Always judge people-books by their covers, or something
I was listening to the episode of WTF with Chelsea Handler and finding myself actually kind of liking her, and that was surprising to me, and I was proud of myself for being able to change my feelings towards people like some very mature and thoughtful ADULT, and everything was going great, UNTIL Marc Maron pointed out how sexist it was that everyone always thinks Chelsea Handler slept her way to the top, and he asked if she agreed, and SHE SAID:
"No. Sexism is bullshit to me. I don’t even buy into that anymore, I mean, men and women are equal and that’s that, in my mind."
AAAAAND that’s why I always say, never ever ever give people a second chance!
The only thing you need (?) to know about my night last night...
…is that I ended up in a Korean half-hair salon, half-karaoke bar (!) across town, with three friends from school (just three), and we paid for 2.5 hours of singing, and I scream-sang “Zombie” as well as a fair amount of early Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys. Even though I promised them I wouldn’t sing, even though I warned them all about my voice’s interesting pitch decisions, even though it was a Monday night, and even though we had gone out at 5:00 intending to stay for one drink and didn’t get home until 7.5 hours later.
The video playing behind every karaoke song we did was a series of different shots of animals running, climbing hills, and mating. So like, under “It Wasn’t Me” by Shaggy, there were just a bunch of water buffalo calmly walking around a field. It was really weird. But at the end there was a lot of group hugging, because karaoke makes you do a lot of things you didn’t want to do, but feel really sentimental about it after.
Things My Best Friend Has Said to Me in the Past 24 Hours
"No one can see a private blog post, right?"
"Would it work if I pulled my dress down BELOW my bra, if I button my jean jacket over it?"
"I have a weird song in my head. ‘Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,’ from Lion King.”
"I thought you were going to just come chat with me after class, like girlfriends do."
"We both have zits in the same place, but yours is closer to your mouth."
"If you win an award for your thesis, I am going to shoot you."
"Don’t get mad, but you would get to meet more people if you left the house more."
And then, in a handwritten note because I was crying with my Darth Vader doll (…WHAT, it was about other things, not her, and he’s a really good shape for comforting), “Never give up. Never let go … <3, Jack.”
of TV shows where the ENTIRE COMEDY of the thing revolves around the female character (or the female characters) being regularly humiliated, or having to have bad sex with her asshole boyfriend whom she stays with for no goddamn reason, or being nasty to her female friends at every turn, or being socially inappropriate, or being clumsy, or eating a lot (LOL), or being wildly irresponsible with her money, or being an entitled brat. Women sometimes have these characteristics (I have at least two!) but no single one of them makes a woman or speaks to a whole person’s character and on TV these markers are used that way ALL THE TIME to be like, “Well hey, this woman is unique." And I guess it is just no longer revolutionary to me to point out that yes, women get treated like shit by men sometimes and haha, it’s so funny that we still date them anyway. That’s just life, right? (No! Not always! And it certainly isn’t everything!) I mean, jesus, my friends and I have had our fair share of poor decisions but nobody sits around reveling in them and what’s funny about it isn’t that it happens and we put up with it, but that we realize it afterward, having left and moved on. Or something! I don’t know! It just makes me mad!
AND THAT is why I don’t think I would like Girls, even though I haven’t seen it yet.
“The Republican-American of Waterbury reports that a person driving in Litchfield at about 2 a.m. Tuesday reported that a green, glowing object the size of a whale fell from the sky and crashed into Bantam Lake.”—Mystery object seen in sky revealed
So many things to love about this quote and this story! 1) The inclusion of his political affiliation! 2) The use of a whale for comparison size! (What TYPE of whale, though??) 3) The fact that the article reports that this was “a meteor shower.”
I mean, come on. How many glowing green meteors do you really see these days? *X-Files theme music*
I am really excited about this thing that I wrote for BuzzFeed, just posted today! I was writing a piece for them about emoticons and so I just decided to email the inventor of the Internet smiley with some questions, and he responded right away with amazing answers! It was like a proper interview! Most important of all: he agrees with me that you should never use equal signs for your emoticon eyes, under pain of death. His words! Practically.
Our choices seem to be: small hole WITH cat fur and small hole WITHOUT cat fur.
So! I’m going to take the advice of The Secret (which I’ve never read but whose message I understand to be “ask for something and you get to have it”) and list everything I want for our new place, in the hopes that that place will manifest itself to me.
1. 2 bathrooms.
- It just seems like two adults who aren’t having sex with each other should not have to share a bathroom. If all the adults who lived together and slept together were forced to donate their surplus bathrooms, as they should be, think of how many bathrooms would be left to spread among the rest of us.
2. An office.
- Ever since I read in Mindy Kaling’s book that she works out of her bed, I’ve though, hey, I can do that. (I can’t do that.)
3. A stained glass window that plays Gregorian chants when you approach it.
- It would just be nice. (This is maybe a really former-Catholic thing to want.)
4. A spacious backyard, with a horse.
- Rylee likes to garden, I like to imagine riding a horse. In a plaid shirt, hair billowing, etc.
5. A walk-in closet with a small subsection of the closet built for crying.
- We both like crying in our closets.
6. An observatory.
- For UFO look-outs.
7. A balcony.
- For singing Evita off of.
8. A treasure room, like the cave in Aladdin.
- I think about that cave a lot.
9. All for $950 a month, total.
- New York readers: this is not a crazy price. I mean, for this stuff it is. But this is kinda sorta average for little 2 bedrooms in the Twin Cities. I’m sorry. :( Come visit, come move in, we’ll get a 4 bedroom and it’ll be so cheap.
“The Hairpin, the upmarket, intellectual, hipster version of Jezebel, is unabashedly proud of, and fascinated by, “girl stuff.” Ask a Clean Person and Beauty Q&A are weekly features, as is Friday Bargain Bin, in which one of the editors, Jane Marie, recommends excellent discounted things to buy yourself, from makeup and clothes to vacations and a bronze-finish mermaid sculpture. But alongside these articles, the Hairpin runs interviews with abortion providers, first-person accounts of experiencing stillbirth, regular book reviews and talks with authors, and a series called Reading Between the Texts, which both acknowledges and satirizes the small and absurd neuroses of instantaneous communication. The Hairpin approaches women’s lives with thoughtfulness and critique, and there’s nothing more feminist than that. Though it covers topics that have traditionally fallen under a woman’s duty, I see the Hairpin as a venue to reclaim those tasks in an empowered and conscious way—similar in a way to the DIY punk movement, which is also the background of Jane Pratt, xoJane’s founder, who started Sassy magazine in the 1980s.”—
Diana Clark, “Growing Up Slowly: Ladyblogs, Womanhood, and Extended Adolescence in the Internet Age.
I like this piece! I especially like this paragraph (except, tiny thing, for the inclusion of the word “hipster,” agh), for obvious reasons. To see my text series included there (and understood! I FEEL UNDERSTOOD) makes me really, really proud - of myself, yes, but of The Hairpin in general and this Internet community of women who, since I started writing on the Internet just under a year ago, have continually knocked my socks off with their kindness, humor, brilliance, and look-out-for-each-other-ness.
Last Friday I went with my mom to this makeup demonstration class thing (that’s its official name) at Nordstrom because her favorite saleslady invited her and told her she could bring me. The class was “free” in that they do not charge you to attend, but it was “not free” in that you do not leave that room without buying makeup.
I knew I was in trouble because the spokeslady running the event had one of those hyper-expressive faces that make you want to do whatever it is they are telling you to do because it’s stressing you out. She introduced everyone and then had one of the Nordstrom employees work as a model, first washing off all her makeup and then sitting in a chair in front of the “class,” which was me, my mom, and three women in their fifties and sixties. Then the spokeslady went along making-up the model’s face step by step, one product at a time. She held each product in her hand like it was a giant ruby.* (*When my brothers and I were little we had an Ancient Egypt Lego set and there was a treasure ruby you could clip into the Legos’ hands. That’s kind of what I’m thinking of.)
At first, with the face creams and the eye serums, I was kind of like, “Yeah, okay, whatever,” because I have learned, by being a Mall of America shopper, to write off the first five minutes of any sales pitch given to me. DO NOT ENGAGE is my main survival tactic in the face of endless kiosks and the borderline-sociopathic enthusiasm of Lush employees. I’m tall, I walk quickly, and I ooze hostility, so usually this works out okay. But at this makeup class, they had me defenseless: I was seated, I was with my mom, and I have a weakness for things that will make my face prettier. That, plus the constant ooh-ing/aah-ing of the older ladies around me, wore me down a little. I thought I’d be okay, but then came the personalized tutorials.
I’ve only ever gotten into trouble with the authorities once.
In the church where I attended preschool, we had a system. An easel stood by the door where our parents dropped us off, and on it stood a board with little envelope pockets for each area of the school’s large main room. There were “Reading Loft,” “Building Blocks,” “Trucks and Trains,” and “Music” sections, but the crown jewel was obviously the one labeled “Dress-up.” When we got to school, we’d search the little bag hanging off the easel for our name tags, place them in one of the play area envelopes, and head over to our designated areas to play until snack time, when we’d all switch. There could only be four name tags in each envelope at a time, to avoid overcrowding. It was a very clean and organized structure. I respond well to that kind of mandated order.
The dress-up area was a Goodwill- and donation-based collection of real treasures. There were old lace up boots, high heels, shawls, sparkly stretch leotards, and dozens of dresses. Everything was about a hundred times too big, which is actually a good thing in a dress-up area, because then you can make every item of clothing into something else. It was all great, but there was this one skirt in particular - this blue-green chiffon thing with an elastic waist that almost fit us if we pulled it up to our armpits. It was, by far, the best-preserved item on the hook. So everyday there was a race between the other dress-up girls and I, to see who could get to it first in the morning. I remember it being slow-motion, but it was probably the normal speed at which kids run.
… watched pots DO boil. They do! It’s just that you sit around wasting a LOT OF TIME waiting for it to happen, and I guess the point is that you could be doing something more productive with that time, but I like to be there when the first bubble breaks because then I can get my pasta (or whatever) in right away. The same goes for my email (I want to SEE it arrive) which is why I will keep sitting in front of my laptop, torturing myself, waiting for some IMPORTANT FUCKING BUBBLES.
Also, with boiling water, you can add salt to make things go more quickly. Is there an email equivalent for this? There isn’t. It might be Netflix, in another browser window.
Hi friends! How Was Your Week was nominated for “Best Podcast,” alongside heavyweights Comedy Bang Bang, WTF, The Nerdist and Sklarbro Country.
Please vote for me! Not only because I’ve been endorsed by both the author of Columbine and Twitter user @fart, but because if I win, I promise to make it legal for dogs to drive, and MANDATORY for them to sing and play the piano at the same time.
Thank you for your consideration.
P.S. If I get to attend, I’m taking Spoony. He better get himself a tuxedo! Or at least a tuxedo cat.
Everyone ought to vote for Julie Klausner, and I say that even as someone who is also a very big fan of Marc Maron and WTF (as has been mentioned on this very blog!). And yes, that’s a 10% affirmative action-based urging on my part, as Julie is the only woman nominated, because if she wins then maybe all my other favorite women comics, comedy writers and comedians will start podcasts and receive trophies for them. WE TAKIN OOOOOVER, one city at-a-time, that type of thing. The other 90% of the reason is because Julie Klausner is a wicked smart and funny lady who gives me all the best commentary on things I never knew I needed commentary about, like Pauley Perrette, for example.
Picture this nightmare scenario: you are walking on a quiet street and a tumbleweed rolls across the sidewalk in front of you. You didn’t know tumbleweeds were even a real thing that happened, but they are - I saw them in Arizona and it was crazy. You notice a shop with dusty windows, and you go inside. There isn’t anybody working at the counter, and there isn’t much in the store apart from two long wooden shelves nailed to the wall opposite you. You walk towards them, looking nervously behind you (because who works in this store?), to get a closer look at the odd-looking boxes that sit atop the shelves. They’re metallic and robotic-looking, and taped on the shelves’ edges beneath each one are handwritten labels. They are names. Familiar ones - the names of every person you’ve ever loved. (Not loved, necessarily. “Thought you could love” is sufficient.) So now you’re scared, and you look around you one more time, and still there is no one. So you select one of the boxes, you pick it up off the shelf, and you press its large white button. The voice of that memory-person (you don’t see him or her any longer) rings out, pitch-perfect. The voice says that one word or phrase - the one the voice’s real owner was always saying - that you hated even then, but hate even more so, now.* Your face curls up, disgusted. You turn around to leave - it’s scary and irritating to be in here - but the door is gone. So are the windows. It’s only you and the voice boxes. Do you walk around pressing the buttons, or do you choose the silence? After a while, won’t you start hearing the words you know the boxes would say, if you were to push their buttons, anyway?
*For me, one of these words - the worst one, maybe - is “dope.”