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.