The Shakespearean Tragedy of my Bathroom Ceiling

Let me tell you a tale of woe - that of Tragic Hamster and her wrecked bathroom ceiling-o. (Shut up, I'm still working out my iambic pentameter.)

I keep waiting for the day when the tub in the bathroom above mine just falls through the ceiling

So the ceiling itself is fixed, assuming the definition of "fixed" is 'To be held together with rice paper, fairy dust and/or prayer.' The bulbous tumor over the tub is gone, although now only a thin layer of plaster separates the bathroom proper from the poisonous insulation and rot in the ceiling. But hey, I figure that's just one of those NYC Shakespearean trade-offs; die slowly from breathing in rot or let the ceiling cave in and die immediately. I choose 'die slowly.' So really, I've won this battle.

(Oh, woe, but I have also lost! Allow thee to grumble and hit the sauce!)

More good news: our rotted window ledge has also been "fixed" AKA painted white, because white paint is the recommended professional treatment for window ledges that are falling apart. Did you know this? I did not know this. White paint is miraculous! It also removes mold and and mildew and cuts perfect waffle fries and will babysit your kids for free if you play your cards right. White paint is the swiss-army-knife of household repair! And if I squint just so, I almost don't notice the shredded wood or the haphazard swaths of paint all over the surrounding tiles or the the fact that the ledge itself is now just a weirdly cut slab of shitty marble. No problem at all. Because, again, at least the ceiling isn't caving in.

(Trade-offs are a fickle bitch. Oh, if only I was shitty and rich!)

"Oh God, this looks terrible," my husband whispered to me. "What's wrong with the ledge?"

"It's a piece of weird looking rock now."

"Is it supposed to look that way?"

"You mean awful?" I asked.

"Why did he paint the tiles?"

"Sometimes tiles need a fresh coat of paint?"

"Oh. How thoughtful."

"Yes," I said.

"You know I think this is the same dude who used to live illegally in the basement? I guess he's fixing bathrooms now."

"Didn't he give you a fake name?"

"Yeah."

"Oh good," I said, examining the light-switch that had been completely painted over for no reason,  "I guess it's good that we at least know his fake name."

So now our stuff is all piled up around the living room like a toiletries bin exploded and our bathroom smells like a combination of glue and dirt and rot and paint. The cat I think is having some sort of prolonged panic attack and the dog has taken to wandering around with my tampons in his mouth. On the bright side, we can move everything back into the bathroom today. On the downside,  literally everything I just typed in the above paragraphs.

Living in NYC without a trust-fund is a lot like living inside this moment from The Money Pit

We concludeth now with a ceiling repaired, a tragic victory if anyone cared. That it wouldn't be perfect is something we full knew, for you cannot have your cake and eateth it too.
(My iambic pentameter is great now, thanks.)

Happy Thursday!

My Bathroom Ceiling is Caving In

Today is Fix it Felix Wednesday -- an exciting holiday I made up just now to celebrate the fact that someone has finally come to fix the giant bubble of plaster about to burst over the tub in my bathroom. Hooray! My husband and I have been waiting and waiting for this for a Hot NYC Renter's Minute, which for all you normals outside of NYC is the equivalent of roughly one year of the phrase "OK, I will come by to fix next week." And even though the professional currently fixing my bathroom is technically just the landlord's brother's first cousin who has no verifiable credentials and should probably not be fixing ceilings at all, I'm pleased that my bathroom will at least no longer be in a state of imminent collapse (or else it will remain in a state of imminent collapse but will look really nice), which is all you can ask for when you live in a matchbox shitscape underneath the train tracks in Queens.

Here is a dramatic recreation of my maintenance issues

I actually asked the landlord to please remove the mold as well, although I might as well have asked him for dancing leprechauns or singing pandas. I said, "Since the apartment was never renovated and there's like 10 years of mold it would be great if you could clear that out."

"OK," he said, "I will repaint."

"Repaint? No, I need you to remove the mold. It has to be removed at least six inches below the baseboards."

"Yes, I will remove the wallpaper and give it a nice coat of paint."

To be clear, my landlord speaks perfect English but acts as if there's some insane language barrier between us. Like when I asked him to please replace the kitchen fixtures which have been broken since before Obama was elected, he was all, "Replace? OK, I will fix." And when I replied that the fixtures don't need fixing they actual replacing he was like, "What was that? OK, I will fix, they're perfectly good fixtures, sounds good, OK, talk to you later, bye bye," which is the shitty-landlord equivalent of AHHH I CAN'T HEAR YOU I'M GOING INTO A TUNNEL AHHHH NO STATIC NOISES.

But like I said, I'm grateful that anyone with eyeballs and hands and tools is in there at all, ripping apart my ceiling and replacing it with, I'm pretty sure, some sort of insecure cardboard. All that matters is the ceiling will be fixed now, if by fixed you mean haphazardly patched with unsafe materials, and really what more could I ask for? (An actual contractor who replaces ceilings.) Nevertheless! Three cheers for Fix-it Wednesday!

So before my NEW bathroom ceiling inevitably caves in on me, here's a fun little oldie but goodie from Will Ferrell and the gang at Funny or Die called "The Landlord," which is an accurate representation of NYC landlords. Enjoy and don't forget to show your appreciation for the glorious intact ceiling in your bathroom because truly, there's nothing like coming home to a nice glass of Cabernet and a mold-free bathroom ceiling. FYI, this is how low the bar is set now.

Fuck you, Hope Floats.

HBO's Women's Empowerment seminar continues today with Hope Floats, the Sandra Bullock 1996 shlockfest that people like me still watch because we once got dragged to see it when we were in high school, but now we're old and home in the middle of the day on a Tuesday--plus our rheumatism no longer allows us to properly use the remote. (Hope Floats, if you'll recall, also gifted America with Garth Brooks' repulsive Make You Feel My Love which I'm humming right now because this song is a disease, I have no idea why, fuck this movie.) Also, Harry Connick Jr. wears incredibly tight clothes and Gena Rowlands wears a bunch of stupid hats. These are important plot points.

Resume skills: stupid hat wearing, bizarre amateur taxidermy

This "lady driven 90s movie," like all "lady-driven 90s movies," portrays a woman who "truly finds herself" only by finding herself the right man. Because at the end of the day, all a woman needs in her life is to be loved, like a dog, queue sunset and flowers and Harry Connick Jr.'s tight abs and Garth Brooks who will MAKE ME FEEL HIS LOVE.

Resume skills: stupid hat wearing, being beautiful, desperation to be loved

Birdie Calvert is down on her luck after leaving her philandering husband and taking her eight year old daughter to go live with her eccentric mother. Which means the only solution for Birdie Calvert now is to go back to college and set herself up for a steady career find comfort with a nice, hot Harry Connick Jr. type.  Birdie is beautiful you see, which means she must also be vaguely incompetent, which is a typical trope of 90s romantic comedies; that ugly girls are smart because men don't like them and pretty girls cannot be smart or capable because men find them desirable. So basically you can't have both, ladies. It's either brains or boobs. Skills or sex appeal. Modern man simply cannot handle both, so choose or perish. These are the rules! Do not get mad at Hope Floats for knowing the rules!

Despite the many allusions to Birdie's needing a decent job, despite the many references to Birdie's rekindling a passion she once had for photography, Birdie doesn't really do anything at all but focus on whether or not Birdie will find love again after her failed marriage. Will she succumb to Harry Connick Jr.'s tight, tight shirts and tight, tight jeans? (Yes.) Will she fall victim to his piercing eyes, his dumb hats? (Yes.) Will she allow him to carry her off into the sunset? (Yes.) Because that is literally how this stupid movie ends? (Yes.) With Birdie literally carried off into the literal fucking sunset? (Yes.) Because women will forgive a movie anything as long as it ends in a literal fucking sunset?

My tiny lady brain is enthralled with this! Oh, if only my tiny, tiny brain was not so filled with sunflowers and glitter and tiny pink hearts and Garth Brooks begging me to let me feel his love.

(No.)

But here are some more 90s romantic comedy rules for women: Women may only be hysterical or manic. They may at times be charming, but only in a manic, hysterical sort of way.  Women must be desperate for love at all times and should not entertain any other thoughts (Unless those thoughts concern plotting against other women as a consequence of falling in love, which is also cool.) Also, ugly girls should remember that their smarts will only get them so far if they're not endeavoring to be beautiful and loved. And beautiful girls must remember that they're not really meant to be smart; they're meant to be hood ornaments. But really, the most important thing for all women everywhere to remember is that regardless of aesthetic beauty, we are all of us only fuckable for a very, very short period of time. (FYI: Hope Floats was filmed during Sandra Bullock's prime fuckable years. Peak Fuckability, if you will.) So really, fuckability should be our focus, ladies; Enjoying said fuckability and turning it into love before we become old maids and die of feminine hysteria. Hooray! Also, Fuck you, Hope Floats.

That said, I present you with another gem from Amy Schumer's toybox called "Last Fuckable Day," which features lady powerhouses Julia Louis Dreyfus, Patricia Arquette and Tina Fey. Give it a watch while you can, as these ladies won't be fuckable for long. (Which of course means they will be jailed and then set on fire, as is tradition.) Happy Tuesday, everyone.

The Fucking White House Correspondents Dinner.

Each year, major players from politics, celebrity and the media -- otherwise known as the Venn Diagram of Oh Fuck-All -- gather together in Washington for a night of self-congratulatory star-fucking and cocksuckery. This once a year mutual masturbation party is called The White House Correspondents Dinner, and it's basically a night for old rich white assholes (from inside the pockets of other old rich white assholes) to congratulate each other on the absolutely stellar job they're doing, but maybe also get their dicks as close to Mila Kunis as possible.

"Say, how close is your dick to Mila Kunis?" "Oh, my dick is pretty close, like only centimeters away. How close is your dick, Wolf Blitzer?" "Oh, my dick is always pretty close to Mila Kunis."

This year, celebrated White House correspondents (like the cast of Modern Family) paid tribute to the victims of the recent devastating earthquake in Nepal by getting super drunk and simply not mentioning it at all in any way.  This is called "journalism." However, all were agreed that Sophia Bush  (who is an actress?) and got word only hours prior that her boyfriend was killed in the Quake, gave the most touching three-sentence Instagram tribute before taking the red carpet by storm with Connie Britton in resplendent teal Balenciaga.

Which brings us to today's eye-candy-- the only two things worth watching from this year's White House Correspondent's Dinner, which I am 100% proud to say came from the genius brains of two of my favorite former teachers. First up we have President Obama addressing the audience with his special guest, anger translator Luther. (The climate change rant at the end is especially fun.)

Next up (and the highlight of the entire night, in my opinion) we have SNL's Cecily Strong absolutely killing it in a set co-written by SNL's Josh Patten. Give it a watch and then weep for the sorry state of American journalism. Happy Monday!

Fuck This Court and All It Stands For: The Single Greatest Legal Brief Of All Time

Tamah Jade Clark has problems. Way back in 2009, her husband Jason Clark was convicted of a multitude of crimes and sentenced to thirty years in prison. So Tamah, equipped with the impressive unearned confidence of a room full of drunk Kanye Wests, did the only thing possible - she cocked her AK 47 and grabbed her .52 caliber and all of her wilderness survival gear (did I mention this is Florida? That Tamah is from Florida? Is it all making so much more sense to you now?) and went to bust her husband out of prison. She was subsequently arrested and charged with conspiracy to escape another and conspiracy to commit reckless abandonment and conspiracy to be a stupid idiot, and a multitude of other crimes.

Which is when Tamah, armed with the blind and unhinged self-assurance of a thousand Donald Trumps running for President, wrote the legal brief (below) that will go down in history as the single greatest legal document ever written by man.

(Many props to internet/legal enthusiast Sarah Jeong who uncovered this random gem.)

Let me present you with some highlights:

NOTICE: FUCK THIS COURT AND ALL IT STANDS FOR.

Moving on to legal arguments:

More things you should know: Tamah is a "Floridian American" from the Sovereign Idiot's Nation State of Florida:

"I AM Justice, Motherfucker." - Samuel L. Jackson:

But don't worry, y'all. Tamah takes all of this as a compliment. Tamah is not deterred by legal arguments. Legal arguments do not apply to Tamah. Tamah is The Great Mariska Hargitay of Justice who will BACKHAND YOUR ASS into the middle of next week:

"Time for a history lesson, Motherfuckers." - Samuel L. Jackson:

 

And by the way, you can burn for this shit for all I care:

And finally, in closing, DIE. NOW. THANKS:

Tamah DROPS MIC.

Please click here to view the entire thing (which is totally, 100% worth your time I promise) or click here to read the judge's order that sparked The Greatest Legal Document Since The Declaration of Independence.  And in fact I believe it was Thomas Jefferson himself who once wrote, in the original draft of that glorious legal declaration, that "all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of GO FUCK YOURSELF."

Thomas Jefferson and Tamah Clark: true American heroes.

The Perfect Sketch: Amy Schumer's Football Town Nights

Modern comedy is great because it is proud and unafraid and populated with empowered women writing weird, hilarious shit about weird, hilarious women. Football Town Nights is one such gem from the genius box of Amy Schumer, and I'd contend that it is in fact the perfect sketch; That the reason you watch this sketch and immediately want to fuck and marry it is not just because it's somehow about rape and somehow still funny (rape being right up there on the Axis of Comedy Suicide alongside Racism and 9/11) but because it calls out the truth -- the awful absurdity of rape culture-- in just seven words from a befuddled teenaged football player: "No raping? But Coach, we play football." 

The sketch goes on:

"What if it's Halloween and she's dressed like a sexy ghost?"

"How about a Sexy owl?"

"What if she thinks it's rape but I don't?"

"What if my Mom's the DA and I know she won't prosecute?"

"What if the girl said yes to me the other day but about something else?" 

"No!" exclaims Coach, over and over and over and over in absolute disbelief. "No raping!"

The sketch then closes with this absolutely genius speech about winning and male bravado that I wish I had written because it's pitch-perfect satire: "How do I get through to you boys that football isn’t about rape? It’s about violently dominating anyone that stands between you and what you want. You gotta get yourself into the mindset that you are gods — that you are entitled to this!"

Brilliant. Fantastic. Aren't you glad I ruined the whole damn thing for you? Now go watch. Never has male entitlement been more obviously hilarious. Watch and behold, young writers, for this is a rare specimen: the perfect sketch.

Thank you, Amy Schumer. You're doing the Lord's work.

Ikea's Apocalypse Kitchen of the Future!

According to Ikea, purveyor of disturbingly delicious Swedish meatballs and the haphazard furniture in my living room, our future is going to be bleak as shit. (Also, filled with Ikea furniture -- AKA bleak as shit.) Sorry, y'allz. I guess the good news here is the future will only be this bleak for the unfortunates who can't afford to shop anyplace better than Ikea. The bad news is that will be literally everyone except for these two assholes.

Multipurpose sink/trash compactor/herb garden/shoe-store/church/bathroom/water park

According to Ikea, the kitchen of the future will be conveniently matchbox-sized and maximized for purposes beyond eating - activities such as studying, recycling, exercising-- and inevitably sleeping, going to the bathroom and storing all one's personal belongings (because who needs more than twelve cubic feet of space and anyway, isn't it all about location?), which means Ikea's Kitchen of the Future is basically just a shitty NYC studio apartment. (Again, just for poors though. Who will probably be most of us, sorry.)

But take heart - your End of Days Kitchen can also be cool, chic and modern, like when it doubles as the command center from The Edge of Tomorrow:

Ikea Prototype

 The Edge of Tomorrow

You'll never miss running water again, not after you've discovered the convenience of projecting yourself four feet above your kitchen table, dictating incorrectly the directions on the back of a space-pouch of Uncle Ben's. Convenience! Future times!

Also, as an added bonus, Ikea's Kitchen of the Future is 'drought-ready,' which means it is more prepared for the next ten years than California.

This will work great until water runs out.

So get on it, people. You only have a few more precious years to purchase Ikea's Apocalypse End of Days Kitchen of the Future before we all perish beneath the sea. 

Today in the news!

Hereye hereye! Here are today's top stories as decided by my dog, Stu.

Republican leaders in the Senate finally (FINALLY!) announced this morning that they would no longer put off voting in Obama's pick for a new U.S. Attorney General to succeed Eric Holder.  Obama nominee Loretta Lynch would be the first black woman in American history to hold the position and has been waiting an embarrassing five months for confirmation. ("Five months? Bitch, please. Try two hundred years" - Black people). Republicans now say there's nothing standing in the way of confirming Lynch except for abortion, birth control, Obamacare, gay marriage, immigration, religious freedom, and the Keystone Pipeline. Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell told reporters, "We're so close now.  Just as soon as our colleagues agree to this rider stating that everything they believe in is a blasphemy that makes Jesus cry, we can quickly confirm the new attorney general. The ball is in their court."

In unrelated entertainment news today, Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin, two totally reasonable celebrities and parents to (human? vegetable?) children Apple and Moses, have officially filed for divorce---to which an entire nation collectively sighed and said, "Wait, didn't that already happen?" and also, "Who are you even talking about Mom? What the heck is Shakespeare in Love? God, you're lame." For more on Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow's sad romantic tragedy, I invite you to please head on over to Paltrow's website, GOOP, where you can both share in her pain and also purchase a single diamond earring stud for $200. Oh, the sadness.

In other news, perpetually good looking and desperate for work former Ripper, John Stamos (AKA Jesse Catsopolis of Jesse and the Rippers) has confirmed the Full House reboot nobody asked for. Also according to Stamos, the reboot will take even bigger risks and go even further than the original: Says Stamos: "This time around, we're not even going to try with jokes. The new Full House will just be a half hour of adorable children, canned audience sighs, straight-up moral posturing and a fifteen minute Christian sermon lead by Candace Cameron Bure. We're all really pumped."

"YES! WE ARE SO PUMPED!"  agreed that girl you went to middle school with who still works at Publix and talks endlessly about her dead grandparents all day. "YES! I loved Full House as a kid! Finally, now I have something to look forward to!" And then she immediately burst into tears, continuing, "Oh God, my life!  Is this really it??"

(Yes, it is.) So here's a short video to get you through the agony of this seriously being it: Billy on the Street with David Letterman, courtesy of Funny or Die. Just give it a watch before you contemplate the agony of existence and climb out onto that window ledge. Hooray Tuesday!

Happy Birthday Dancing Hitler!

Ladies and gentlemen, really there is only one thing going on in the news this morning, and that is the birthday of everyone's favorite singing and dancing fuehrer, the man who put the hot in "hot dog" and the "fancy" in "fancy feet", Mr. Adolph "The Singing Sally" Hitler:

Happy Birthday, Mr. German Triple Threat!

Here are some more fun facts about this day,  April 20th, which has no other significance at all besides Hilter's birthday:

April 20th is also my dear, sweet grandmother's birthday. Coincidence? (Yes, probably.) Which means today I celebrate the birthdays of both my Jewish grandmother and the first and only Nazi to ever win a Tony award for tap dancing with food. (which is all Hitler did during World War II, yes? My comprehensive Florida Education was often edited for "unpleasantness.")

Today also marks the launch of McDonald's exciting new marketing experiment-- all day breakfast-- which, again, is tied only to Hitler, meant solely to commemorate Hitler's near-extermination of the hash brown and literally for no other reason, swear to God, don't arrest me please.

Even in cities like Denver, revelers turned out by the hundreds this morning to eat, drink and celebrate the birthday of Hitler and not for any other reason I swear on my grandmother's life (my grandmother's dead) but seriously no other reason, I swear under oath, nothing else is happening here officer so just give me a second, let me just put down this entire chocolate cake and turn down this classic Bob Dylan so I can escort you out, because like I said officer, THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE HERE, NOTHING AT ALL, PLEASE MOVE ON, IT'S HITLER'S BIRTHDAY AND MY GRANDMOTHER'S DEAD AND CANNOT EAT THIS CAKE, SHOW SOME RESPECT.

So. Like I was saying, today is a big day. There is a lot to celebrate today that literally includes only Hitler and my grandmother, so please celebrate responsibly.

Star Wars! STAR WARS! STAR WARS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Full disclosure: I am a full grown woman in her thirties who physically wept while watching this trailer. Even fuller disclosure: I watched this trailer five times. Okay six, shut up.

Full Disclosure Cubed: I was betrothed to Han Solo in the early 90s. True story. I offered to marry Han right around the time of the Star Wars re-release because I figured if anything happened to Princess Leia it made the most sense for me to step in and pick up the pieces. After all, 1) - I'm a fast-learner who could teach herself The Force, no problem, 2) - my Hebrew Name is Leia (technically Leah, technically Johova-Leah, technically shut your mouth it's close enough) also 3 - Han and I spent three movies together and thus had a passionate understanding.

So I went ahead and set a date. My best friend Nickie was to be my maid of honor. The ceremony would have happened in the cockpit of the Millenium Falcon and then of course we'd have hosted the reception on the Moon of Endor because those bitches know how to throw a party, amirite? Chewie would have officiated and Princess Leia would have hated me first but eventually she'd have come around--especially after it was revealed that she and Luke were actually triplets and I was the missing sibling. Everything was set!

But then a tall, dark, hot meal by the name of Special Agent Fox Mulder waltzed into my life and I had to break Han Solo's poor little fictional heart. It was sad, but just too much work trying to juggle two great fictional lovers.

So no, I did not end up marrying Han Solo. Or Fox Mulder for that matter. Apparently you cannot wed fictional characters? Fine. So I married a real person, which is also great in its own way I'm sure, whatever.  Still. To this day I sometimes wonder what might have been between us.  But it's good to know he's moved on with his life and is back piloting the Millenium Falcon because I am totally over him except the opposite of what I just said OMG Han Solo I don't care if you're seventy-five I still love you let's have babies, okay cool.

Also I am a totally normal grown-ass woman.

Also you need to watch this trailer. Like ten times. Okay? GO!

My high school yearbook is the dumbest thing on Earth.

So last week, my parents shipped me three of my old high school yearbooks, which in total weighed approximately 20 lbs. 20 effing lbs! Originally I'd asked for them so I could share them with my husband, whose adorable little anorexic yearbook looks like this next to mine:

If you do not eat something soon you will DIE, tiny yearbook! You will DIE. Is that what you want???

Now, keep in mind I grew up in Florida, where logic and reason are mainly just the nonsense gibberish words police officers use on you when you set the lawn on fire again. (Hey officer, my sister and I got it the first time, thanks!) Sure there were more students at my high school than his, but only because my high school was the only giant idiot prison for miles and miles.  But even that didn't explain the 600 extra pages.

You're too skinny, tiny yearbook! How many doctors need to tell you this before you'll listen???

Why so many damn pages? Let's examine a bit more in-depth, shall we?

I TOTALLY DO have hobbies! You think these little pewter anime dragons are going to collect themselves???

Guys, everyone has hobbies! Like gardening or reading or sobbing quietly into a pillow. FYI: these full-page articles make up the first EIGHTY THREE pages of my yearbook. Let's look at a few of the highlights:

"Ugh, my mom will KILL me if I fail lunch again."

Lunch is the most popular class, but only because most students do not understand what a "class" is. (Is class that thing I go to BEFORE or AFTER the mall? Has anyone here ever been to a class? Does anyone here remember what the name of the school is? How much harder do these questions get?)

This school is a fucking Liberian Dictatorship!!

"The no eating in the courtyard rule is RIDICULOUS. Just lunacy, fucking LUNACY, Marie! This is a Nazi death camp is what this is and I can't do it any longer! I CAN'T DO IT!!" Ten minutes after his interview with journalists, this student set himself on fire. Also this was a full page article.

This is invaluable information.

Everyone has a hobby. Even sad, lonely Erin Adamson

Did you know there are a total of 478 parking spots? Did you know Erin Adamson collects bottles? Did you know collecting bottles is a thing? Is collecting bottles seriously not a thing? Did you know Mr. Cinquino shits on average three times a day, maybe four if he drinks that extra cup of coffee? Did you know there are at least 2 of these stupid boxes on every page? Okay then.

Here we have 1996:

Hall Passes will get you out of class. 

Aaaaaaaand 1997:

No seriously, Hall Passes will get you out of class. We apologize the first article was not comprehensive.

 "Lunch hour is filled with food." - Einstein

FYI: researching this story almost got the journalist killed.

"And being 18 makes you one year closer to 19, and 19 - 1 = 18 and 18 - 1 = 17, and ugh, why didn't I take more Math instead of just Lunch and Advanced Lunch?!"

Counting!

More on this story as it develops.

Today in the news!

Good afternoon - here are today's top stories as determined by me since there's nobody else sitting here in my living room.

At an event in Ankara on Tuesday, Turkish Prime Minister Ahmet Davutoglu brought serious accusations against 'New Coke' Pope Francis (AKA"Cool Pope" or "Chill Pope" or "Pope Frankie Awesome") after Francis' description of the Ottoman-era slaughter of Armenians as "the first true genocide of the 20th Century" was not, shall we say, very well received by the Turkish Prime Minister. ("Look, Nu-Pope, I don't know what you're even talking about here. The Ottomans were very cool, very misunderstood. Really, if you think about it, The Ottomans were like the Bart Simpsons of Turkey.") Davutoglu has since accused the New and Improved KFC Recipe Pope of "joining an evil front" against Turkey (an axis that undoubtedly includes mustard and ketchup, two demonic condiments that have been conspiring against Turkey for YEARS) and consequently rescinded all Turkish ambassadors to Rome. In response, Cool Chill Pope Frankie Awesome advised the Prime Minister to "just chill the eff down, dude, just chill," and then he immediately put on his Cool Pope sunglasses and backwards-pointing Cool Pope Pontiff Hat and left to go hang with Jay-Z and Beyonce on their Yacht: the S.S. Cooler Than You. This story is ongoing.

In other news, Hillary Clinton's Presidential announcement was met with an organized, logical and thoughtful response from Republican opposition this week. No, I'm totally kidding. While Rand Paul stated that he will "Absolutely treat Hillary Clinton like a real person and not a hormonal talking Vagina, as others might," Bill O' Reilly put out a desperate APB to the true victims in this whole Clinton Running For President farce--white male Christians, who have indeed suffered for hundreds of years at the oppressive hands of white male stupidity. But perhaps my favorite response came from GOP strategist and Person Who Has Quite Enough Estrogen Thanks, Ana Navarro: "I don't need her (Clinton) to drown me in Estrogen every time she opens her mouth. Every time she opens her mouth, it is about the granddaughter and Chelsea's wedding and the yoga routines. " Which sure sounds like fightin' words to me. So. Do you hear that, former First Lady, Senator and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton? You need to stop talking about goddamn Yoga. Republican Strategist Ana Navarro is sick of you constantly bringing up yoga. Also, Ana Navarro has enough Estrogen, thanks. Any other lady candidates for president looking for a place to dump their buckets of estrogen will simply have to go find Rand Paul, who totally loves estrogen but would challenge it as he would a man and treat it totally normal.

Finally, in entertainment news, Billy Joel and girlfriend Christie Brinkley are pregnant! Wait, sorry, I was reading a headline from 1985. Let me start again. Today in entertainment news, Kindly Old Drunk Grandpa Billy Joel and girlfriend Alexis Roderick are pregnant!  In response to this news, Joel's 29 year old daughter released the following statement to the press: "EW."

But hey, let's celebrate this joyous (or totally depressing) news with today's afternoon eye-candy - a fun Late Late Show bit called Karaoke Monday with American Idol favorite, Jennifer Hudson. Because who doesn't want to watch a car full of famous people singing their drive-thru order? (People who work at drive-thrus, I'm assuming?) Anyway, give it a watch and enjoy your Wednesday! (Just kidding, keep crying at your desk, it'll all be over soon.)

Writers Block: A short film

INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY

Fade in on a disheveled woman sitting cross-legged on the couch, her computer and an 8 inch tin of brownies on her lap. She picks chunks of chocolate out from her teeth and hums the incorrect lyrics to All About That Bass, which has been stuck in her head since last week. She has eaten roughly half the brownies but not once touched the computer.  She fully intends to work, it's just, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit is on.

A man comes in from the backyard.

MAN

This show? This dumb show again?

WOMAN

I know. It's terrible. I'm turning it off.

She watches, raptly.

MAN

Why don't you just put on some music?

WOMAN

Why don't you just put on some stupider shirt?

The man shrugs and sits down.

MAN

Gotten much writing done?

WOMAN

Gotten much stupid-shirt changing done?

The two regard each other suspiciously. Finally, the woman sighs.

WOMAN

Writers block. Sorry.

The man nods and then gets up. He leaves the room, only to return moments later wearing a bright red shirt with the letters "W-B" on the front. He hands the woman a completed manuscript from underneath the couch and pats her gently on the shoulder.

MAN

See? Your finished novel was here this whole time.  You just needed to know where to look. 

The woman stares at him.

WOMAN

I don't think you understand how the writing process works.

MAN

Ah, but I do. Just like Dorothy Gale needed to realize that the only thing that mattered was home, you just needed to see that your manuscript was right here, completed, this whole time.

WOMAN

But this isn't my manuscript.

MAN

No need to thank me!

WOMAN

Seriously, this is a photocopy of The Bell Jar.

MAN

My work here is done!

WOMAN

What work? You haven't done anything!

MAN

Yes, Yes I know. But I must away now, to save another pitiful writer from the tragedy of writers block. 

WOMAN

But you haven't saved me from anything!

MAN

Up up and away!

WOMAN

BUT I'M STILL BLOCKED YOU STUPID RED-CAPED IDIOT!

Then with a whoosh, Writers Block Man was out the window before the woman could say another word. She let out a long, heavy sigh.

WOMAN

I think it's time to tell my husband to quit this stupid, second job, he's really fucking terrible at it.

BLACK OUT

There. Now I feel better. (Do you?) Yes. (Really?) No, shut up.

Hillary is running for President! Hillary is DEFINITELY running for president! (Don't you ruin this for Hillary!)

Good morning, all! The news is in and it is official! Hillary Clinton is running for president! Hillary Clinton is definitely, for sure, absolutely 100% running for president! Glory be to the gods of wisdom! Glory be to the gods of miracles! Glory be to the--oh whatever, people, we all knew this was coming.

The genteel, soft-lipped former first wallflower officially announced her candidacy last night via Twitter, although her campaign was quoted as saying she seriously considered both Pinterest and Snapchat for the big announcement. Ultimately, Clinton decided to go with Twitter because 1) what is Snapchat? and 2) what is Pinterest? but most of all 3) "Young people like The Twitter, and certainly Clinton didn't want to seem flippant or disconnected from her audience." And then in a whisper, "Oh shit, do you think she seemed flippant? Was it flippant? Did it come off flippant? Oh god please don't let her fire me."

In an exclusive immediately following the announcement, which was filmed live from Clinton's home office in Chappaqua, NY, where the words FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS, FROM MY COLD DEAD MOTHERFUCKING HANDS appeared to have been written over and over on the walls as well as on the desk and all the furniture, Clinton addressed the camera directly to deliver an important message to the American people:

"Hello," she said, "My name is Hillary Clinton and I am officially announcing my candidacy for President. Do you know me? I know you know me. Don't pretend like you don't fucking know me or what you did to me back in 2008, because we both know that shit's not gonna fly in 2016. Do you hear me, you stupid idiot morons? I know half of you think global warming is just a description of God's enduring love for the Fourth of July and the other half are just waiting for your cat videos to load, so listen up, America. If you dumbo ignorant asshats screw this up for me again, I swear to god  I will break into all of your homes in the middle of the night and take all of your children. Or else I will have someone else do it for me because I'm incredibly rich and that is a lot of children and I don't like carrying more than one cell phone, let alone more than one child, but EITHER WAY. Don't you fuck with me America. Do not fuck with me. I am Hillary Clinton and I WILL be your next president, so help me God."

Hillary 2016! Let's go, bitches!

Please see below for this official video from Hillary Clinton and then run outside and enjoy this beautiful, glorious Monday! (Just kidding, it's Monday, you can go ahead and cry inconsolably at your desk if you want.)

Hillary Clinton Friday Funday!

So, big news today, guys! Hillary Clinton is FINALLY (but please don't quote her on this) probably, maybe, potentially, quite possibly going to announce or not at all announce her candidacy for president THIS SUNDAY (maybe, who knows, she really hasn't thought about it much.) Isn't that exciting? To be clear, Hillary Clinton is officially running for President unless she's NOT running for president, she just wants to make that very clear. "Honestly," stated Clinton, who appeared to have written YOU'LL TAKE THE PRESIDENCY FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS over and over all up and down her arms, "I really haven't thought about it at all. Maybe I'll run, who knows."

In any case, I have to admit, this news leaves me torn. Because on the one hand, HILLARY. But like, on the other hand, HILLARY. You know? Also, I've begun a secret (not so secret) love affair with Wall Street Public Enemy #1, Elizabeth Warren, who either needs to run for President or birth all my babies, I haven't decided which. Maybe both? How about we just let Senator Warren stew over her options awhile (no pressure Elizabeth but our babies would be beautiful, call me!) and in the meantime, let us all gather together to watch this video (below) of Queen Madge doing a children's instrument cover of her classic 80s hit, Holiday, courtesy of my other secret lover, Jimmy Fallon. Question: do you think Senator Warren would mind a three-way marriage with Jimmy Fallon? I mean clearly at that point I would have to divorce my husband because being married to THREE people just seems ludicrous, but every other part of the arrangement makes total sense. (All I'm saying is think about it, Senator Warren.)

Happy Friday!

20 straight hours of 80s feminism: Working Girl

So working from home is great. (And by "working" I mean dutifully making coffee in the morning, writing several paragraphs of my novel, and then searching the internet for nine hours for the exact right brownie recipe to eat raw out of the bowl because THIS IS IMPORTANT WORK THAT I'M DOING. THIS IS HOW GREAT AMERICAN LITERARY CLASSICS GET WRITTEN.)

Anyway, when your desk is the card table you've set up in front of the TV, it's hard not get caught up in, say, four hours of Jennifer Aniston movies (shut up, you know you can't resist The Object of My Affection) or, say, four hours of Michelle Pfieffer and Melanie Griffith 80's Women Empowerment movies.  Because apparently, 11AM begins the Bitches Always Be Workin' block on HBO.

So anyway, yesterday morning Working Girl came on, and of course when Working Girl comes on you have to watch it because it's Working Girl and who the hell knows why, I don't make the rules. Which is when my husband -- who also works from home, but in a real way, as in he does real things for real people who pay him real money-- came into the room, took one look at Melanie Griffith in her underwear, and said, "What on Earth is this?"

WORD, Joan Cusack.

"Work," I said, as if that were obvious. (To be fair, I was hard at work on my laptop. To be ultra ultra fair, I was typing a Facebook post.)

"Maybe I don't understand your methods." He waved a hand at the TV. "What the hell is this garbage?"

Which is frankly a type of ignorance that borders on blasphemy so I said, "You don't know Working Girl? How do you not know Working Girl?" (And then I gave him a handful of hard candies and a shiny quarter and told him to get the hell off my lawn.)

Classic 80s rom com.

I then launched into an insane explanation of the entire plot of Working Girl for my disinterested husband who was staring at me like I'd grown sixteen eyeballs in the middle of my forehead.

"Melanie Griffith is a secretary from the wrong side of the tracks," I started, "But what she really wants is to be a hot shot business woman like Sigourney Weaver. Sigourney Weaver seems cool but is actually sort of a fucked up bitch and she betrays Melanie Griffith by stealing her big business idea, so Melanie Griffith finally realizes that the only way to get what she wants is to work with Mergers and Acquisitions big wig Harrison Ford, who of course she falls in love with--"

"This is a movie you like?"

Which is where I had to pause.  

Was it a movie I liked? I know it was a movie I USED TO like. As in, way back in the 80s, before the wheel was invented or fire was discovered, back when I thought the Starship Enterprise was a totally real spaceship and the WWE was "totally serious sporting" and work was just this unspecific, nebulous place where adult people went with briefcases to scream office-y shit at one another from their rotary desk phones.

Kevin Spacey, who is totally in Working Girl, trying to fuck Melanie Griffith

But according to Working Girl, the office is a place where women can maybe go to do vague, unspecific things -- just as long as they look nice and have "serious hair" -- or else "a head for business but a bod for sin," as Melanie Griffith's Tess McGill says. According to Working Girl-- a catchy title meant to invoke the image of a street walker-- the only way to get ahead if you are a lady is to fuck your boss, or else agree to be a secretary for ten years and THEN fuck your boss, or else pass out in a cab with an already successful business man whom you will of course at some point fuck. Because of course. Of course. Even Sigourney Weaver, the only woman in a position of actual power in this movie, spends entire scenes literally in her underwear seducing men. And in fact, there is a cocktail party scene in which the only thing Sigourney Weaver does is negotiate sex with a dude just to get him to listen for one goddamn second to the smart, business-y words coming out of her mouth, and Jesus Christ on a Triscuit with ham, how did I never notice this about Working Girl?

And ugh, even the end is a misogynistic pile of bullshit and hairspray! Because if you'll recall, for all of Sigourney Weaver's much coveted business skills,  it turns out that this whole time (this whole entire crazy time!) all she really wanted as the lady villain was to have a baby and get into Harrison Ford's pants. It's really all she ever wanted! (Even though, to be fair, getting into Harrison Ford's pants was everyone's goal in the 80s. Still. You see what I mean.)

"What's that, Jack? Tick tock, tick tock... my biological clock." - actual line from the movie

Sometimes when you work from home you have these epiphanies, guys - about really, really weird fucking things.

Also my husband was still standing there in front of the TV, still waiting for the rest of this deranged plot synopsis, and suddenly all I could say was, "I feel like I learned a lot of really stupid things from this movie."

To which my husband nodded. "So you're gonna turn it off?"

I glanced at the TV.

"Hello, Tess MgGill's office..."

We were at that point in the movie where Melanie Griffith - with her new, "serious hair" haircut, goes to the cocktail party high on Valium to try and strike up a business conversation with business people about business things. The next thing that happens, of course, is she passes out and ends up naked in Harrison Ford's bed, because in 1988, stripping an unconscious stranger down to her underwear and getting into bed with her, and then letting her think you fucked her without her consent, is a funny plot point we are all okay with.

"I dunno," I said, "It's only halfway finished. She hasn't even gone to the Trask wedding yet."

"The Trask wedding? What is the Trask Wedding?"

The Trask Wedding

Guys, I just don't even know. Why are we still talking about Working Girl? Maybe I just really need to lay off the HBO Signature. But the truth is the only other task in front of me at that moment was the note I wrote myself the month before: PLEASE WRITE THIS NOVEL GOOD, OKAY? and instead I chose Working Girl.

Also, like I said, my husband was standing right in front of the TV. So I said, "Look, I don't have time to go over the whole plot with you. I can't explain the appeal of this movie. It's complicated."

Really, it's not.

Working Girl is a terrible movie. 

IS IT? YES. IT IS TERRIBLE! TERRIBLE!

Perhaps this is a problem specific to my generation of feminists. We're progressives but we've aged now, like wine. Or moldy McDonalds hamburgers. We're hypnotized still by the idiocy of Working Girl but at least we're aware of the idiocy of Working Girl. We've got one foot firmly planted in the workplace but the other still up Sigourney Weaver's bony ass. It makes me wonder what the world will look like 20 years from now, when today's little girls are all shattering the layer of glass ceiling in which Working Girl lives with tools they've learned from Spring Breakers and the Kardashians.

Christ, that sounds bleak.

Perhaps the real problem is I need to get up off my couch and stop watching goddamn Working Girl?

(But in the meantime I will go back to my HBO block of retro nonsense because this novel won't write itself and Xbox Live won't let me get into Netflix and anyway we're right at the part where Melanie Griffith asks Joan Cusack to pretend to be her secretary and god help me with this fucking movie, I need to get out of the house.)

Keeping it Real: My Grandfather

So I found myself thinking about my grandfather last night.  Actually, I found myself utterly sidetracked by my grandfather last night, which means the only recourse for me, obviously, is to write it out - sort of like hugging it out or dancing it out, just a bit less agressive.

Anyway. My Poppy was a photographer - a pretty great photographer in fact, who at one point apprenticed at a small studio in Brooklyn in the hopes of opening up his own studio one day.

my grandfather; photographer extraordinaire!

Which was of course when World War II happened, because there's nothing the universe loves more than leveling your expectations; best laid plans and all.

So Poppy went to war instead of photography school and became the official/unofficial photographer of U.S.S. Missouri, snapping photos all over the boat, getting in his jollies whenever and wherever he could. My Dad and I actually found some of his photos in an old paper album; shots of of the deck crew, tools in hand, hats askew, cigarettes hanging languidly from their smirks. They were smiling, likely at some terrible joke my grandfather told because my grandfather was always telling really terrible jokes. Specifically, he liked to tell the same jokes over and over and over - at least often enough that the rest of us really should have known better.

Happy men on deck

I'd like to think Poppy made life at least a little better for everyone even if his job as a sailor had never been to take pictures or make godawful jokes. But then, my grandfather was  the definition of Just Make It Work. And he didn't just make it work - he made it work with a smile and a stupid joke that somehow managed to infect everyone. I mean, here were all these frightened men who had just been thrown together, who would have never even met otherwise, who knew they were all sailing toward certain death, whose lives had just been ripped to pieces and turned upside down and then, at the end of it, were told to just make it work. Just make the best of it, sailors! -- just deal with the shit and the horror and the fear and deal with it fast, all best laid plans set aside-- because now you don't have a choice. And anyway, you also don't even know how long you'll have. And there was my grandfather in the middle of all that, snapping photos of his friends, making silly faces behind the camera and bad jokes about the Japanese.

The Japanese surrender--a photo my grandfather wasn't supposed to take but took anyway.

He wasn't the fastest or the strongest. He wasn't the bravest or the smartest. But he was funny and he was kind and he was always taking those pictures, and sometimes I think that was more valuable. Sure he never made any great navy rank. And sure, it wasn't the life he'd chosen for himself but it was the life he ended up living, and he was always happy to be living it. And I guess that's the lesson I've been obsessing over, the one I've been trying to beat into my own head: Best laid plans don't matter much against the harsh glare of reality, where whatever is meant to happen will happen. But maybe, MAYBE, just maybe.... if you trust in yourself and you trust in the things you love, reality will deliver you where you're supposed to go. Even if you didn't think that was the place you were meant to be at all.

I keep thinking about this one thing, wondering what my grandfather would think of the life I ended up living, and how far that life ended up from the one I had planned.

Years after the war, my grandfather opened up a card store on Long Island. Sure it wasn't the photography studio he always dreamed of but he loved stocking all the toys and the cards and the candy. He loved knowing all the names of everyone in the neighborhood. He loved that they all got their magazines and newspapers from him and that he knew all their favorite lotto numbers by heart. He wasn't the richest man nor was he famous, and he never at any point owned any more than that tiny card store, but he was happy.

Poppy and me. By six  years old I knew how to work both the lotto machine and the register

On my grandmother's birthday every year, Poppy would pull his favorite card from the inventory and give it to her with a shy smile. She would open the fresh white envelope and inevitably I would hear her say, in her agressive Brooklyn accent, "Carl, there's nothing written in this damn card."

"But do you like it?" He'd give her a kiss on the cheek. "You think it's nice?"

"Yes," my grandmother would say. "It's very nice."

"Good," he'd say, "Now put it back on the shelf, I have to sell that."

Same joke every year, same reaction every year, and that's exactly how he wanted it. Poppy loved his life as it was. He loved that we would laugh and then groan and then we'd all go back to what we were doing before. The dog would curl up on the newspapers, my cousins and I would climb up onto the tall stool to work the register. My grandmother would go next door to Pete's and get him an Egg Cream and a burger for lunch, and life would be perfect just that way. It wasn't the hand he was dealt, nor was it the hand he'd asked for; it was the hand he ended up with, although if anyone ever asked him, he'd say he had a full house, had always had a full house, and he'd say it without ever having to look down at his cards.

I hope one day when I grow up (and I assume eventually I will grow up) I am half as strong as my Poppy: The Dude Who Really Was Happy Just To Be Alive. And with conviction one day I'll be able to say-- even if the hand I've been dealt seems bad, even if that hand seems hopeless, even if I don't know where the next cards will come from or how they will fit with the hand I already have, "It's okay, I have a full house."