Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Atypical apathy

One of the promises I made to myself when my last relationship hit the skids and I watched as, one by one, all the plans we'd made for the rest of our lives together died slow deaths was that I wouldn't plan so much. I am better at keeping to this at some times then others. I am exceptionally good at keeping to this when my good friend depression is at my elbow.

I have been in New York again, futilely doing New York-y things to try and drum up more work, see friends, avoid home for reasons I can't articulate other than that it stopped feeling like home about the same time I realized it would only ever be my home and never our home, etc. Strangely, I have been very ambivalent about staying for the holiday. Yesterday afternoon and evening, I even contemplated finishing work and just driving home this afternoon despite NYE having been kind of a big deal to me in the past. It is 6:00 at night and I don't even really have plans, which is actually a great accomplishment for an over-planner trying to break the habit, if I was just trying not to plan.

But I was talking to my friend Braak, explaining that I didn't have any plans, and how part of me wanted to sort of tell all my various friends that I was going out with a different friend and then curl up on the sofa in the house of the friend with whom I am crashing with my 10-year-old bottle of wine, his cat and a movie and wallow. And then I thought, wait, that's not like me. I mean, it's sort of like me, but it's not very like me, and it's not like me on New Years, and it's not like I actually am even that depressed at this moment in time. And he said something about it not being very exciting for my first New Years in New York and I said, well, it's not. And there it was.

I spent the millennial New Years in New York, actually, celebrating with Tom (who I'd been dating for 2 years at that point). That New Years ended with me crying hysterically in the coatroom, having found out that my 2 year relationship was basically over, in the middle of which he came in to yell at me for ignoring his friends and embarrassing him in front of them. It was a great night -- so great that I successfully avoided thinking about it for 9 years and allowed it to sneak up on me again.

Anyway, so, Erica and I have since made a pact that we won't dump each other, neither of us will cry in a coatroom, we will not go anywhere that has a fucking dress code or a cover charge and we will be happy drunks tonight if it kills us. So that's the plan. I should probably find something to wear to help accomplish that. Happy New Years.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Things I don't need #3,467,518

And my lizard brain screams, "But they're on saaaaaale!"

Why Jason Linkins is my friend

Yesterday, I wrote a column deconstructing Dennis Prager's column about how wives should just shut up and put out to keep their husbands happy. For the record, Spencer Ackerman sent it my direction, likely figuring that I would do to it about what I did to it. After it was published, I had this IM conversation with Jason Linkins:

Jason: Hey. I just wanted to point out something.

me: yeah? what's up?

Jason: There's this thing called the "entertainment industry." They produce all manner of things that entice men to spend their free time on.

me: i have heard! are we talking about porn?

Jason: So, if what Prager is saying is true, that men are like crazy, rutting animals that need to FUCK ALL THE TIME, this "entertainment industry" wouldn't exist. Why would I watch FRINGE when I could be sticking my dick in a raccoon snizz or a nice knot in a piece of wood?

me: my dad now wants to know what i am laughing so hard at, but my mom is standing here.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Someone is watching, anyway

This is an actual store in an actual mall near my parents. If it isn't obvious, it is filled with the same faux-crafty Made-in-China bric-a-brac as any other crap-filled tchtotke store in any other fucking mall in any other Real America part of the country. Only this time God wants you to buy it so the terrorists don't win. The Chinese are fine, though.

I am always a sucker for these kind of jokes.

From Sarah Hepola at Broadsheet today, a list of the most misogynist lyrics of this year's music and her response.

Pharrell, Common's "Announcement": "My dick is like a Blow Pop, baby"

Does that mean I can chomp it real hard to get to the bubble gum?

There's nothing like a good penis-injury joke to start my day with a laugh.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Christmas clean-up

So, it's blizzarding here in upstate New York, which causes my parents to bicker, my sister to work and me to get ordered upstairs to clean out my closet (a situation made more necessary by the carload of staff I brought home to store). I started with old cassettes, during which I gritted my teeth and decided to download necessary songs off of iTunes. Not necessary: Debbie Gibson, Whitney's first album, Timmy T or Patty Smyth and Don Henley. Sue me, I was like 14.

Things that were hilariously necessary:

"People Are Still Having Sex" by La Tour

"This Is Ponderous" by 2 NU

God, I fucking love that song. So my taste in music in high school wasn't utter, utter shit. Ok, it was, but that song's good.

Is it too early to start drinking? Cleaning goes better with booze.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Me on video

Back in October, I sat down for an interview with Allison Esposito for her project The Future of Roe. Hilariously, it turns out that I just hate shitty campaign commercials.

I do, however, like my blue corduroy coat.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Maura Johnston Is The World's Nicest Person

Maura Johnston is the editor of Idolator, which used to be part of the Gawker Media family. We met at a party on Thursday night and she invited me to accompany her to the infamous Jingle Ball (about which she wrote, so click), in which a Top 40 station -- which has partly to do with her awesomeness and partly to do with the fact that I will obviously try anything once even if that "anything" includes 15,000+ screaming tween girls and boy bands that are missing their bands (i.e., Jesse McCartney).

Anyway, although it was an event I possibly could've live-blogged due to its complete range from the ridiculous to the sublime, the one thing Maura did not put in her post was the fact that, on the Jumbotron, you could completely see the outline of Ne-Yo's (huge) cock. If we had been three rows closer, I would be able to tell you now if he was circumcised. As it is, the view was mighty fine. Also, Kanye's show as a performance was fucking awesome, Katy Perry's dress was annoying and Chris Brown's decision to eschew singing at his, you know, concert in favor of dancing might have been all right if two women in their mid-twenties hadn't decided to stand directly in front of us and get all I-Kissed-A-Girl about it to try to entice the cameras.

Fuck You, Says The Universe

For the second time in as many weeks, my (parked, unoccupied) car was hit by a speeding automobile. It's almost funny, except for the fact that my car has $4,000 worth of damage -- two-thirds of its value -- at the same time that I find out have have 1/2 of my job.

This afternoon, a diamond catalog arrived in the mail. Fuck you, too.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Subversive foreign policy

One of the virtues of having most of a day off is that, when you run out of things to do, there's all kinds of stuff on the Internet that you sometimes don't get around to reading when you have to write for the Internet. Today, I was perusing Foreign Policy's blog Passport and saw the most hilariously subversive OpEd in a long damn time, written for South Africa's Mail & Guardian by Binyavanga Wainaina. It's called "The Aspiring Dictator's Guide," and contains 12 easy ways to be a successful African dictator. Examples?
Rule 3. Make America or China happy. Make Israel and Saudi Arabia very happy. Become a Muslim, like Idi Amin. Visit Moammar Gadaffi often. He likes African leaders. We do not know why. Pray with George Bush and let him see your soul. Make your country's leading supermodel the ambassador to France and Italy. Ask her to wear a mini when presenting her papers to Nicholas Sarkozy.
Rule 11. Do not send all the money you steal to Switzerland and do not give it to your wife. Buy US treasury bonds and hide them in your children's library. They will never use it. Why should they read? Daddy is rich. Do not have businesses in your wife's name. Or in your children's names. Deal in euros, Krugerrands and diamonds.
If all these things fail and you find yourself in State House surrounded by screaming citizens carrying homemade weaponry, make sure you have a Hummer (Raila Odinga) in your garage. They are cheap now in America. You can burst out of your palace and make your way to Somalia, where you can become a pirate who earns $50-million a year.
Man, has Nick Denton heard of this guy? I bet he comes really cheap.

That face

Created by my friend Joy, I have completely made that drunken sneer-y face at people when I've been drunk and sneer-y.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Hard things

When I was about 9, someone gave me the full hardcover edition of "Little Women." Unsurprisingly, I was in love (and, despite my name, a Jo fan). I read it more than once, usually devouring it in huge chunks on a school break curled up in the blue chair my the window.

My mom, trying to get me to eat/have human contact knew one sure way to get me to eat was to bring me a cold, sliced, rock-hard Bartlett pear. It took a lot of pears to get through "Little Women."

When I eat pears, I am that age again, curled up in that chair in the winter afternoon sun and 100 miles and 100 years away besides. I bought some at the grocery store on Sunday. It's my stressed-out comfort food. I even sliced this one, for the extra-tangy nostalgia.

Saturday, December 6, 2008


This is my first denim skirt in probably 20 years that my awesome cousin Stacey convinced me to buy in the summer of 2006. I think I might have worn it for the first time in January in my post-Wonkette-firing binge at Sonoma. In March, I wore it out with friends for a night of boozing, after which I came back (alone) to my apartment and was sexually assaulted. The cops collected it as evidence and there it sat until I got "justice."

Recently, it was returned to me. I washed it just before Thanksgiving.

Tonight, I am wearing it out. I'm taking the pieces of me back, one at a time, metaphorically and otherwise. This is piece two. I wore the bra I was wearing that night last weekend, but I wasn't going to take a picture of that and post it on the Internet.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Bad News, Again

So, there's this. I'll be only partially employed relatively soon.

Also, a note. Someone that was following my Twitter feed decided to tip off Fishbowl NY for the purposes of their article, which pissed my higher-ups and me the fuck off. So, fuck you nameless Twitter-follower who got a boner off of tipping off the Fishbowl people that had contacted me for comment and who, for the sake of my continued employment, I had refused comment to. Are you proud of yourself now? Because of you, my Twitter has gone private. If I don't know you personally, don't bother asking because, no, you can't follow me anymore. Your Twitter compatriot fucked it up. Since I don't know who did it, everyone is out.

That, sadly, marks the end of the Huffington Post Challenge, as their following of me was enabled by my open Twitter feed. My last post was "Hey, asshole who sent my Twitter to FishbowlNY: Fuck you you fucking fuck. This will likely be the last Twitter you see." It seemed a good way to go out.

Monday, December 1, 2008

"The Curse of Sargasso"

A long time ago, in a city far, far away, my best friend was a film student and needed someone to star in his horror film. More recently, my parents gave me a slightly belated birthday present of a DVD recorder, which I naturally immediately used to convert a very old VHS tape of the results of that film to DVD. Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in digital format, J.C. Johnson's opus:

Thursday, November 27, 2008

My Life, In A Nutshell

I especially appreciate the part where the beaver begins cackling at his misfortune.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

The awkwarness of being awkward

I am not really good at this. This was an appoximation of my view much of the night. I hate pool.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

My type

So, there's a website that will analyze your writing to determine what kind of person you are on a Myers-Briggs scale. This is what it said about this blog:

ESTP - The Doers

The active and play-ful type. They are especially attuned to people and things around them and often full of energy, talking, joking and engaging in physical out-door activities. The Doers are happiest with action-filled work which craves their full attention and focus. They might be very impulsive and more keen on starting something new than following it through. They might have a problem with sitting still or remaining inactive for any period of time.

UPDATE The Gender Analyzer thinks that there is a 63% chance that I am a dude.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Megan in the middle

Erica: Megan ! A quote from you is currently the Huffington Post's twitter status!

me: That happens

It just doesn't often happen that my musings about caffeine are sandwiched in between Matt Cooper and CNN's Rick Sanchez.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Things I never do

Well, let me bury my lede, first off.

This morning, we got an e-mail from a former Jezebel/Wonkette commenter, one of several that I recall hating on me and my political coverage. This is what she said.
I'm a regular poster on Wonkette. I used to post a lot on Jezebel, but I liked Wonkette's political slant better, so I stuck with them when I had to choose which blog would get WAY too much of my free-time.

But this evening... well, not anymore, is my point.

I'm *******, and I'm fucking finished with Wonkette. I can't even express my rage over this post, honestly. I keep writing all kinds of rage-filled, angry missives about women, and how women are judged by their appearance, and how Palin might be functionally retarded but the bitch has got AMAZING legs, and yet I can't get anywhere. I feel like a huge gulf has been opened, and I can't possibly explain to the men of Wonkette why it's not OK to take perfectly healthy, slender woman, and call her a fat slob.

Hm, didn't like the political slant, huh? Didn't like the political coverage that much, i.e., me, so you went over to the site that fired me for being too lacking in insult comic humor and too ranty and not fratty enough in my political voice and -- let's be truly fair -- for catering too much to a LGBT-friendly crowd and for being too girlie and for telling the misogynists to fuck off and for banning them at will and now you're surprised that the site is run by the type of dick that thinks mocking Sarah Palin for being fat is funny and completely appropriate? Did you miss the last 10 months of his coverage? That's what he does, and that's what he lets his commenters do (no offense to Jim whose rant about Palin's use of gerunds was inspired and deserves to get him laid) and that's one of the reasons I was fired -- so he could do it. So, cry me a river, honey. You start off your e-mail by dissing me and now you're mad at him for doing what, with your page-view enticements, you've allowed him to continue doing? Whatevs.

Ok, second, "we" don't believe any such bull. She might -- and I'm sure she does -- but I am more or less on record as believing the complete fucking opposite. So, let me just say:
  1. 1. No. I wear tall shoes because I like them and I accept the full consequences of and responsibility for my actions and expect no such thing.
  2. 2. I don't care who gets in first, last, in the middle, or whatever. Seriously. In 10 years in D.C., I have learned to do this as gracefully as any man can and am not worried about the arrangement of my clothing.
  3. 3. OH GOD NO. No. Just, no. Uh-uh. I mind it. And I mind it not because of pride (although there's that) but because it's stupid and out-dated. I pick up checks or split checks as a sign that I am enjoying his company as much as he is mine and because I am as invested in having a good time as he is. It also doesn't hurt that I have my own money, prefer my independence and think that it is stupid for a so-called feminist to claim poverty. If you can't afford to go out, find other things to do. Stay home and fuck. Go to a cheaper place. Discuss it in advance. Come to a compromise. But this the opposite of what I believe -- and it's damn sure not feminism.
  4. 4. I do not dig on guys jizzing on me, but if I am closer to the Kleenex, I am happy to get one for each of us simultaneously. I am also happy to put the condom on, take it off, play clean-up patrol when on the rag, whatever. See above: I am as invested in both of us enjoying this as he is.
  5. If there ever comes I time when I get regular manicures again, I can sit still long enough for the polish to dry and I will not need a butler. Side note: never, ever, ever try to wipe me after I've finished urinating.
Ugh. I would be less annoyed if it didn't use the first person plural.

The Other Pair

Because I can't walk into DSW and buy just one, I began the process of breaking the new boots in tonight. My bartender had to touch them, my waitress loved them and my toes didn't even really hurt that much.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

No, I don't know what I'm going to wear them with. Yes, I do realize that my feet are probably going to hurt. No, I don't care. They are 70% off, they have platforms, and I have a coupon.

Yes, I realize that sometimes it's like I have my mother's voice in my head when I go shopping. I can't help it.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

Bad habits

  1. Calling Greg for rides when I'm drunk.
  2. Staring at Mike's or Andy's ass, and occasionally both (usually when I'm drunk).
  3. Obsessing.
  4. What John Clarke, Jr. used to call "bleeding in public," i.e., blogging too-personal shit.
  5. Getting fired.
  6. Eavesdropping.
  7. Not returning e-mails in a timely fashion.
  8. Snooping.
  9. Lulling myself to sleep with memories that shouldn't still lull me to sleep.
  10. Tardiness.
  11. Ego.
  12. Murder She Wrote
  13. Going to the same bar.
  14. Listening to morose music when intoxicated.
  15. Crying in cabs.
  16. Crying on my floor.
  17. Falling asleep crying to the point I wake up with salt crystals on my face.
  18. Procrastinating.
  19. Missing what I never really had.
  20. Mozzarella cheese sticks.
  21. Daydreams.
  22. Making lists I never finish.
  23. Focusing on my flaws.
  24. Buying shoes.
  25. Pretending that I matter.

Friday, November 14, 2008


I don't run away from a lot of things -- I think maybe it's not in my personality so much -- but I understand the motivation. It it nice to think that I could snap my fingers, pack my car and leave behind the things in my life that have wrecked me, that hurt too much to cope with, that I would rather bury my head in the sand than deal with. And while logically I know that I probably wouldn't escape them because they're deeply embedded within me, like the small piece of glass I stepped on in Salou that worked its way deeper and deeper into my foot until a moment of discomfort became a stab of pain with each step, I feel like maybe if I just took the last step in the life-destruction I've engaged in over the last year, maybe I could burn away the last of my hurts and regrets from this stage of my life.

I joked with a friend months ago that after this election that I was just going to sell my place, pay off my student loans, pack my car with what I could hold and discard the rest and just drive and blog it. You know, stop in a town, waitress or bartend, be some other, stupider version of myself and that maybe by discarding intellectual endeavors I could stop living in my own head so much. He laughed at me, and told me to make sure I posted pictures of myself in low-cut shirts so I could make money off the ads. But I wondered if I could just go be the stereotype of my looks, really. I have always envied people that don't have this much internal monologue.

I left New York last night two days later than intended and emotionally a little worse for wear. Halfway through Jersey, with rain misting on my windshield and the worst of the traffic behind me, alone in the dark but for a smattering of headlights, Jackson came on.
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
Once I get to Lafayette, I'm not gonna mind one bit
Once I get to Lafayette, I'm not gonna mind one little bit
Once I get to Baton Rouge, I won't cry a tear for you
Once I get to Baton Rouge, I won't cry a tear for you
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
Once I get to Vicksburg, I don't think I'll feel the urge
I get to Vicksburg, I won't even feel an urge
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
All the way to Jackson, I don't think I'll miss you much
And I realized that that's what I sort of wanted out of the drive, and that it was probably going to be as futile as the song suggests. I can't run away from what's wrong because I'm always there, and it's me that's feeling it.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008


I am an autumn child. I revel in the kind of weather that burns my nose and frosts my toes, that forces me to tromp around in sweaters and boots, that brings with it a level of chilliness that makes it feel perfect to be snuggled under the covers -- preferably with someone snuggly, lately an unusual occurance for me -- that makes me give the envious stinkeye to people sitting near fireplaces in restaurants. Today, where I sat working, there was a cold autumn breeze blowing over my toes occasionally. I liked it. It made me nostalgic for the smell of rotting leaves, the noises of kicking through them, the feel of the first night that makes one long for fuzzy gloves, the pretense that walking with his arm around me and mine around him has something to do with the temperature and not something more personal.

Friday, November 7, 2008

Fill Me

Last Friday, my friend got us tickets to Duffy. Well, technically, he got us tickets to Coldplay, but she opened. And, shit, seriously, Mark Ronson needs to drop Amy Winehouse and get on this shit. That voice filled the Verizon Center, and she was obviously not altered. It was amazing.

Also, that shit is real tears. When you're wearing mascara and crying, that's exactly how you wipe your eyes. Also, my upper lip totally swells up like that. And I'm not just saying that because I left a club, recently, and cried in the cab the whole way home and probably looked just like that only far less sexy. I listened to this song when I got home.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Voting in Virginia

I cast my ballot today!

Keep up with Virginia returns!

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Reasons to never go shopping alone

Because you will inevitably end up picture messaging someone from the dressing room asking which dress you should buy. It's just easier to buy someone dinner or drinks. And less annoying.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Trolly McTrollster

As most people reading this probably know, Gawker Media blogs are comment-moderated. What you may not know is that "commenter auditions" are held in a dark backroom of Gawker Media offices by a lovely young woman (who I won't name but you know from a certain Party) who spends day after day reading through thousands of comments without context from the post and mostly hits "approve." Times when she doesn't include: all caps; gratuitous swearing (and that's a high bar); race-baiting; general crazy; or insults about the looks of the editor.

Tuesday, shortly after this post about Ms. Editor Elaine Lafferty went up, I received the following email.

date: Tue, Oct 28, 2008 at 3:17 PM
subject: Nice

So since your little site only allows comments from Obama supporters I'm just going to copy your little screeds to my own blog with your email address. Turns out I can be infantile, lest you thought the democrats and Jezebel bloggers cornered that. I hope you prefer that to a little dissent. What was the matter with that by the way, are your beliefs so wafer thin they just can't hold up? Pretty pathetic. Dirty hag.
You can imagine, I get these all the time. Whooo, scary. Whatevs. Per some advice from my friend Michael, I decided to respond.

date: Tue, Oct 28, 2008 at 3:32 PM
subject: Re: Nice

Bring it. It's called a "spam filter."

And our comments are moderated from afar by someone who basically doesn't let people post anything when the content limited to "you're ugly." Are your beliefs so wafer thin that you can't be bothered to write a coherent argument? Oh, wait, yes they are otherwise you wouldn't be anonymously threatening me.

Usually, this is the end of things with these kinds of people, mostly because they expect that you aren't reading and whatever. Or, you know, not.

date: Tue, Oct 28, 2008 at 3:38 PM
subject: Re: Nice

Right. There were points made, you choosing to dismiss them doesn't mean they weren't there. You and your sites entire argument is that not voting for Obama is racism. That's just so enlightened. But hey, comfort yourself with that - all the Bush bashing on your site 4 years ago paid off too, right?

I just hope McCain hosts a dinner for Davod Dukes this week so I can learn about Obama's suits.

You can't stand a differing view. It's ok. I understand.

First off, as previously stated, I don't see comments that didn't make it through the moderation process. And, as stated, I have nothing to do with it and don't even have access in the new comment system to do anything about anyone or any comment. But, we're bringing a little more of the crazy with the lack of appropriate punctuation and the David Duke reference. Lame.

date: Tue, Oct 28, 2008 at 3:53 PM
subject: Re: Nice

Dude, in 2004 I was an industry lobbyist, not a writer, and the site wasn't even a gleam in its founder's eye. It was founded in 2007. FAIL.

Yawn. Have more posts to write about how awesome and perfect our future President Obama is to convince that many more people to vote for him instead of your butt-buddy John McCain. So Audi.
For the record, I was consistently replying to the tips line for the laughter of all the other editors, mine included. I did, however, choose to ignore the punctuation and spelling errors as well as the racist reference for the sake of being like, fuck off.

Later, however, theis wingnut took except to the "Reader Roundup," in which my colleague Jessica chooses the best and worst comments of the day. Unsurprisingly, having spent a decent part of this election season being attacked for her Jewish heritage -- by no less than Fox & Friends -- she had her eye trained on a post I did about a Jewish Republican judge who sent out an "Obama hates Jews!" email. In that post, someone called "Turtle Girl" made several inappropriate remarks about racism, Ayers, etc., fought with commenters, earned first a disemvoweling from Hortense, then a banning (and, at 4:40 ET, a Worstie) all at about 2:30 in the afternoon, or 40 minutes before I got my first email from "Yertle." The Turtle. And here I thought it was all about my Lafferty post and moderation, given that from about 11:30 to 2:59, that was all I worked on (it's sort of an opus) and didn't even remember the Jewish post. Like, at all. But this is what Yertle the Turtle Girl had to say about earning her worstie.

date: Tue, Oct 28, 2008 at 4:49 PM
subject: Re: Nice

Edward Said never said he hated Jews? Megan, you are as ugly inside as you are outside.
Now, again, I didn't even see the Besties/Worsties until Yertle emailed me, let alone the comment thread that earned her her banning because I spent 3.5 hours ripping Elaine Lafferty a new asshole -- including trying to get a comment from Eleanor Smeal. I was fried, and this shit is just fucking stupid.

date: Tue, Oct 28, 2008 at 5:02 PM
subject: Re: Nice

First off, shit poke, learn to use the Interwebs and check the byline. You'll note that it's not my name. Also, dickweed, when it says "You say" that links to a commenter that said it, not me. And, FYI, cocksucker, the person that chose that comment to display is Jewish.

In finality, seriously, fuck off. Stop reading. We don't give a fuck. None of us, from Nick Denton on down. Go away. Enjoy your small, small little life. We all await the day your tiny, ill-informed head explodes.

Anna, notably, laughed so hard upon reading my missive that she snarfed her soda. One would think that this would scare someone off -- especially if she noticed that every other editor at Jezebel was reading it. But, nope, she goes straight back to calling me ugly and ups it to threatening me with violence.

date: Wed, Oct 29, 2008 at 10:37 AM
subject: Re: Nice

and in return; when the next 9/11 comes, I hope they find your ugly, ignorant ass first, you deserve nothing less - and yes, you are ugly. I saw you on Facebook. You have a face that could make a cat bark. No doubt that's why you are so pleasant.

Now, see, violence is where I get off the crazy train. Violence is where the police get notified, violence is where I note for her service provider's benefit that she's violating the terms of service and violence is where I go for the gusto.

And so, with that note I present to you, dear readers, Yertle The Turtle Girl, aka Erika James, who calls me "The Ugliest Girl That Ever Survived An Abortion" [since removed], aka Ari, or Ari, or Ari, aka Elana, 36, of Brooklyn, NY [now private, glad to know you're reading, Elana!]. On AIM, her profile lists one of her favorite quotes as:
Speak kindly and softly, tomorrow you may have to eat those words..

My lawyer and I will be checking into her more over the next few days, but, in the mean time, enjoy a selection of her MySpace photographs.

I mean, Elana, you told me to enjoy! And I did!

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Food for thought

The following fortune cookie fortune, found while cleaning my place (likely eaten when I was not sober):

Behind an able man, there are always other able men.

I blame this on the delivery guy that stares at my tits and flirts with me.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Not My Friend

Earlier this month, I got in a bit of a Facebook back and forth with a guy who had been my intellectual rival in grade school. Yes, that involved math flash cards and spelling bees, so what? Anyway, he ended up not graduating with our class, losing his football scholarship and no one seemingly knew what happened to him at the last reunion. When I found him on Facebook in our class section, I was oddly excited. I've always been curious.

It turns out, he's a rabid Republican in Illinois. And by "rabid," I mean he responded to an item I posted on my Facebook page about racism among McCain supporters with comments about the Reverend Wright and whether it was safe to elect Obama President. We had 3 exchanges in which I was like, don't be an idiot. When I went back to show the conversation to someone else, I found his comments has disappeared and he had de-friended me. On the one hand, I was disappointed because I remember the kid he used to be that I really liked (and, naturally, had a crush on for a while) and, on the other, I'm not surprised.

That said, a lot of people I don't know friend me on Facebook. The below guy claimed he did so because we were friends with a lot of the same people -- all conservatives, and many former colleagues that don't speak to me anymore. I accepted the request because I pretty much always do. And then my news feed showed me this.
So much offensiveness, so little time. He's not my "friend" anymore, either.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

On the controversial stink

As anyone who was following Cynics Party noticed, I trailed off on posting there in about June. As anyone who has been following this blog, well, likewise. Part of this was due to a money crunch that hit in about that time that required that I pitch stories, work my ass off, please everyone,etc., and that left me little time to write more about politics (not that I had any desire to write anything else after a 12 or 13 hour day anyway). Part of that was a number of simultaneous personal crises and life requirements, including two family weddings and the illness and death of my grandmother which had me on the road for more than half of the summer and did little for my emotional well-being. I mostly felt like I was clawing for some sort of emotional balance and needed to take my head out of the web of electrons -- when I could -- and sit with real people who knew me and cared about me and didn't give a shit about some public persona.

All that is to say, despite the fact that my name remained on the masthead, having not written a word or engaged on the comment boards for a few months, I felt I had abdicated any responsibility for it. Moreover, that the feeling that I ought to write something became another sense of responsibility and foreboding that I couldn't really handle and that, as it became clear that the Jezebel thing was going to be full-time for the foreseeable future in addition to Glamocracy, I wasn't going to be able to have time for it anyway. So, I hadn't kept up.

When Hunter and Greg came to me a few weeks ago and said that they were in a position to write again, having stabilized their job situations to a degree, and that they wanted to try to grow the site, I was happy for them but expressed the sentiment that I'd been out of it for too long and wasn't going to have the time for it. One thing that they'd had issue with some time after we founded the site was the quality of the writing on it -- the typos, the grammar, the too-insidery humor that might turn off potential new readers. Having been then, as now, not in a position to edit anything let alone write a lot, I was loathe to do more than ask some of the writers to tone certain things down or make an effort in regards to quality control. What they told me is that, as we'd all tried to focus on our day jobs and despite the fact that ours were the only non-pseudonymous names on the masthead, the site had become a collection of short posts, many of which were not about national politics, lacked pictures, had similar grammatical problems or worse than before and made the site look like a cross between a personal tumblr and an effort to set up little more than discussions between long-time commenters. None of that was what we intended when we launched.

What they did was go to the person who had, in our absence, assumed much of the responsibility for the site's upkeep. Initially, he had offered to help with some of the backend stuff and I'd suggested to Greg that we take him up on it. When he asked to write here and there for it, I was happy to have him. They suggested to him that they wanted to try, again, to make the site more than just a message board for the regulars, to make an effort to have people post regularly but less prolifically so that everyone's posts could get attention and to make sure that they were commentary/newsy things about politics again, as we did when we started.

Around that time, the site went down again, and he told them he was working on it. Come to find out, he was actually working on starting a site of his own and farming the commenters to abandon the site that Greg, Hunter and I had founded because they had to audacity to suggest to him ways they wanted to work with him to make it more professional. And that's, in fact, what he did.

So, look, I've seen the invitations in the comment threads to join you guys. That's not going to happen, I'm sorry. Greg and Hunter are my friends, and they did nothing wrong. Also, frankly, the reason our site got founded at all was because of them and their efforts, and because they used it as a way to drag my incredibly depressed ass out of bed the week after I got fired from Wonkette and give me something productive to do besides drink and sleep. The fact that there have been posts on said rival site bashing on the integrity of my friends and their intentions does nothing to endear me to it. That there was a falling out between my friends and our commenters saddens me, and that said falling out means that people have been asked or have decided to take sides saddens me more. I have no doubt that each and every commenter makes time in their day to visit multiple websites, including the ones I write for to pay the bills, and could choose to visit both the new site and the old if there wasn't an effort to discourage you from doing the latter.

When Greg and Hunter managed to get our site back up, they made a change to the masthead at my request. I'm now the Cynic Emeritus. Given that most of my days start at 7:30 am writing for Glamour (for 3 more weeks at least) and end at 6:30 pm when I finish my last post for Jezebel (where I was just made an editor this week), I don't foresee having a lot of time or energy to write about politics elsewhere. But I know that if I do, Hunter and Greg will always welcome me back. I'm sure they feel the same way about our commenters.

Better Late Than Never

The HuffPo feed has been broken, but I'm not sure that means I won.

Also, I did BloggingHeads last with with Salon's Rebecca Traister (who is about as awesome as you think she would be from her writing).

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

The HuffPo Challenge Continues Apace

While out on Sunday night, I received the following tweet from Jason Linkins, my friend and fellow Crappy Hourist:
THE ANDROMEDA STRAIN was nominated for something? Really? In the same category as John Adams? Really? How did this happen?
I responded:
@dceiver: What the fuck? The Andromeda Strain sucked. It was only worth watching for seeing Benjamin Bratt all wet, but that's not Emmy-worthy.
Both made the HuffPo feed but, as I was out, I didn't capture it for perpetuity.

Today, following a Crappy Hour full of mocking Jonah Goldberg, I tweeted the following.

Man, Kelis doesn't get 'em?

Sunday, September 21, 2008

HuffPo Challenge Day 3

Ass-fucking makes its first appearance!

Day 2.5

Unfortunately, there is no visual to accompany it, but at the bar last night, I tweeted the following:
If you feed enough fucking reporters enough fucking wine those assholes still don't tell you anything. Bitches.
One of those bitches, who I loved, whipped out her iPhone and discovered that, indeed, this made the HuffPo feed as well. Received the following responses on the HuffPo feed:
@megancarpentier Wine is like Kryptonite to Bizarro Superman. Must ply reporters w/ bourbon or worse. Absinthe guarantees results, per Hem. -msbellows
@megancarpentier Good one! -dceiver
The first person doesn't even follow me! I then proceeded to get even more stinking drunk.

Friday, September 19, 2008

HuffPo Challenge Day 2

Day 2: They deleted part of my Tweet, but published the other part. In full, it reads:
Attention all rapists and harassers: Arlington County, VA police & prosecutors have decided it's open season on women here, so go ahead.
Yeah, it was a good night last night. Really.

Anyway, I'm not actually pissed they're using it, I'm more amused.

Um, Hey, We Used To Hang Out?

So, the summer of crap is nearly at an end and I don't really want to talk about it, so instead I will post something silly.

As anyone who follows me on Twitter knows, I post sporadically at best, and usually pretty stream-of-consciousness shit. I didn't used to even have followers. Tuesday, I got a notification that the Huffington Post was following me. Ok, well, whatever. While catching up on the day's events tonight, I noticed the HuffPo feed -- that used to be filled with people I know actually blog for HuffPo -- was filled with new bloggers. Non-HuffPo bloggers. And I realized the significance of Tuesday's messages.

HuffPo wasn't just "following" me. HuffPo was now re-posting my messages, which might at any given point show up on the main HuffPo page. Like, say, this morning's message:
Holy shit, the FDIC will insure money markets and the SEC is stopping short selling. We really are completely fucked. Buh-bye, 401k!
Or yesterday's message:
Jason Linkins will not be distracted by shiny things.
Or, God forbid, late Wednesday night's message:
Need a really good back massage.
Gah! I figured there was only one thing to do. I must now endeavor to curse, as prolifically as possible, until the Powers That Be on HuffPo decide to remove me. The HuffPo Challenge began this afternoon, rather inauspiciously for my goals.
Top of the heap, within moments. Two curse words and a "WTF." I'm going to have to try harder.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

This Week

Since I came back from home, the few times I've used my car I've forgotten my MP3 player. (Yeah, I'm too cheap to buy an iPod, so sue me). That's meant that I've been stuck with the radio. I heard this song this week, and liked it except that it was trying too hard to be a ballad I didn't want to listen to. Luckily, some DJ type had the same feeling.

I do like my heartbreak with a techno beat, what can I say? It's less tempting to slit my wrists that way.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Oh, For Fuck's Sake

This shit is getting tiresome. I just passed a rash of signs at the Albany airport telling me the various fees the airlines are charging to check one bag. Just raise the fucking ticket price by $30 and stop charging me at the fucking airport because then if I'm traveling for business that's an extra receipt I have to submit. Assholes.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Fuck You, General Motors

Last year, I discovered this song by Brandi Carlile. I liked it, I bought it from iTunes, I sang along to it in my living room, I thought in happy moments that it might be about John and in unhappy moments that it never could be. I still like this song, even if I had to take it off my MP3 player there for a while when it had a tendency to make me cry.

This song is now the background music for a fucking General Motors commercial running during the Olympics.

Fuck you, GM, for making me look even lamer by making this song a crappy commercial for your crappy cars.

That said, congrats, Brandi, I hope you make a shit ton of money off of it. I'm sorry that I'll only listen to it when no one else is around.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Other weird things

1. I realized walking home tonight that the Big Dipper was the constellation of my youth and Orion has been the constellation of my adulthood.
2. Mozzarella sticks with raspberry sauce. What the fuck?
3. How quiet it is here that living more than a mile from the railroad tracks I still hear the whistles.
4. Raspberry sauce. Like, for real. They charged me 50 cents extra. Ew.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

The view from here.

Things I find absurd:
1. How much processed food they serve in hospitals.
2. That this is one time my loud, high-pitched voice comes in handy. I still talk too fast, though.
3. The openness patients get with their evacuatory functions. I remember reading a study once about how people would pee their pants before dropping trou in front of strangers. Not so here.
4. How cold it is here.
5. I remember the hospitals I've stayed in smelling worse. Is there actually a market for hospital smell eliminating chemicals?
6. My grandmother's former roommate who kept trying to smoke in the bathrooms, including other people's.
7. Why the fuck is everything pink?
8. How fucking perfect the weather is.
9. That I'm sitting in the hall typing this.
10. The insanely hot ambulance guy that handed something to the gay male nurse and said something about a "hard stick" while we both drooled and another nurse gloved up to go into my grandmother's room.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Greg says

"I really like gay porn. I just pretend it's two guys that got to the party reeeally early."

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Um, Fuck You, Too

So, some blogospheric Gloria Steinam syncophant would like me to know that it is, like, totally okay to cry in front of the subjects of your interview. You know what? I don't get to be a reporter for the Financial Times. I get to randomly blog about politics and random girl crap on the blogosphere. And yet someone who identifies herself as "a snow bunny" and admits to ripping off my work and the work of the other women with whom I work ("intellectual property, my ass" she says) says "Cry Me A River" and re-posts this picture of me from this here personal blog. Well, you know what? That picture was taken by me more than a year ago to show off to my best friend my change from blonde to red hair. Oh, and crying in an interview is unprofessional.

She also says "Even thinking of her voice is like taking a Xanax in a marshmellow bathtub of womb water." Actually, if you listen to my actual voice, I sound like a 13 year old Valley Girl, or so I've been told. But, you know what? Great feminist point to body/voice snark me, sneak into my personal blog, link to a photo that you're not even paying to host and snark my race. Think your feminist icon would be proud?

Also, I don't cry in public. I'm open about that. I've written about it. But even if I did randomly run around D.C. crying, I wouldn't do it in an interview with one of the most important women of the 20th century and, if for some reason she caught me on a day, like today, when my grandmother is dying horribly of cancer, I wouldn't cop to it in my article on the fucking Financial Times for the purpose of making the interview half about me. So, you know, fuck you, "Fawn." Your name is as stupid as my voice AND my writing.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Out Of Sight

I know I've been bad about updating this month. A friend just IM'd me to ask about my dating life these days and I said that I didn't have enough emotional energy to bother trying. That's sort of like this blog. With all the blogging I'm doing for Jezebel and Glamocracy, it's been difficult to think of anything else I might even want to bother saying.

If you're worried you missed any of said blogging, I chronicled it all here. And I'll try to get back to daily updates and shit.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Wisdom of Greg

If you treat women like objects, you're going to end up having to treat an object like a woman.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

An explanation

So, it's been kind of a long absence. I know.

My grandparents lived with my family for several years growing up. They're the only ones I've ever really known, and watching my grandmother being ill and my family lose its shit over that has been difficult.

I don't deal well with stress or emotional obligation, and I have been emotionally obliged and stressed and this was just one more thing I couldn't keep up with for a couple of weeks.

Also, Jezebel hired me on as a regular contributor, I went to Europe, some shit went down with one of my good friends, and on and on and on and some days I just wanted to walk away from everything. Some days I still do.

Anyway, so I'll try to be better. I'm trying to have my head a little more together. I'm trying to remember what it was like to be this age and be randomly excited by glasses and choose to wear them for a school photograph. To this day, this is one of the worst pictures of me ever taken. I hated it and I still do. But staring at it does me some good. This is where I started from.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Day of the Vicious Migraine

Glamocracy: McCain's Colombian Nights
Glamocracy: McRick Rolled

Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: Writer: Little Girls Are A Threat To HuManity
Jezebel: My Sexual Assault Is Not Your Political Issue
Jezebel: Beatrice Birra


me: it just sucks, like, part of me wants to pretend that, like, a year ago g. would've been here, you know?
and yet i know intellectually that i would've been as alone as i am now
P: Oh definitely. These are those times when you REALLY wish you had someone.
me: and i'm forcible reminding myself that the someone i had i didn't really
P: It's so easy to slip into the mindset where you're romanticizing the past.
me: watching my grandfather with my grandma... it was like, i was struggling not to cry and not because it was sad to see but because i knew i wasn't ever gonna have that
P: Have that kind of love?
me: yeah, i guess. have that kind of security. have that kind of certitude.
have someone that looks at me at 81 and sees the 19 year old me and doesn't see the difference really
PPG: I know what you mean. I feel that way, too sometimes.
me: i guess everyone does
or, like, worse, i had it and fucked it up somehow
P: From everything you've told me, G. fucked it up. Big time.
me: yeah, but i stayed for a long time
P: Yeah, you tried to make it work.
me: but i also tried to make myself into someone who could?
P: But that wasn't you and you weren't happy. That isn't your fault.
me: I know, but before g. there was r. and before r. there was m. and before m. there was t. and on and on and on
and at some point, you have to stop and say, maybe it's not them.
P: Well you're right that self-examination is important. But it very well could be them or you not choosing the right dudes.
me: i think the evidence shows it's me
P: Well, if it is you, that's something you have relative control over.
me: one would think, only, i keep dating the fucked up ones
i should not be able to impress my gay friends with the depths of my fuckedupness
P: Because I will never believe there is something innately wrong with you that makes you unfit for that kind of love.
Goddammit, you're fucking awesome.
me: i should be a lesbian! all my gay friends and my girl friends think i rock
P: If I hadn't already promised myself to Stacy, I'd go lezzie for you.
me: i don't think it's innate, i just think, like, it probably represents a kind of compromise i'm incapable of making
P: I just think that if you want something badly enough and it's right, you'll find a way to compromise.
me: it was funny, my mom and i were driving around on monday night looking for some fucking place to get some dinner at 9:00
and she was talking about how she told my sister not to go to chicago for her roommate or to stay there for her bf
and on and on
and it's like... wow, this is why
this is my entire childhood in this moment
i was indoctrinated not to compromise and, to a degree, not to respect someone who would
i need a freudian therapist
P: Haha
I love my shrink if you want a rec! :)
me: moe and i, the other day, were arguing about freudian theory
that didn't make it into a post
P: Hahaha ohhh

The Remainders of the Day

Glamocracy: The Truth Police
Glamocracy: The Endorsement Dream Team

Jezebel: Crime and No Punishment
Jezebel: The Pro-Choice Movement, Proving the Anti-Choice Movement Right
Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: Women Have A Complex Relationship With Porn
Jezebel: First Battered Shelter For Battered Women
Jezebel: "I Don't Want To Get Spanked By Mama" And Other Clinton Camp Sexism
Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: Sex For Gas
Jezebel: Date Rape T-Shirt
Jezebel: Abortion In The Arab World Is Sort Of Like Abortion In America
Jezebel: Sexual Harassment Equality: A How Not To Guide

Monday, June 30, 2008

John's Date

This is, rather obviously, the girl John was on a date with on Friday night. Apparently, despite the yawning, it went pretty well. He posted this picture last night (and, yes, he knows he's one of my contacts on Flickr and thus see his pictures). This is the conversation that ensued with one of my friends:

me: ALSO john who i dated in the fall? posted naked pictures of his new GF on his flickr account
that's so wrong
me: no nips or anything, but the meaning is obvious
D: that nail polish is just awful
is she part Tic Tac?
me: does it matter?
that was the girl yawning at him last friday night
he knows i see his flickr
D: I'm just so not impressed
all I can think about looking at these photos is that she kind of has the same hair as that Kazakh model who leapt to her death yesterday
me: yeah
D: whose corpse I just HAD to go look at on Fox
D: obviously
me: (me too, i'm ashamed)
D: you'd never let yourself be photographed looking so utterly submissive
and I still hate the nail polish
me: WOW way to put your finger on it
D: everything about the photo screams "passive"
me: omg, totally
D: which is prolly what he likes about her
and which you are (I should think) constitutionally incapable of being
me: yes
pretty much
D: I bet she talks in a little girl baby doll voice too

Catching Up To Do

Glamocracy: The Pander-lympics
Glamocracy: The Dance Begins
Glamocracy: McCain Strikes a Pose
Glamocracy: We Don't Need No Stinkin' Unity

Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: Harriet Harman Wants English Women To Make More Money
Jezebel: The Devil Wears Prada, The Pope Wears Straight Jesus
Jezebel: Boy George's Visa Problems Make The State Department Spitting Mad
Jezebel: What It Feels Like For A Girl
Jezebel: Ma'am, That Uterus Will Cost You Extra
Jezebel: Parents Still Messing Up Their Kids, Kids Still Having Sex
Jezebel: "Jokes" About Domestic Violence Are Never Funny
Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: When Spite Trumps Common Sense, A Resentful Clinton Supporter Is There
Jezebel: Woman To Woman: How To Get The Money You Want And Deserve
Jezebel: Does Feminism Carry A Gun?
Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: LaVena Johnson: Murdered By Her Colleagues, Ignored By The Army

Sunday, June 29, 2008

The Challenge

My friend, Spencer Ackerman, issued me a bloggy challenge:
Put your iPod on shuffle and see how long it takes to come up with a song that would disqualify you from the presidency.
I figured I needed a distraction, a reason to put my headphones on despite hanging out with my family and something to do while getting through a weekend's worth of news before writing tomorrow. Bonus points for being able to officially not notice my mom rolling her eyes about me drinking a beer.

Sadly, I might be disqualified on the lameness factor. I have almost 1,800 songs on iTunes and they pretty well run the gamut of, well, everything from country to classical, blues to rock, swing to pop. Sadly, it seems that in the transfer from my old desktop to my laptop it lost all my ratings and # of plays, so my shuffle button is really doing this blind.

  1. Under The Boardwalk -- The Drifters
  2. The Story -- Brandi Carlisle
  3. Mrs. Robinson (Live from Central Park) -- Simon and Garfunkel
  4. Breaking Up Is Hard To Do -- Neil Sedaka
  5. Thong Song -- Sisqo
  6. Best I Ever Had -- Vertical Horizon
  7. Ordinary World -- Duran Duran
  8. Faultline -- Elliot Morris
  9. Summertime -- The Sundays
  10. Into Action -- Tim Armstrong
  11. Fat Lip -- Sum 41
  12. Private Conversation -- Lyle Lovett
  13. My Immortal -- Evanescence
  14. Late In The Evening (Live in Central Park) -- S&G
  15. In the Still of the Night -- The Five Satins
  16. Bang Bang -- David Sanborn
  17. Get Gone -- Fiona Apple
  18. Everyone Needs Someone Sometime -- Jewel
  19. Piano Song -- Meiko
  20. Whip It -- Devo
  21. Rock This Town -- The Brian Setzer Orchestra
  22. Caramel (Trackmasters Joint) -- City High
  23. The Goonies 'R' Good Enough -- Cyndi Lauper
  24. Don't Know Why -- Norah Jones
  25. Dr. Feelgood -- Aretha Franklin

If I'm not disqualified by Sisqo at #4 or the overall girly emo-ness of the thing, hardly anything will. So I'm gonna just stop before I embarrass myself anymore. I'm possibly lame enough to be President, but not nearly cool enough to be an urban blogger. I blame the shuffle button. This is not representative of the music I have on regularly (other than the girly emo-ness of my song selection). The last two songs I bought: Chick Habit by April March and New Soul by Yael Naim (ok, the latter's a little lame because it's in a commercial).

Saturday, June 28, 2008


If you're ever driving down a rural highway late at night in the summer, hearing bugs hit your windshield like a summer rainstorm, and you happen to hit a lightning bug as he is glowing to attract a mate, he will die immediately. His light will take approximately another minute to die.

Friday, June 27, 2008

The road home

It started raining on the drive home, large splattering drops that made it hard to see. Working all day- and the 4 hours of sleep i got last night- made me kind of sleepy. I resisted the urge to pull over and stand in the rain just to feel it on my face and hitting my hair and my clothes. I ran almost out of gas near catonsville and cursed that i hadn't made it to 83. But gas was only 3.93 and at mcdonald's for dinner i got a free coke glass.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

A Note

I know I'm usually better about the comments, but I've been feeling overwhelmed. That said, they all come into my Inbox and I read them, so, thank you.

My grandma survived surgery and is in the ICU tonight. Thanks for your good wishes and prayers, etc., even if I'm not sure if He or She exists, I appreciate the possibility that they help.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

The smell

Today, I wrote about how kids associate alcohol with the emotions of the parent drinking it. Bullshit study? Maybe. But I just opened a jar of Nutella that I bought weeks ago for a dinner party for which I was making dessert (crepes with Nutella and strawberries), and one whiff and I was 15 again, in Germany. In some incredibly weird way, it's like the smell of my emotional home.

Working, Working, Working

Glamocracy: Everyone's Emotions Are Rubbed A Little Raw
Glamocracy: The $1 Billion Question
Glamocracy: The McCainiacs Are Back!
Glamocracy: John McCain, (Over) Ripe For Parody

Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: Military Herstory
Jezebel: Daughters of the North: No Countryside For Any Men
Jezebel: For Better Or Worse, Maureen Dowd, Peggy Noonan Speak For Us All
Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: Patrick Kennedy Won't Die (Yet)
Jezebel: If All You Have Is A Nucleus, Can You Really Be a Citizen?
Jezebel: Women and Science
Jezebel: Child Care Professionals: Worked Like Dogs, Paid Like Stay-At-Home Moms
Jezebel: My prom picture from 1995 (they made me)

Sound it out

I hate that the word metastasis is a cool word when you don't know what it means, or when it doesn't have implications.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008


I googled my therapist the other day to try to find her number and discovered that she's fairly well known for treating people with gender dismorphia. I felt bad, like i had wasted her time with me and my stupid little problems. Then i felt suddenly less important, like i wanted my problems to have been desperately important and unique be interesting to someone but me. I think when you want to be more personally important to your therapist, that's a sign you need to seek treatment for more than just depression.


I have a recurring nightmare. It always involves one of my teeth cracking and falling out in bits. In my dream, I have that sort of large gritty sensation from it in my mouth, like when you've gotten too much plaque build-up or (if you ever had braces) when they're scraping the remains of cement off your teeth. It's always realistic enough that when I finally managed to wake myself up, I end up checking all my teeth to make sure they're still there, after which I like, heart-pounding, in bed waiting to calm down enough to go back to sleep.

Most times in my nightmare, it happens when I'm chewing gum and it sticks to my teeth, and they come out in my hands as I try to pull the gum out. Last night's dream was a little different. I was in a parking lot, like the one were the Caldor's used to be in Crosstown Plaza, with a group of girls, and suddenly I felt my tooth crack for no reason, my right incisor, and could feel the pieces and the blood floating in my mouth. I spit into my hand, little bits of hard white with the blood, and reached into my mouth to pull out the remainder of my tooth, its root rotted to nothingness, from the top of my mouth and just stood looking at the pieces in my hand, tongue probing the empty spot in my gums. Then I woke up. I could still taste the blood in my mouth.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Things are only going to get worse before they get better

BMW is now advertising how relatively fuel efficient their cars are.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Road tripping

I'm on the road with my friend Becca, and we aren't sure why a dino would make you want to buy a car, but we think maybe it's just to scare the guests at the hotel across the street? Who knows.

My Id Is Showing

I went out last night with my friend Rohit, who's always been a good shoulder. He was supposed to join us at the dinner/drinks that I brought to a close by being Debbie Downer but was late so he just picked me up and we went to our usual bar, which happens to be the bar at which he introduced me to John. John and I dated last year and he dumped me on my birthday, begged to work it out and then dumped me again when Wonkette fired me. Great guy.

Naturally, John was there because it was obviously going to be that kind of night. But since I arrived a few glasses of wine to the better and, oh, I don't know, hung up on more important things, I didn't notice him despite the fact that he was sitting on the patio next to the door. So he came in and stood directly behind me until I did.

He wanted to talk, of course, to "catch up" for the length of his cigarette. He told us he was smoking inside so that his date wouldn't see,because it was important that I know he was on a daaaate. I was like, yeah, my grandmother is dying. He took another drag, too confused by my non-caring about his date to speak momentarily. Rohit tried not to laugh.

He told me that his sick brother -- the ostensible reason that he didn't have time to date me -- was in the hospital and had been for a few days. I said, well, then, I guess that's why you have time to go out on a date, so that's good. He leaned into and over me to put his cigarette out in the ashtray behind me. He said, I felt like the last time we spoke it didn't end well. I said, it didn't, but that's fine. I wasn't even trying to be a cunt, but between having more important emotional crises and actually not caring anymore, I just said the first things to come into my head.

He went back outside to talk to his date. Rohit watched her yawn. I took phone calls about my grandmother from my sister and my cousin, outside on the street where I could hear and not be trying not to cry in a bar, walking by John and his date without even noticing that they were there until Rohit and I left. The bouncer hugged me as we were leaving, a big hug of the type you give an upset girl, while John watched and his date looked puzzled as to why he'd stopped paying attention to her. It's weird how you never notice that you don't give a shit until long after you do.

Stuff That Is Less Important This Morning

Glamocracy: Obamania, Campaign Finance Edition

Jezebel: Crappy Hour
Jezebel: What Is A Permissible Imperfection In A Child?
Jezebel: Michelle Obama And The Place Of A First Lady
Jezebel: Mario Lopez, A Big Hairy Liar?
Jezebel: There Really Aren't Ways In Which They Won't Lie
Jezebel: If She Doesn't Want Talk, She Probably Doesn't Want To Sit On Your Face
Jezebel: "Great Hat, Kim Kardashian... For Me To Poop On!"

Friday, June 20, 2008

The Call

Tonight, I was sitting at a bar with my friends, typical Friday night, and my cellphone rang. I usually don't pick it up unless I'm concerned it's important which honestly is a broad definition, but I saw it was my parents. My mom -- who has a phobia about calling my cell or my sister's -- was calling, I knew it was bad.

It was bad. I don't have words tonight.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Hungover Thoughts

I thought of this when I woke up this morning, but then I had too much work to do to blog it.

Drinking is my way of walking through the rooms in the mansion in my head (it looks like the one in the game Clue!) and shutting off the lights in random order. I can't possible be drunk and still carry on 15 monologues in my own head. The only real problem is I never know which monologue I'll be left with.

Northern Exposure

Glamocracy: Money, Money, Money
Glamocracy: MoveOn.Org Goes After John McCain

Jezebel: Crappy Hour (with Sinister Rouge!)
Jezebel: Mock A Woman For Her Crimes Against Fashion, Not Her Age or Her Ass
Jezebel: The Secret Sex Lives of Female Chimpanzees
Jezebel: People's Hottest... Whoa, Check Out His Package!
Jezebel: Money Might Buy Some People Happiness, Just Not You
Jezebel: ObamaMonkey Manufacturers Saddened By The Discrimination Against Them
Jezebel: If You Always Like The Emotionally Unavailable, It's Because You Probably Are, Too
Jezebel: I Won't Vote For A Man With a Moustache, But Republicans Should