled out the drawers completely and switched them!
Okay, now we have two drawers lying on the kitchen floor. I got them both out, but I can’t get them back in. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Don’t look in the butter dish.
P.S. If anything, you should be thanking me for the butter texturizer. Remember that fucking ridiculous Burberry-plaid car we saw, and you were all, “Wow! I wish someone would do that to my car and/or butter!” Well, Merry Christmas, asshole.
P.P.S. I’m sorry I called you an asshole. That was uncalled-for. Also, by now you’ve read this letter and will surely claim that you did not ask me to Burberry the car or anything else, but really, you’ve got more important things to focus on. Like fixing the three drawers that are on the kitchen floor.
But I thought if I took one more out slowly I could see how it worked, and then I could fix the others before you wake up, but that totally didn’t work. But I stopped at three. You’re welcome.
P.P.P.S. Shit. Okay, I thought maybe one more would give me the secret putting-the-drawer-back key. Turns out? Not so much. At this point I’m considering setting fire to the kitchen to cover my tracks, but I’m sure you’d just blame that on me too. So I won’t, because I know you’d be a jerk about it. And also because that would be wrong. I would never set fire to our house.
P.P.P.P.S. Okay, I just set fi re to the house, but it was totally on accident. I was trying to make you a pizza for breakfast, and I accidentally put a bunch of towels in the oven. I know it seems suspicious, since I was just talking about burning down the house, but it’s just a horrible, horrible coincidence.
I have to think that this never would have happened had our builders not put the bathroom so close to the oven. It’s like they wanted me to set fire to the house. Those guys are the assholes. Not you. I love you.
P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m going to stop at the store on the way home and buy you your very own tub of butter so you don’t have to see the melty Burberry one. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t just think of that in the first place.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. None of this is actually true except for the butter part. Aren’t you relieved? I know you are. And now you’re much less likely to freak out about the butter, because, Jesus, it’s not like I tried to burn the house down (except for that one time when I did, but that really was an accident, and the builder’s fault too, because who the hell leaves the oven instructions inside the oven? Someone who wants us all dead, that’s who). This was all just an exercise in perspective.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Don’t look in the butter dish.
Reprinted from LET’S PRETEND THIS NEVER HAPPENED (A MOSTLY TRUE MEMOIR) by Jenny Lawson with permission of Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam, a member of The Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Copyright (c) 2012 by Lawson