You’re Stupid! Advice from Evil Molly…

Dilemmas! We all got ’em. Now you can write me at “You’re Stupid” for my lowdown, evil good advice.

Dear You’re Stupid:

How do you control the urge to punch people on the subway especially those who step all over you and shove you around?


I’m sick and tired of people taking phone calls and texting during dinner or when you’re hanging out one-on-one?


How do you break up with a friend?


Escape from NY

Dear Escape from NY:

Easy, you leave NY.

Ok, well, life usually isn’t that easy. Plus, these are also outside NY problems. I’ll address in order as how my Most Perfectly Righteous Self would address them. Then the real-world answer.

Subway: You gotta be careful with this one. Before beginning any subway confrontation you have to factor into the equation what their Crazy-Ass Response will be—and whether you can handle it. I had a roommate who got punched in the face because she told a guy to quit oogling and touching her. Should she have told him off? Absolutely. Are you ready to take a punch to the face in return? Mmm… debatable.

Size them up and see who else is around. A typical, “Excuse me, would you mind scooting over?” or “Please don’t shove me” is quite handy. I definitely bitched at people to move it along into the cars and make some space, and while I got a few dirty looks, they did it. Sometimes some killer eye contact will suffice–in a packed car once, getting the leg rubdown from some little Napoleon, I eyeballed him into not only stopping, but extreme embarrassment and shame. Oh, the shame!

Most people are dumb lambs being led to the slaughter who will avoid confrontation at all costs. Use this to your advantage. Carve out your space—especially if it’s from some pigdog investment banker.

Phone/Texting: Ask them to stop. Really. If they won’t, tell them it’s rude. If they still won’t stop, don’t go to dinner/drinks with them anymore. Really. They’re not there anyway. They can sit there with their drink and their Droid and go to town playing Angry Birds or other stupid App and contemplate why more people don’t ask them to do things.

Checking e-mail and texting egregiously during social gatherings in the aughts is what call waiting was to the ’90s…if I’m not important enough to not click over on, then I have no need to talk to you anyway.

Friends: I recently read a brilliant essay (book “We Learn Nothing” by Tim Kreider, out June 12.) on why breaking up with a friend is unlike anything else—it’s not like a relationship where you definitely have The Talk. And as such, most people just let it go gently into that good night.

In an ideal world, you tell the mofos exactly what is up and why you will no longer be eating tostadas and gossiping about NYC Man Babies with them. However, this may backfire. For any friendship breakup, I advise you weight the Pain vs. Reward factor of the transaction. Is breaking up going to be more of a pain in your ass over the long run? Or will it be quick and nearly painless, like ripping off a Band-Aid?

If it’s going to cause you more grief, I suggest going the spineless route, a la ignoring texts, calls and the occasional e-mail until they fade into complete and total obscurity. Because, really, what is the good of having all this avoidance technology that we overpay for from Verizon if you can’t fucking use it to your advantage? It’s like having a bitchy secretary who is really excellent at screening calls for you, your own little Joan Harris (sexiness not included)! And that is worth the monthly-unlimited wireless plan’s weight in gold.

Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

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Hello, Seattle

So, there it is—I’ve left Gotham, the Big Apple, the Empire State of Mind, to move Westward Ho. Like many other poor, struggling immigrants before me, I spent some time there, living in some squalor, tugging my laundry to and fro, surrounded by feces and other bodily fluids, and finally said, “Fuck it. There has to be something better out there.”

And, like my forefathers and foremothers and second cousins and other idiots before me, I decided to Go West.

grapes of wrath

I don’t have a goat.

Oh, I had my doubts about doing it. After all, in America, from the day we spew out, we’re inundated with images of New York City as the ultimate in living, the platinum standard, the cherry on top of that Cold Stone Creamery indulgent creation of all life as we know it! Kids flock there left and right from the Midwest, Northeast and the South—and, of course, Brooklyn West, San Francisco—to begin anew.

jay-z empire state of mind

These streets will make you feel brand new!

I know. I was one of those dipshits. But this isn’t about New York. This is about Seattle.

Let’s get some fucking coffee already.

Upon landing here whilst looking for apartments in July, within a day, I think I had a panic attack. In a Starbucks no less (hey, I had to pee). I’d been looking at apartments, and coming from New York, figured that finding good real estate here would be like taking cocaine from a hipster. Alas, no. Apartments here were way tinier and more expensive than I’d imagined. Not New York tiny and expensive, but still.

I called my friend. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I think I’m too New York for this place,” I huddled in the corner, lest the Starbucks minions hear my pleas and tell me to take my pathetic cell-phone whining outside.

“How long have you been there? A day?” she says. “Get it together. You’ll find something.”

Smack. New York in your face.

Admittedly, leaving New York is like coming down from a horribly addicting drug habit. You hate it after a while, and you despise it, but you need it—you need the buzz to feel viable and to keep going. I could physically feel my body freak out at Seattle during that visit.

paula abdul, american idol

NYC makes you feel a bit like Paula Abdul, the wacked-out American Idol Years.

“Too quiet. Where’re the people? Is this all the talent out on Friday night? How come I can get a table here? Why is everyone so fucking nice?”

Then I had a fantastic crab-cake dinner and Columbia Valley wine and settled the fuck down.

See, leaving New York for ’Mer-Kuh at any time can be highly disconcerting. I always experience it when I go home for holidays—the big-box stores, the driving, the shitty food, the lines for the latest “Meet the Fockers” movie…it all freaks me out.

Cities, like Seattle, are not technically ’Mer-Kuh—it’s not like I moved to Little Rock, Ark.—but they do contain some very ’Mer-Kuh type parts. Here’s what I’ve observed about Seattle in the short week I’ve been here:

Everyone is so fucking nice. A guy almost hit me with his car the other day. Apparently, living in New York impairs one’s ability to cross the street in real towns that depend on the automobile as the primary mode of transportation. Anyway, he was pissed, but instead of going, “Hey, fuck you, Bitch!” He pulled over and started politely trying to explain to me how to cross the street, like I just wandered off the short bus. Seriously. Nice. I just ignored him and ambled away. Hey, he was lucky I didn’t tell him to fuck off. See? I’m changing already.

More clueless people wandering around. Maybe it’s because the population’s lower. Maybe it’s my neighborhood, but holy shit, there’s a real clueless element going on here. I look around and think, “New York would eat you alive.” Granted, these folks were in New York, too, I was just so desensitized for my own self-preservation that I didn’t notice anyone else around me at any given time to retain my sanity. Did that make sense? If you live in New York, it does.

Ditto on crazy drug addicts.

Hot guys. Here’s my week: hot guys at beach, hot guys on trails, hot guys at bars, hot guys in cars, hot guys in grocery stores buying sausages and Rainier beer. Swoon…Holy shit, more hot guys in part of town where men “build things with metal and ride motorcycles,” according to my friend. Good, Lord, one guy rolled up in his Ford F150 with a fucking dog in the front seat and I about came in my pants. “You’re like one of five single straight women who live here now,” my friend said. “I know,” I said. “I’m so gonna get crazy laid.”

Lesbian or Man. Due to the heavy lesbian and nerd population in town, I’ve developed a game over the past week that I call, “Lesbian or Man?” I still don’t think I’m batting .500 yet.

no explanation necessary. moving on…

The Hippy Way. I live here now. I can’t fight it. I gotta embrace the kinder, gentler, free-wheelin’ me. So, now I’m shopping at the local organic market. And I’m buying local produce. And I’m composting. And I’m drinking smoothies. And I fucking like it.

Douchebag Condos! I’ll admit it, after looking at a few shitholes that were a little too reminiscent of NYC, I looked at a new “luxury” condo-like building and I was like, “Sold!” Washer? Dryer? Patio? Amenities? Rooftop Deck? Dishwasher? Hell, yes. Bring it. After living with no amenities for six fucking years, I was ready for a whole shit-ton of amenities. My apartment is still a work in progress and represents an Ikea showroom at this point, but it will get there. Also, I have not heard one fucking noise from a next-door neighbor since I’ve been here. So, suck on that Ahktards.

And it’s so fucking pretty here. Start anywhere. Go any direction. Trees, trees, water, mountains. Oh, there’s a beach? Oh, yeah. We got that too.