I Like You, Amy Sedaris

If it wasn't enough that I already doodle in my diary, "Dear Diary, Someday I'm gonna meet Amy Sedaris and we will be BEST FRIENDS. We'll make matching aprons with squirrels on them, take our pet rabbits for an easter-egg hunt around the dirt-brown sofa, and crawl into the bottle together," now the jimmy-covered tramp has gone and written a fabulous new book, "I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence." Since I am illiterate, I skipped straight to the audio CD version. I got it at the store.

The four-disc set is read by hers truly and offers such helpful hints as how to decorate for deaf children, discourage having guests pee in your bed, and how to recycle half-eaten cheese balls. Basically, it covers everything you need to know about being the hostess with the mostest rump roastest. Barring that, you will at least learn that you should never interrogate widows at the wake, two year olds do well with gifts of old lightbulbs, and googly eyes are an excellent way to send Ms. Sedaris off in style: by which she means, bury her wearing them instead of her real eyes.

There were, however, a few things missing from this tarty little packet of shiny roundy things that made all sorts of sounds that I experienced as words. One, where she purchases her plastic baked turkeys. Two, if her agent calls her in for cable access commercials for funeral homes. And three, if the box the CDs came in is edible. Hope so. Ran out of whipped cream and sprinkles...isn't imitation the highest form of flattery, or in this case, hospitality?

When I Have Fans My Neurosis Will Be Validated

Do you recognize me? I hope not. I have made my best efforts to go incognito to our neighborhood restaurant. Yes, I know I come here several times a month—I try to switch it up so you won’t know me, but unfortunately I really appreciate this particular menu.

Why am I so paranoid? What exactly am I donning sweatpants and a hoodie to hide from? When is the last time I washed my hair, and who is that well-dressed and groomed person that looks vaguely like me and also seems to live in my building?

Am I actually famous and chased by paparazzi?

The answer, my friends, is no(t yet). And why would such a nervous Nelly aspire to such prominence when she doesn’t even want to make eye contact with the waiter? Why would this native New Yorker with her fuck-you shell to coat her shy insides even consider such a public career as acting?

Because when I have fans, my neurosis will be validated. After all these years of therapy, I am still neurotic. That’s not heading out any time soon. So as a hallucinatory person may pull up a chair and cut cake for their imaginary friend, so shall I court my audience in my hobo outfit. So shall I.