I was excited to see this essay by my friend and fellow blogger Ruth turn up on The New York Times' most e-mailed list. That’s a bfd, ya know. Fame, fortune, dates with George Clooney are sure to follow.

In fact, she even heard from a Hollywood producer. I’ll say no more, but I’m proud of her. (Or whatever is appropriate to say here—it’s not like I invented her or anything.) I’m also plum (plumb?) tore up with envy.

Envy, as you know, is my deadly sin of choice. Well, not choice, exactly. It’s the sin I can’t seem to shake. I’m the Dame Edna of Dallas.

My envy is conflicted, of course, since Ruth’s witty essay is about having cancer. So while I would like the accolades she is receiving, I’d really prefer to take a different route. I’m pretty sure Ruth feels the same way.

She’s being very magnanimous about it, too. “You’re funny too,” she assured me. “You just need a fatal disease.”

I know, we shouldn’t even joke about stuff like that. But since Ruth’s essay is about laughing her way through cancer (however bitter the laughter), I give us a pass.

Nevertheless, I want to think of something appalling to joke about so I too can date George Clooney. (Since we all know he’s not going to marry Ruth or anything. He’s not the marrying kind. Besides, she already has a famous husband. Really. His research about the benefits of self-disclosure is standard in psychology textbooks. He's a personal hero since the research essentially validates what I do best--writing about myself.)

The only disease I have is Dr. Phil, whose rumored divorce is bringing more people to this blog than my wit has ever managed. He’s more popular, even, than crossdressers in saris. Is there a cure for Dr. Phil?

Labels: blogging, writing