Yeah, I don't think so. If Karma existed, when I ran into the woman that my dead ex cheated on me with, she would've been the one wearing ill-fitting sweats, no makeup and a headful of hat hair. If Karma existed, I would've been sporting the freshly blow-dried hair, the perfectly applied mug of cosmetics and the smaller ass. But, as I found out yesterday at physical therapy, Karma is a big fat lie. Oh, and who the hell wears a matchy outfit and makeup to physical therapy?
Bitches who'll fuck your boyfriend behind your back, that's who!
You know how everyone (okay, me) is always talking smack about the crazy jackasses they used to date? At least if you mine this site for tail, you'll have an official diagnosis going into it. That could've saved me a lot of time back in the day.
Oh, look! Here's Mabes playing with her favorite xmas toy! Her Auntie Lance sent it all the way from Hollywood, California, and boy, did it taste good. Mabel is a really amazing cat, but she has a very limited attention span. She was hellbent on murdering this catnip mouse for about three minutes and then she realized she was being deeply uncool and moved on. I didn't have much luck later, with the bright green, microchipped meeping insect that Peter Caine recommended I purchase at PS 9. I think Mabes is more of a thinky kind of kiddy; unless it's challenging her on a cerebral level, she's not really interested.
Here's our Christmas tree.
Every year I get a big-ass tree, so when the weird tree-seller by the Turkey's Nest told us we'd probably need a larger stand, I scoffed. The BF and I smugly lugged it home and attempted to stuff it into my trusty old stand. But this tree was a tad too thick, so we were left to wander the 'hood, the night before the night before christmas eve, in search of a stand man enough to take every inch of our tree. We finally found one and man, does it look purty.
I'm a nostalgic gal, so for the past several decades I've been using the same lights we used when I was a kid. This year, one of the strings sort of exploded and almost burnt the man's hand off. Oops. I guess you really shouldn't use lights that are old enough to smoke, vote and be elected president.
Note the lack of tinsel. The Large Greek and I fought long and hard over the tinsel issue (I'm for, he's against), and in the end I let him win. (After all, my elderly lighting equipment nearly cost him a hand.) Next year, the tinsel returns.
My name is Judy and I have an ebay problem. It's not out of hand quite yet, but I am addicted to ebay the way I used to be compulsive about my missed connections. Mostly I look for antique medical charts and models. But today I found something quite different and downright weird—even for ebay.
Some dude is selling you, the ebay buyer, the chance to help him get sober for the holidays. Apparently sobriety runs about $250.00 these days. Because I can't imagine this is going to stay online for very long, I'll paste his plea after the jump. (So far there are no takers.)
I am normally the most festive motherfucker on the block but this year I haven't even gotten my tree yet. Because of work, I've had to skip about four or five holiday parties and while there is a dent in my shopping list it's far from done. After bursting into tears the other night at dinner and then just barely keeping it together on the subway this morning, I finally figured out my problem—for one of the first times in recent history, I'm under a lot of stress! I have an insane deadline looming over me, my normally mellow part-time job has become a madhouse, and I'm sort of broke (no excuse for this last part either). Ack! So this is what stress feels like! Guess what?!? It's not fun!! I'm not enjoying myself one bit.
But here are a few things that might interest you:
Like every other writer I know, I occasionally google myself to see what's floating around out there. I sometimes find different Judy McGuires, my favorite being the '50s roller derby queen, but sometimes I find really mean stuff people write about me. Having been the recipient of hate mail and the occasional death threat, I'm fairly thick-skinned about criticisms. Especially when it's about something I've written. (I will cry if you mention my upper arms though.) So this woman's diatribe about my recent Bust story didn't upset me so much as crack my ass up. Especially as she hadn't even read the piece yet!
i havent had a chance to read it but it sounds pretty degrading,
disgusting and just overall--horrible. allison and others are planning
on writing a complaint letter. i suggest we all do the same. as a
mother myself, things like this just enrage me. true, its everyone's
personal choice on if they have children or not but thats no reason to
bash those of us whom have made that choice and to all of a sudden
assume we are "oppressed" or some shit. fuck that. BUST magazine even
threw in tasteless advertisements for "pro-abortion" pins right along
side their article. im pro-choice but when you promote items that say
such things as "im not pre-pregnant, im pre-abortion" (or something to
that effect) its disgusting. i used to be a reader of theirs. no more.
Though I hesitate to defend myself against such nuttiness, I never said mommies were oppressed. If anything, I pointed out how those of us who have chosen not to spit child are sometimes looked down upon. (Though I wouldn't use the word "oppressed" in our case either.) And the lovely and talented Kate Black's buttons aren't pro-abortion ("Ask Me About my Vasectomy"), they are pro-birth control and responsible breeding. I love that this broad is going to fire off an angry letter about something she hasn't even bothered to read.
I know posting has been light lately, but I've been really busy with work. I'm really lucky to have the opportunity to get paid to write, but sometimes I run out of words. In other news, my Go NYC feature on the L Word is out! Oh, and so's my new column.
Boy, oh, boy, did my panties twist themselves up into a tight little knot upon reading Christopher Hitchens' demented ramblings in Vanity Fairthis month! Entitled, "Why Women Aren't Funny," Hitchens takes time out from defending the war in Iraq (that in itself, a hilarious position) to drone on about how much funnier men are. And how—I'm paraphrasing and summarizing here—women aren't at all funny and we have our reproductive organs to blame. Um, what?
Apparently, the uterus/ovary/fallopian tube combo turns women into humorless drones. Again, what?!? Since when is the funny bone located in the penis?
As I read through the seemingly endless essay, I started to get riled up. Hey, I'm funny! I thought to myself. In fact, some of the funniestpeople I know are bitches!
But then I took a step back and considered the source. Men like Hitchens don't like funny women. They consider a woman to have a sense of humor if she laughs at his jokes. I can't even tell you how many dates I've been on where, after finally coming out of my shell, I say something funny, only to be greeted by a horrified glance from my date . . . the kind of look you'd expect if say, you'd lept up on the table, squeezed out a turd and then smeared it in your hair.
There is a certain breed of wildly insecure man (note, I am not putting all men in this category) who out and out loathes a woman who's funnier than himself. I know. I've dated them. In fact, back in January of this year, scientists released a study saying just how unfunny men find funny women:
Dr Martin said the findings suggested that men see themselves as the
ones who should be delivering the lines and feel threatened by humorous
Indeed, according to a recent profile in the New Yorker (sadly, not online), Hitchens feels intimidated by smart women who dare to disagree with him as well. It's too bad, because I really liked old, pre-neo-con Hitchens. I bought my dad his book on Mother Theresa, and thought he was a smart funny man. Now he just seems like one of those angry old souses who people avoid at parties.
So, in honor of Christopher Hitchens getting paid something like ten bucks a word to spout complete nonsense, I've been watching this amazing and hilariousDawnFrench series about women comedians on Youtube. I suggest you do the same.
Of course my all-time worst date was with the guy who crapped himself in (and on) my bed. But you've all heard that story ad nauseum. Though that incident raised (or lowered) the bad date bar to unimaginable heights (or depths), I've had other, more mundane, bad assignations as well. The guy who showed up with no money and only told me after he'd ordered himself a beer. Then there was the gold-chain-wearing bun-head who accused me of being prejudiced against Jewish intellectuals after I declined his cheese-irific sexual advances. I could go on, but I know all my boring stories What I'm interested in is your tales of dates gone horribly, irrevocably, wrong.*
See, I'm writing a book about bad dates and the mistakes people make and I want to hear from you. If you—or any of your friends—would be kind enough to let me interview you, I would be forever in your debt. We can use your real name or we can make up a fake. I can do it over the phone, in person (free booze!), over email, or even via the comments section. The person who comes up with the best bad date story will win a prize (to be determined at a later date). If you know anyone who might consider being part of this project, please forward my plea along to them. I'm reachable here.
Yes, people. . . I am not proud, I am begging you!!!!
Big holiday shopping in Williamsburg this weekend. Saturday is Bust magazine's Christmas Craftacular, which is sure to be jammed with presents for everyone on your list. I don't want to give any of my list away, but I'll be looking for Kate from badbuttons.com to supply plenty o' child-unfriendly stocking stuffers. Just a warning—it gets crowded fast, so get there early.
Fred Flare opened a home for the holidays on North 10th Street and is hosting a Carnival of Cute that very same day, starring Amy Sedaris and featuring gifts from FF and Klein Reid. It's only because I'm hoping Santa brings me the Sedaris book that I'm not buying one for myself for Amy to sign.