Hooray for a return to common sense

I know, I kid, I joke around, I write lists of stupid things to do to stave off boredom during a natural disaster. As a former New Yorker, watching the devastation of Hurricane Sandy on the region–let alone hearing the stories of my friends and their families suffering through the aftermath–has made me really recognize that, wow, what the important shit in life is.

And one thing this week has brought about is a return to common sense. It saddens me to say this, but a few of the last times we had a return to common sense, i.e. people put aside a lot of their petty shit to work on big-picture items, happened during 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. Does it really take a disaster of these proportions to start making sense of a lot of bullshit? Maybe so.

In any case, may I write a serious post about a serious salute to a return to sanity. Here goes?

1. New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg endorses Barack Obama for president–largely based on acknowledging and working on programs about climate change. If you’re still one of those idiots out there wearing a windbreaker in fucking January in Iowa and bragging at your local store, “Global warming, my ass!” you are truly a fucking idiot out wandering around. It’s time to acknowledge that we’re heating the pad up, folks. And we need to figure out how to open a few windows. (And thanks to Jen W. for this awesome true story.)

2. Speaking of awesome Bloombergian acts of awesomeness this week, the Bloomberg-owned BusinessWeek today had this story.

It's global warming, stupid. BusinessWeek said that. Not me.

3. I am not a fan of New Jersey Republican Gov. Chris Christie, but damn if he doesn’t embody the New Jersey spirit of getting shit done. And his putting shit aside and being cool with Obama? Class act.

4. FEMA is actually working. It’s actually working! Somewhere, Michael Brown is cringing.

5. And one thing that doesn’t smack of common sense one bit. In fact, this is the anti-common sense. And if you don’t see this as a complete and utter lack of common sense, or compassion, or being able to empathize with people in times of need who don’t have, as Bill Mayer put it during Hurricane Katrina, several cases of Poland Springs bottled water to throw in the back of their Land Rover to make it out of a hurricane zone, this is it: Mitt Romney basically collecting a bunch of worthless shit to make his campaign look better after the hurricane hit the Eastern Seaboard. No, Mitt, we don’t need your used T-shirts and sweatpants and canned fucking Campbell’s soup. These Americans need real help. But thanks for trying.

Vote, kids! And vote right.

11 things I would totally like to do during a hurricane…

Ok, so I’m no longer on the East Coast, but while I lived there, I definitely harbored huge Escape From New York fantasies, in other words, what to do when the shit hit the fan.

My favorite involved a version of Grand Theft Auto, in which I would punch a soccer mom at a Park Slope stoplight, steal her station wagon, then go bee-bopping through the neighborhoods, sipping whiskey and smoking as I listened to Guns n’ Roses’ ‘Appetite for Destruction,’ only to finally crash into Prospect Park for The End!

I was never going to sit in traffic in the Holland Tunnel, let’s just put it that way.

And so, now I’ve missed three natural disasters since I’ve left NYC: Three! Hurricane Sandy has made me a little nostalgic for all that hardened NYC survival shit. So here goes, 11 things I would totally do during a hurricane:

1. Create an awesome fake Mitt Romney Twitter feed: Oh, somebody already did this! (Thanks for FB post, Ahmad!).

2. Speaking of Mitt Romney, I would probably want to leave my house for a bit and blow off some steam. Since emergency services are down, this is probably a great time to go door-to-door, asking folks if they’re voting for Romney. Yes? Punch them in the face and run.

3. Times of duress that include losing power call for sex and drinking, sure. But what about superstripscrabblesmokeoutsupersexysexdrinkingsandwichmakingbodegalootingselling cigarettesfortwentydollarsapacktothekidsonthecornerhappyfunhurricanetimes?

4. Put on all my sparkly clothes and makeup and re-enact the ‘Real Housewives of New Jersey’ reunion special with myself.

5. Throw away any crap I no longer want out the closest window.

6. Take candy from a baby.

7. Get a canoe.

8. Pray to Jeebus in the canoe. Kidding!

9. Begin my lengthy hate-mail campaign for ‘American Idol’ Season 12, with a special fixation on Mariah Carey.

Doesn't this look like a porno video cover?

10. Finally, time to get that sex tape storyboarded out!

11. Tweet the ‘Today Show,’ suggest places Al Roker can stand.



You’re Stupid: Attack of the Jerkface Girl, Part 2

I love it when I get unsolicited updates like this. Remember our little miss can’t be wrong, Dusty Vag, in the last episode?

Here’s an update from our intrepid reporter on the street:

“Two more things came up recently that rubbed me the wrong way. First, she said the man needs to pay for everything. Of course. She also seemed fine making the man who pays for everything wait while she arrives late for a date. When asked why she didn’t just text him to say she’d be late, she said she didn’t want to give out her number. Second, she’s complaining about being unemployed because ‘it’s not fair, it’s not like I don’t want to work.’ This is a woman who spent a month at her parents’ place in Spain, instead of looking for a job. Ugh.”

Me: “Why are you hanging out with this asshole?”

“She’s my girlfriend’s housemate. And she owns the condo. And by own I mean her parents undoubtedly paid the $500,000 or so that it’s worth.”

“Tell ur gf to move.”

And now a little Joel McHale to sweeten your day:

Holy, Shitballs! Am I Elite?

The other day, I was doing some research at work. You know, going through some studies of what qualifies as qualifying as “affluent” in this American life. And upon reading some of the factoids, I realized, gulp, that maybe, could I? Have I joined the affluent ranks of America?

Well, according to one study, if your combined household income is over $150K, then yes, you are considered “affluent.” Yet another one said $200K. I don’t know about you, but having a combined household income over $150K may get you pretty far—you know, above-ground pool and a leased Beemer—in fucking Alabama, but it’s not going to get you very far in any place that anyone actually wants to live, like say, on a coast.

To help us all figure out where we land in this new economy—even with a jobs report reporting a slight uptick for September—I have compiled a quiz that will let you know if your small-dog pampering, summer-house sharing, yoga-taking ass is considered closer to the 1 percent that we all despise. Get comfortable with your income bracket and get ready to enjoy the ‘Holy Shitballs! Am I Elite?’ quiz:

  1. Do you pay other people to exercise?

A. My exercise is getting out of the car when the drive-thru is shut down.
B. No, but I go outside and walk around a lot, like smug French people, and feel very pleased with myself while I’m doing this.
C. Yes, my home gym has awesome stuff like a sauna and elliptical.
D. Yes, I have a personal trainer who comes to my home/office three times a week to yell at me and tell me what to do.

  1. Do you have a person of a different nationality coming to your home to take care of your children?

A. Hell, no. A bag of Doritos and a TLC “Honey Boo Boo” marathon is all they fucking need.
B. No, they go to daycare, where they roll around in a disgusting, snotty pit with at least 30 other children, licking on one another all day.
C. Yes, she’s a lovely Jamaican woman, and she just loves my little angel!
D. Yes, I have six of them, two alternates on speed dial. And I am Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

  1. Do you only eat organic and/or locally sourced produce and food?

A. Taco Bell has all the vegetables I need.
B. No, I buy what’s on sale, but I try to eat mostly vegetables.
C. Yes, Whole Foods and my local farmer’s market is my Lord and Savior.
D. I don’t eat.

  1. Do you regularly use/consume any of the following?

A. Pampers/Pepsi
B. Soy milk/Raisin Bran
C. Cocunut Water/Sushi
D. Cristal/Starbucks

  1. Who are you voting for in this presidential election?

A. Mitt Romney
B. Barack Obama
C. Do I vote?
D. Mitt Romney

  1. How do you get around?

A. 1996 Hyundai
B. 1986 Volvo
C. 2013 Beemer
D. Black Escalades

  1. The last time I was on a bike…

A. I never had no bike.
B. Within the last hour.
C. Last weekend’s Sonoma Wine Country ride, of course!
D. That is so cute.

  1. I tend to have sex with…

A. Cousins
B. My soulmate, who embodies every one of my hopes, wishes, dreams and desires. We even made an extended video of our tender relationship and put it on YouTube for the world to see and feel bad for you because you are not as in love as we are.
C. Secretaries, neighbors, wife’s best friend and her daughter.
D. Those I pay.

  1. The last splurge I spent money on was…

A. The soft toilet paper—Charmin!
B. An organic farm share with my friends.
C. An Omega watch, because I deserve it.
D. A Namibian orgy fuckfest.

  1. Do you consider yourself a 99-percenter? Or one-percenter?

A. Neither. That Occupy stuff was some pussy, liberal-arts college kid shit.
B. The 99 percent, of course, but you know, I can still feed myself and buy a six-pack of microbrews whenever I want.
C. 99 percent. I’m tired of Obama saying he’ll raise taxes on those who make more than $250K a year. I had to sell my second home last year!
D. One percent? Please. Try the .000001 percent.

Mostly A’s. If the thought of New York City’s over 16 ounces drink ban infuriates your very being and you consider it an infringement on your rights, then you are an A.

Mostly B’s. Eh, you are so middle class, toiling away in some supposed “professional” desk job with stagnant wages and shrinking benefits. Good luck paying back your student loans, asshole! Or, that’s what Mitt Romney’s brain is thinking as he stares out at you and your sad little protest sign.

Mostly C’s. Congratulations. You are a yuppie douche and probably have your own show on Bravo.

Mostly D’s. You are either the head of your own tech startup and make millions of dollars hand over fist. Or you are a celebrity. Or Mitt Romney. However you made your money, of course, is your business. But you are indeed elite and very much part of the problem.

Rules of Writing? Go Fuck Yourself

Every now and again, some jackass will post an “inspirational” type piece on writing. These so-called pieces of writerly wisdomisms usually include such nuggets as quotes from Mark Twain or Oscar Wilde or Dorothy Parker and basically give you the same no-shit Sherlock advice that your fucking sophomore-year, creative-writing TA did.

And may I say, I’m here to officially ask for it to stop.

This week, our clichéd “how to write” piece comes from none other than McSweeney’s, that Dave Eggers’ vehicle of all that is twee and precocious and politically correct in this world. Reading McSweeney’s is like being skull-fucked by a thousand mewing kittens, all picking at your eyeballs with their tiny, precious claws. It’s the same reason I hate Pitchfork. I don’t care if the new Fiona Apple single reminds you of that time you had an organic potpie in Michigan while roadtripping with your friends on the way to the Womyn festival. I just fucking don’t.

We have come to claw your brains out with our witty banter and unorthodox use of our advanced vocabulary.

And so, as an official call to end these types of tripe from ever seeing the lights of Internet again, I’m going to be a complete hypocrite and put up my own rules of fucking writing. And no, this isn’t from your TA who’s making $12,000 a year trying to get their book of post-post-feminist-freegan collection of poetry about unicycles published. This is from someone who actually does this shit for a living.

You know that rule about writing every day? Fucking don’t. Unless you are someone like Stephen King, or any of the others enjoying their idyllic writerly existence, who can get up every morning, pound on the keyboards for four or five hours or so, then enjoy afternoons of leisurely sojourns and refreshments, you are probably like everyone else who tries to write and has a day job.

Writing when you have a fucking day job is fucking hard. Like crazy hard. Especially if your day job is sitting in front of a computer all day. The last thing in the world I want to do at the end of an 8 to 10 hour stretch in front of a computer fixing other people’s writing is fucking write. For anyone who does work the day job and has a family and still manages to crank out a few hours after the kids go to bed? You deserve a fucking medal. But I still don’t want to hear about it at your backyard barbecue. I get it, you’re awesome and disciplined. And I’m not.

Look, writing is a chore, a tough gig, a pain in the ass. It’s a JOB. Even Joan Didion said, and I paraphrase, “My favorite part of writing is not writing. It’s when I’m finished.” You know that blissful glow you get when you know you’ve finished something good? Yeah, that’s why we do it. So be reasonable. Get yourself a schedule and try to stick to it—and like everything else—take breaks from it. So don’t beat yourself up for taking one. And don’t make anyone make you feel lesser because you step outside and enjoy nature once in a while. That is crucial to the creative process too.

Don’t be a pussy. You know how many writers are pussies? Lots. Let’s just say don’t be a prima donna, don’t be an asshole and respect everyone you work with, and you should get along fine. Martyr Moment: I once cranked out a piece on deadline after I’d spent 10 hours in the emergency room and came home with my left arm in a full cast. I pecked that 600 words out one-handed. I knew I could call it in sick and miss the deadline. I also knew that would probably be my last shot writing for that publication. It took me four hours and it sucked. But that’s what professionals do. Life is hard. Writing for a living is even harder. Suck it up.

Don’t write under the influence of substances. Repeat: You are not Hunter S. Thompson. You are not Bukowski. No one cares about your trip on ’schrooms. Moving on…

Obey traffic signals and rules. Editors ask for what they need with the rules and stipulations in place for a reason—don’t get all “creative” and add an extra 1,000 words because you were “on a roll” and “there’s some really great quotes here.” No one cares. Follow the rules and everyone wins. As someone once said, if you have no interest in making a living at this, save that fucking shit for your journal.

Carry a notebook everywhere you go. Take notes. It’s crucial to keeping info handy. You will forget that awesome quote you just heard from that crack whore in Tompkins Square Park.

Hang out with people you normally wouldn’t hang out with. One of the biggest mistakes writers make is only hanging out with other writers. This is an incredibly masturbatory practice that may make you the hero of your book club, but it ain’t gonna help generate any new kinds of stories. New people and dialogue will only help your writing. Get out of your comfort zone.

The same can be said for trying new shit all the time.

Read selectively and be smart about how you spend your time consuming other writing. I don’t finish books just because they are there. Period. If I’m not digging something by chapter two or so, I pitch it. Guess what? I’ve done my due diligence in high school and college—and even forced myself to read some shit because it was supposed to be THE SHIT (Franzen and Eugenides, I’m staring right at ya), but time is precious and life is short. Reading is ultimately recreation, and if you’re not enjoying something or learning something PUT IT DOWN. There’s tons else to read.

Learn to use other forms to tell stories. In this multimedia age of ours, there are so many ways and mediums to convey a great story—video, podcasts, cartoons, etc. Get out there and learn how to do some of this other shit. Integrate it into your storytelling. It’s more fun for you—and it’s certainly more fun for the reader.

Make reasonable goals. As in, “I’m gonna have that e-book loaded on Amazon by September,” or “I’m going to come up with at least three new story ideas this week.” Writing is not about plugging along and only writing. It’s about other shit, too.

Now fuck off. I need a drink.

Welcome to the new Evil Molly

When I started this site in 2009, it was a perfect storm of shit—I’d worked on a book for a couple years that was going nowhere; my dating life was a big fat zero; and I was living with roommates across from the PJs.

I quote from my first post:

It got me thinking. I could fall into the 30-something chick cliché of freaking out, going on the proposed man-hunt to parlay into the dreaded am-I-planning-to-procreate-or-not countdown to 40, all the while contemplating Botox and going on more intolerable dates with dudes I’m not really attracted to just so I won’t end up a lonely 43-year-old in a fifth-floor walk-up studio…That would just be sad…

And so, berated and deflated, I decided to start a stupid blog about anything and all stupid—dubbed “2012: The Fuck-It List.” You may miss these unicorns right here.

Old design with fucking unicorns.

See, if you pick up any sort of media, these are the options for women over 30. To that, I said Hell to the No. There’s not much in the way for women to look forward to in life if you listen to any sort of media out there—and being a part of the media, I think there is something more interesting, less ordinary and more real to cutting your own path. It’s OK to not know what you want—it’s even better to not want what everyone says you should. And to start really examining what is important to you—and you alone.

What have I done in the past three years to thwart this typical storyline? I learned to surf and scuba. I quit smoking. I finagled it so I could move across the country and live my dream of having my own space, more freedom and spend time outdoors.

In the process of securing all this, I got happier. I got healthier. I got a hot boyfriend. With hot boyfriend, I got co-ownership of the world’s cutest dog.

I know everyone says their dog is the cutest, but this is the World’s Cutest Fucking Dog until I’m proven wrong.

And I made a shit-ton of mistakes along the way.

Since it is 2012—and according to a recent poll in New York Magazine, at least 12 percent of Americans do indeed think the world is ending this year—I figured it was time for a change if I plan to keep on keeping on writing for the other 88 percent. Getting this website facelift is like getting a new pair of running shoes—it gives me energy to put more miles on it. New stuff to look forward to…more posts, more timely stuff, and my solid, undeniable idiot advice in the new column “You’re Stupid.”


P.S. A few notes: As with most shit on the Internets, stuff gets messy. While the artwork for this brand-new spanking looking blog is all original and inspired by none of this shit, artist Alex who did my new unicorn forwarded me this pic of Obama riding similar unicorn AFTER he designed my unicorn. (Alex calls it a “happy co-inky-dink.” Since that is borderline twee, feel free to bitch-slap him the next time you see him.)

No, we did not copy this. Seriously.

The artist who designed my unicorn also brought to my attention that this is where the unicorns fucking came from.

We added our own rainbow.

So, with my deepest thanks and gratitude do I give a shout-out to artist Chris Bishop, who does this awesome shit and also works for PBS Kids as a creative director, which shows that you can be slightly vulgar for adults and still do really funny, creative stuff for kids. Suck on that, GOP.

Also to artist Alex who designed my new awesome logo and Roommate Jim who designed the equally awesome-looking site. If you need any sorts of Internets work done, these are the guys to do it.

’Mer-Kuh! It Has Something to Do With Stephen G. Bloom’s Iowa…

Last week, I trekked homeward to Iowa, where I spent the better part of my first 24 years of life and couldn’t wait to get the hell out the entire fucking time.

I’m still the hell out.

This is Iowa, for those of you who think it's "Idaho." Christ, you'd think East Coast Elites would know their geography by now.

In case you hadn’t heard, Stephen G. Bloom is the University of Iowa J-School prof (full disclosure: I went to U of I, took some journo classes. I think I even had this guy, but I forget) who wrote the article in the Atlantic that caused quite the stir across the state—enough to warrant death threats and hiding out for the holidays.

It also warranted this pussy-ass apology from the University’s president—I mean, you gotta keep bodies coming thru the school, right?—and a heap of articles, this one a pretty fair assessment of what’s going on by my writer friend Jen Wilson.

Seeing’s how I just spent a week in Iowa during what is one of its least attractive months of the year—like catching Gwyneth Paltrow the day after the Oscars stuffing her face with Big Macs and farting like mad—I thought I’d comment on a few of Bloom’s observations.

And, of course, add a few of my own:

1. “…potluck dinners (casseroles are the thing to bring)”: I can’t remember the last time I ate a casserole. In Iowa. This is probably my biggest problem with the article.

2. “The state is 91 percent white…”: True. And Scary. One of the biggest arguments against Iowa not leading the political presidential pickin’ charge is that it’s hardly representative of the United States. Walking around Iowa is like visiting an Aryan Nation convention—if an Aryan Nation was moderately to severely obese and considered a new sweatshirt its “good” outfit.

This was just too funny to pass up.

3. “Not much travels along the muddy and polluted Mississippi these days except rusty-bucket barges of grain and an occasional kayaker circumnavigating garbage, beer cans, and assorted debris…and today, Keokuk, is a depressed, crime-infested slum town. Almost every other Mississippi River town is the same; they’re some of the skuzziest cities I’ve ever been to, and that’s saying something.” The degeneration and abuse of the Mighty Mississippi is a tearjerkin’ sight indeed. One of the most majestic, jaw-droppingly gorgeous rivers in the world has been beaten, abused and put out. It’s a lot of farm run-off, agri-business dumping its chemicals, etc. And those river towns. Christ. The signs should read: “Come for the Meth. Stay for the Unplanned Pregnancy and Domestic Abuse.”

No explanation needed...

4. Iowa’s pretty fucked up politically. (paraphrased…I’m tired of quoting here): Yep. You got the same old politicians, to use a regional phrase, older than dirt; “rabid” Republicans to the West (where I grew up); Liberals to the East (where I went to University); and a bunch of religious idiots fighting tooth and nail to oust the justices who legalized gay marriage—probably the one and only decent thing the state has done in the past decade. Show me an Iowa Republican, and I’ll show you a redneck who can barely read. At least where I’m from, most of these so-called Conservatives don’t read the paper or follow events, and Obama is still referred to using the “N” word. I’m not kidding, people.

5. Here’s a bunch of other shit about Iowa that Bloom mentions that makes me sad: “economically depressed,” “culturally challenged,” “few minorities,” “no sizable cities,” “almost all the corn Iowa farmers grow is feed corn…it’s meant for pigs, not humans,” “empty storefronts,” “flourishing Wal-Marts,” etc.

6. “So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations…” Granted, this is Obama’s famed quote from a speech in San Fran, and it’s argued he’s talking about western Pennsylvania, but here’s the truth, whether Iowa, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Kentucky, or anywhere outside a major metropolitan area: It’s easy to get your ire up if you don’t understand something; or if something confuses you; or if you just don’t want to open up your mind and take a listen and maybe learn something. Republicans paint this as “Being American.” It’s just being Plain Stupid.

7. And this takes us to…. “Coastal elites love to dump on Iowa…” Look, I’ve lived all over, and now on both coasts. Really, except for election time, coastal elites don’t spend much time discussing Iowa—or any other state. It’s also about the time I figure you all get ruffled about us coastal elites getting married after our gay sex orgies and Free Abortion Wine and Botox Parties. (Actually, those both sound pretty fun…). Also, I can tell you that I’ve witnessed more than my fair share of idiots, morons and the clueless wandering around New York City, Chicago and elsewhere’s, spreading their ignorance and hate. You can have a smart conversation and good meal with good people just about anywhere. Just try. No place is all shit—or a fucking bed of roses. Just ask Bon Jovi.

8. Religion. Oooo, boy. This is the BIG one. I’ve touched on this a bit, and man, do I not have time for someone if they bust this out as reasoning in a discussion about politics, government or rights. Separation of Church and State, remember that? Iowa is pretty damn religious, but like most shit, it’s dying with the old folks. Most of the younger folk aren’t into the fire-and-brimstone—Iowa did legalize gay marriage after all—so there’s hope yet. My mom kept bitching about all the right-wing assholes she goes to church with, and I said, “Maybe I should buy an ad in the local paper, offering free abortions for anyone who needs one?”

Goddamn, if that isn't a great band name.

9. “Those who stay in Iowa are often the elderly waiting to die, those too timid (or lacking in education) to peer around the bend for better opportunities, an assortment of waste-toids and meth addicts with pale skin and rotted teeth…” Just watching a waste-toid walk from his house to his truck to grab a half-drunk bottle of Mt. Dew in my parents’ once-sweet little hometown made me want to cry. While there are hardworking folk in rural communities, the scourge of meth and unemployment has left an army of resource-sucking mouth breathers in its wake. Ask anyone. It’s a sad, difficult, complicated state of affairs that has to do with economics, policies, government, education, ambition…

10. Oh, and I’m not moving back either.

All told, it was a fair article. But the truth is hard. It’s like all those messy little lies we tell each other—and ourselves—every single day to get by instead of getting at the crux of the problem because getting off our asses and fixing problems is hard. Also, nearly impossible in many cases (see: recent documentary Gas Land if you want a good dose of hardworking, honest Americans getting fucked by Big Business and Government. Side note: Dick Cheney has to be the biggest dick on earth…and why is it that most guys named “Dick” are actual dicks? Ever wonder about that?).

What a dick.

Iowans have a hard time staring at their state through all the hog crap and corporate corn because, damnit, it ain’t Grant Wood’s Iowa any more. But, really, nowhere in America is…those images of little pink houses for you and me? Bull. Shit.

Thought I'd end this on a nice note...Go Green!

Happy voting!

Holy Fuck, the Rapture is Coming!

Apparently, there’s a Rapture of sorts around the bend, May 21st, I believe. Now, I’m not gonna jump on that bandwagon—I’m sticking fast to my belief that 2012 is it because those Christians don’t have anything on those Mayans.

Anyway, here’s the deal: The Rapture is when all the chosen folk get their early exit to Heaven, which I just like to think of as a little population control, aka the most Annoying People exiting the planet, so the rest of us can get on with it and have some peace and fun whilst not listening to them prattle on about how marriage is a union between a man and a woman only and that abortions are murder.

A lot of fucking annoying people leaving the planet.

You keeping up?

Here’s a crash course on the Signs of the End: False Prophets, War, Starvation, Earthquakes, Persecutions and Tortures, and Lawlessness. I’m pretty sure most of these things have plagued humankind from the very start of time—hell, even plagued the dinosaurs for all that matter (suck on that, Creationists)—but for some reason, the Rapture folks think this is gonna culminate on May 21, including a very large earthquake in L.A.

Also, the Man himself, Jesus, is supposed to make an appearance on May 21 to take all the righteous folk back to Heaven with him. I found a handy, and I’m sure absolutely authoritative blog, judgmentday2011.com, to help explain it all to me:

“Jesus himself will return to Earth on May 21 per God’s will in order to restore the spiritual world back to a stable level.

Second Coming of Jesus Christ on May 21 2011. The Book of Revelations says that there will be some very difficult times ahead for those who are left on Earth until the end of the world on October 21 of this year. I, and likely you reading, will be among the lucky ones who are able to be saved when Jesus returns to earth for the second time ever.”

Jesus came back. And stole my hot rod.

Anyway, for those of you expecting fire and brimstone and dogs fucking cats, and vice versa, on May 21, I figured I’d do a little list of stuff I’m hoping the Rapture will bring:

1. The First One to go is Sarah Palin.

Yeeeeeooooowwwwww! Jesus, can I bring my shotgun?

2. Star Jones will eat her own head.

3. Exxon Mobil’s headquarters explodes and a giant moneyball blows up and fills the sky with hundred-dollar bills, ya’ all. Us sinners hire the Outkast to play a major show in Central Park.

4. Donald Trump will announce that he’s running for president.

End of days or no, Obama is still your better option.

5. Miller Lite promises that its beer will taste great and be less filling. And it actually happens.

6. Apparently, the Rapture turned up early for this guy. When it hits, feel free to drop trou, but please keep your highly racist and offensive remarks to yourself, so that others around you can enjoy their Rapture experience as well.

7. An earthquake hits L.A., swallowing Paris Hilton’s estate. Prescriptions for Valtrex decline in the greater Los Angeles metro area by 17 percent.

8. Due to reduced traffic on the LIE and the LIRR, New Yorkers are able to make it to the beach in less than two hours on Friday afternoons all summer long. Yippy!

9. End of Days on Oct. 21 alleviates the overwhelming pressure of deciding on a slutty Halloween costume for 2011.

Fuck, I was gonna be Wonder Woman.

10. Earth is finally evacuated, leaving only the members of the Jersey Shore to fight and fuck themselves. Even hell doesn’t want those assholes.

'Paris, you got any of that Valtrex left?'

What do you think is gonna happen?

I feel like we already covered this in 'Ghostbusters,' circa . Now, who you gonna call?

My Boobs Are Awesome

So, a couple weeks ago, I became obsessed with replacing some bras. You know, out with the old, spring cleaning, all that crap. I ordered some from ye olde standby, Victoria’s Secret.

I am not a hard person to fit. I have been a 34B my entire life. Men, I’m told, have no idea what this means. Chicks do. Stay with me on this. The last time I was measured, however, was 2005 in Chicago. Then, I was a 34B.

Now, however, the bras I got from old Vicky S. felt like crap. They felt too tight, too small and cheap—even though they weren’t cheap at all.

My VS bras weren't as ugly as this. But felt just as uncomfortable as this looks. Also, Man Boobs! Always hilarious.

As usual, TV came to the rescue.

I was watching Bethenny Ever After on Bravo when she went bra shopping on the Upper East Side and some nice Jewish lady named Linda fitted her properly. Now, if you’ve ever watched Bethenny, holy shit is that a tiny woman with a huge rack. I, being of bigger body than Bethenny and smaller rack, figured if Linda could fit her, then I’d be no prob.

But before I put two and two together—I could totally go to the Upper East Side and have a nice Jewish lady feel me up and get me some bras—I hit the Internets, which also tell you nearly everything you need to know. Linda’s website had this neat calculator where you put in your measurements and it tells you your size. I did that. Holy shit, 34D? Are you fucking kidding me?

My boobs are not this big. Not even close.

See, my boobs go through cycles, much like the lunar cycle, and once or twice a year, they used to balloon up like an October Harvest Moon on a clear, crisp night. Sure, most of the time, they were just kind of average-ish size. But man, when the PMS hit, which is usually awful across the board, they were awesome, the one perk. So much so, that they inspired me to often call people I was fucking to tell them, “You better get over here. My boobs are awesome.”

In my world, Ds are huge, like I paid thousands of dollars to pump these up huge. No way I am a D. So I decided that I really needed to go see Linda now to figure out the Size of My Boobs mystery.

So, I made an appointment and schlepped to the UES, a neighborhood I never, ever go to for it is filled with blue hairs and their tiny, annoying dogs and shoe stores selling sensible, low-heeled shoes. Sure, enough I find Linda’s. The store is much smaller than it looked on Bethenny. In fact, it was real small, with just rows and rows of bras arranged by size. All told, pretty underwhelming, like going to a dry cleaner. I was told my appointment was with a nice young lady and to get in a booth and strip off my shirt.

If you’re modest and have problems with ladies feeling you up, perhaps this isn’t for you. However, it’s a walk in the park compared to the Ob/Gyn. My so-called bra consultant was crazy cute and nice, which made said feeling up a lot more pleasant.

Bra Confusion Briefly Takes Over.

She looks at me in my current bra. “This bra band is way too big for you.” Then she instructs me to take it off and she measures me. “Yep, 32. You’re a 32 C or D.”

We tried the C. Too small. Then the Ds. Holy crap. I am a D.

“Well, they changed the sizing,” she explained. Which makes some sense as my boobs really haven’t gotten that much bigger. Here’s the deal—and I swear I’m not making this up, but I have turned into a freak of nature. While my body has gotten smaller, my boobs have actually defied science by getting bigger because of the pill. So, there you have it. It is possible to tone up and get the rack going. Without surgery.

Anyway, she made great choices for me and didn’t bring me any old-lady looking bras, for which I was eternally thankful. In fact, I think every single damn bra I tried on was a winner. I bought this awesome lacey midnight blue one that makes my rack look so fucking great, I can’t believe it. It’s like a shelf I could balance a glass of whiskey on, which might come in real handy, I’m hoping, some day.

And now, my boobs are even more awesome.

Happy bra, happy boobs.

I Paid Good Money for This Shit?

I was stuck in my career as a low-rung nothing when I decided to return to graduate school. I was working at a PR agency with a beast of a boss–we literally called her the Beast behind her back–and some spacy blonde with split ends and Chanel suits was my superior, who asked me once if I’d “seen that movie, A-Dapt-Tion? It’s really good.”

working girl, harrison ford

This was me. Except I didn’t have that hair. And I wasn’t a secretary. And I never got to fuck Harrison Ford.

Not just any graduate school, mind you, but probably one of the ponciest, most precious, whitest-kids-u-know grad programs in the country located outside the Northeastern corridor, where the upper-middle-overeducated-class roost in their 19th-century refurbished mansions and talk about Don DeLillo and Dave Matthews and shit like that in their Land’s End sweater sets.

Lest you think I am one of these folks, let me quickly remind you of my white-trash history filled with hanging out in trailer parks with drug runners, eating government cheese and battling rats.


Now, if you’ve ever spent a large amount of time with a bunch of overindulged, entitled brats who don’t even know who Joan Didion is, then you’ll get my point about going to grad school. I don’t want to bash it too much—I got good stuff out of it. My professors were pretty awesome, I learned a ton, managed to eek out a few decent friends from the experience, make helpful “networking” connections and become … a middle-rung sorta nobody in the Great World of New York Media.

morning glory, harrison ford

This is me now. A lowly, sprightly scrub. Oh, and I still haven’t fucked Harrison Ford.

However, at times when I get e-mails like this from the listserv, it really makes me wonder when those student loan bills come rolling in every month—I paid good money for this shit?

And so, the listserv dilemma begins, with one young lady’s query:

Hi everyone:

My boyfriend and I are having a bit of a debate about what I should wear to
my interview on Tuesday…

At issue is whether or not I should get a skirt or suit trousers (the blazer
I will be wearing is meant to be part of a pants suit). He claims that I
should wear a skirt, even though the temperatures in Chicago on Tuesday will
be in the 20s (and that’s being optimistic). However, I contend that it’s
perfectly all right for a woman to wear trousers if it’s cold outside, and
that employers would probably look askance at me if I wore a skirt during a
Chicago winter.

So, I ask my fellow alums, and told my boyfriend that I would follow the
suggestion of the majority. Hiring managers, would you hold it against me
if I wore a pants suit as opposed to a skirt suit?

Let the voting begin … 🙂


Someone, a real human presumably, actually takes time out of their day to respond:

I teach a job interviewing class, and one of the tenets I share is a “when
in Rome …” type approach to attire. Think about what the interviewer would
be wearing and what your supervisor in this position would wear. In a
Chicago winter, they’re unlikely to be in a skirt. I also tell the students
that what you wear says a lot about your judgment and whether you have
common sense–in this case, a skirt might make me question your judgment!

More folks pipe in:

…Are you a person who would normally wear a skirt? I would dress how you plan on dressing for work. Do what comes natural to you. For me, that is a skirt. For you, it might be pants!

… I’ve always been told to wear leather chaps and a ski mask. Specific shirt style is less important, although I’d recommend something sleeveless. If you go with sleeves make sure at least one has a pack of menthols rolled up in it. You might want to wear a santa hat for good measure. (Ed note: Actually, I kinda want to make out with this guy…)

… I have worn a pantsuit to every job interview I’ve ever been on, and I received an offer for all of them but two. I also have a visible tattoo on my wrist and a nose ring that I don’t take out. Moral? As long as it’s professional, wear whatever makes you comfortable, because your personality is what’s going to sell you, not your outfit.

And what’s the verdict? Let’s check back in with our damsel in distress, shall we?

Hey all:

It looks like the overwhelming majority of you say a pants suit is fine, so the Hillary Clinton look it is ;() It apparently will also be snowing on Tuesday … wearing a skirt in those conditions would probably call my sanity into question, nevermind my professional judgement …

mean girls, tina fey

My ‘judgement’ is telling me that I really need to lose two to three pounds. My body is so not ready for the runway. (yes, I am sticking to the Rachel McAdams theme.)

I think the real issue for me is making sure the pants themselves are flattering on my not-quite-ready-for-the-runway body. Since I hate shopping for clothes, it’s always a challenge for me to know exactly what I need. The other issue, I guess, is making eye contact with the people who are talking to me, since this is something I have a very tough time with. One good thing is that I will be doing a PowerPoint presentation, which will allow me to look at the screen at least for a couple of seconds.

Thanks for the input, and I’ll let everyone know how it turned out.*


I swear, after years and years, in grad school and now in New York, listening to conversations like this—these people who don’t respect listservs for what they’re supposed to be—places for job listings and down-to-earth honest career advice that actually matters, like, oh, say feedback on a cover letter, or how to best research for an interview. I listened patiently enough to this shitheaded prattle when I was in grad school. I sure as fuck don’t want to hear it now, especially from some airhead twit who doesn’t even have the good sense to get a gmail account.

Maybe, just maybe, sometimes it’s totally appropriate to tell someone to just shut the fuck up. And risk getting banned from your alumni listserv.

*Update: “She wore the pants.”