Bad Advice

A Traitor in My Kitchen

I only found out because I tried to put her insipid little book in the Goodwill bag and Inky stopped me. Turns out that Inky the Kitty—the same cat I rescued from roaming the oil fields—is a Miranda July fan.

I'm Normally Not a Homicidal Maniac. . .

. . . but Miranda July makes me want to take off my shoe and beat her with it until she's bleeding and screaming for mercy. I mean, just look at that picture—almost every time she's photographed, July pulls out her scared, vulnerable, protect-me face. Look—she does it here, here and here! Boo!

Women like her make me insane: "I'm just a widdle girl who never eats an entire meal and I'm  a-scared of nightmares and clowns and boo boos." Wah!

You're in your thirties, bitch. Deal.

Her pretentious, cloying, stab-me-in-the-eye films are triumphs of cinematic torture. I tried to get through that dreadful Me and You. . . flick and was dry-heaving within fifteen minutes. It makes perfect sense that she started off as a performance artist! Name one thing that's more annoying than a performance artist?!? You can't, right? A cold sore on prom night is welcome by comparison.

You have my friend Kate to blame for this mini-rant. She called me up yesterday and while we were in the middle of talking shit about nothing, she mentioned out of nowhere, "I hate Miranda July."

I knew there was a reason we were friends.

Almost as Funny as Borat!

Despite the fact that each issue annoys me more than the last, I remain a New York magazine subscriber. Mostly because I can usually find at least one story a week that cracks me up, at least a little.

This week, Amy Sohn's brilliant parody of a neurotic, narcissistic, self-obsessed Park Slope mom is what did it for me. Sohn writes what must surely be a fictional account of running into her ex-best friend at the kiddie playground. I generally don't think Sohn is particularly funny, but this line cracked me up: "I felt like I had nothing in life, as if she, not I, was the fulfilled mother in the playground with her hot husband and cute daughter and I was a spinster thirtysomething, trudging a walk of shame."

Heh. Wait, there's more. In this bit she channels Carrie Bradshaw, using questions to make her point: "And even if she wasn’t a mom, was her marriage better than mine? If she didn’t have a kid, it had to be better. Were they living out the newlywed honeymoon I had for only a year because I got knocked up? Was she happy in a real way, or was that carefree, sunny face a cover?" Okay, that part didn't really ring true because nobody's really that neurotic. Right?

Another gem is when she forces her kid to breast feed—even though the kid isn't hungry—so she can show up her EBF (Amy luvs acronyms!) by whipping out an engorged boobie! Like anyone would do that IRL (hey, I can acronym too!).

The story gets even more hilarious when, a few days later, she runs into her VLG (which, contrary to what I originally thought, doesn't stand for "vaginal love god," but instead "very last guy") at Park Slope's mommy-infested Tea Lounge, while she's there having brekkie with her perfect child and even more perfect husband. That joker Amy says of her ex, "He had to be feeling like Carrie when she spots Aidan and then he turns and he’s wearing a Baby Björn. I was the one who got away."

Bwah ha ha!!! Yeah, right! Because when a single guy runs into his mommy'ed-up ex, the first thing he feels is "damn, that coulda been mine!" The lactation-stained blouse, the snot-covered toddler. . .  I'm sure that guy was kicking himself. Single men—especially the ones that fancy themselves brooding artist types—are always hellbent on getting married and reproducing!

Though that stuff is all rich, my favorite line would have to be this one: "[The ex] was a mopey narcissist with no acuity. How could we have had a future anyway?"

Because everyone knows, there's only room for one mopey narcissist in any relationship! Hooo boy! Funny stuff!

In a somewhat related note, the new issue of Bust, featuring my story on women who don't want babies, is on stands now!

No Mas, Por Favor!!!!!

Stories like this one make me homicidal. Intrigued by the success of Ugly Betty (and no doubt inspired by Tyra Banks' fat suit debacle), hard-hitting Entertainment Tonight "reporter" Vanessa Minnillo decided to  go undercover unattractive and see what it felt like to be—gasp!—less than pretty! Ewww!

A crew of makeup artists and stylists took six hours to turn the ex Miss Teen USA fugly. (I contend that I could've done the job in half the time using only my fist, a lead pipe and a jar fulla cold cream, but I digress.) Once fully fuglified, Minnillo discovered the shocking truth—people aren't nearly as nice to the ugly! No way!

The six-part series (don't they have impending Tom Cruise nuptials to cover?) also revealed that once Minnillo was restored to her natural state of ravishing, men were nicer to her than other women! Again, no way! So let me get this straight—it's hard to be ugly—but lest you think the fabulously gorgeous get off easy, it's no cakewalk being pretty either! Hmm.

Vanessa Minnillo has a high-profile romance festering with Nick Lachey (and as anyone who ever watched Newlyweds will attest, Nick only likes the smart chicks!). Despite the fact that she has no known qualifications (sorry, hon, that tiara doesn't count!), she's considered a "journalist." She makes more money in an hour than I make in a month. From where I'm sitting, being cute, vapid and incredibly stupid seems to be working out pretty well for Miss Minnillo.

These are the People in my Neighborhood

Being an enterprising lady, I decided to haul a bunch of old art books down to the local store. I need money more than I need pedestrian photography books. I also included some artist biographies, figuring that if you like the artist, you'll want to know more about them.

Apparently not.

While the book guy took all my picture books, he declined to buy the biographies. I've worked in bookstores, so I pretty much know what to bring, depending on the store's demographic. So I questioned why he wasn't buying the bios.

"People around here don't read biographies," was his terse answer. Looking around at the slack-jawed fashion casualties feigning interest in books they'd never crack, all the while wondering if the hottie posing by poetry was noticing their outfit, I realized he was probably right. Except he could've left off "biographies" and his statement would've been just as valid.

As I was looking through Last Night's Party for a photo to illustrate this entry, I stumbled across this—hand's down the least-hot near-striptease I've ever seen. Just a reminder that hipsters should keep their clothes on.

More True Confessions

I do not like things up my butt. I know, I write about sex a lot, but—much to many boyfriends' collective dismay—my asshole is a one-way street. Hey, don't complain to me, blame the first (and last) dirtbag who went there. He did not leave it the happy place he found it. I wonder sometimes if I should read more Tristan Taormino and loosen my sphincter a bit, but then I have a day like today and know I'm okay with my uptightitude.

Today, I wore these cute little black boyshort underpants. My Special Naked Friend enjoys them because they highlight my ass cleavage. Unfortunately, this afternoon they decided to migrate out of the realm of cute and into the world o' wedgie, which means they must be banished. (No, that is not a picture of my butt.)

As I waited for the L train and gracelessly yanked my underpants out of my asscrack for the 17th time, I pondered once again the allure of the thong. I just don't get it. Never have. In fact, I'll go even further and admit that I don't mind the dread pantyline. (And I am not the only one.) If I'm in a situation where it's going to be an issue, I'll just freebird it.

Anyway, this is apropos of absolutely nothing. Just thought I'd share.

I Changed My Mind!

The bachelorette party is ON! Apparently, I was just being ignorant because I had no idea what fun could be had with your best gals! I became enlightened upon reading Aimee's account on the Observer's new Bridal Blog and no way in HELL am I missing out on these hijinx! Read it and weep (with joy!):

“It's 10:30 pm and the gang's here at Café Japone, all my bridesmaids wearing matching pink "Bridesmaid" tank tops. Once my sister secures the sparkly tiara on my head, out comes the handsome white thong that says "Bride" (rhinestone dotting the "i") prompting my table’s reprise of the all-too-familiar chant: “PANties! PANties! PANties!"

Goddamn! I had no idea I'd be missing out on the PANty chant! Looking back through the other bride's entries, I read about Madeline's horrifying encounter with, what she refers to as an "Outer Borough Girl." Or OBG as Maddy calls her. Apparently girls from outside of Manhattan are loud and wear rhinestone crowns on their wedding day. Shudder! Not like  penny-pinching Madeline who has her dress mailed to a friend in Jersey in order to save on sales tax. (Hello? That's illegal, which is way tackier than a rhinestone tiara, okay?)

Madeline's panties are in a bunch because her size ZERO gown is too tight. Wah! Hey, Madeline, eat a cheeseburger and grow into a real size, bitch! Madeline spends the rest of her column inches sniffing that she's definitely not a rhinestone crown kind of girl like those tacky Queens brides in the dressing room next door. Hey, better a crown on the head than a stick up the ass.

Scarlett Johansson Has a Stick Up Her Ass

Sure, she'll fuck Benicio Del Toro in a hotel elevator (bitch!), but gets all bent out of shape when Isaac Mizrahi grabs her ginormous boobs? This is what she told the LA Times:

“I’d been prepping for two hours with hair and makeup and getting dressed. And the first interview I do, someone who I have never met before fondles me for his own satisfaction.”

Note to Nitwit: Honey, he's gay. I know you're probably of the opinion that you're irresistible to all men, but Isaac wouldn't do you with someone else's dick. Seriously.

And really—look at them! If I were ever confronted with those things up close, I'd have to cop a feel too. I mean, it doesn't look like she's wearing a bra, the dress looks pretty flimsy—how are they staying afloat? It's a miracle of modern engineering. No wonder Isaac had to find out!

A Big Fat Friday Fuck You!

That's right, Cracky the Mailman, I'm talking to you. You, the drunken jackass who decides arbitrarily that Wednesday means no mail for my entire building—and for all I know, the whole block. Last week it was Saturday that you decided to skip off to the bar instead. Who knows what next week has in store. Maybe you'll go for Monday. Nobody likes Monday. Much better you sit somewhere warm and cozy while the nice man behind the counter pours you a delicious alcoholic beverage. Or ten.

I hope you enjoy my magazines, because I certainly don't get to until they're out of date and obviously thumbed through. Was that jelly donut delicious? Sure, it made for a sticky read, but I hope you enjoyed it.

Oh, and did I mention that I'm a FREELANCER, which means most of my income gets to me via the U.S. Postal Service? I love it that I haven't gotten one check in three weeks. When I'm expecting FOUR of them. But that's okay, I'll just dip into my savings. . . oh wait. . . I don't HAVE ANY FUCKING SAVINGS, you pathetic piece of shit! Yes, your job sucks, but you have a pension, full benefits and get to wear a snappy outfit, so don't come bitching to me. I get to siphon money off my boyfriend or sell my books, while you get paid to get drunk and smoke crack. And I can't even complain about your sorry ass because then I'll never EVER get another piece of mail. So this anonymous fuck you is the best I can do. For now, anyway. . . .

I hate you.

Oh, and South Dakota, I hate you even more than I hate my mailman.

Never Date an Actor!

So I'm sitting home with Mabel the Cat on a Friday night, watching a little Law & Order. . . When who do I see, but this creepy little actor I went out with a couple times. Michael seemed really nice at first—but then he's an actor, so he was probably just playing a part. It wasn't any big deal, but on our third, and final date, we met up with a friend of mine and the guy she was dating. As we sipped our beers, I watched as my date blatently hit on my friend! Right in front of me! Huh? On what planet is that acceptable behavior?! It was humiliating, but I didn't have much invested in the little troll; still, it pissed me off. I mean, wait til I go to the bathroom!

My friend—who, let's remember, was on a date herself!—ignored his flirtiness, but I sure didn't. I told him I was leaving and he announced to me that he wasn't interested in dating me. Uh, no shit! I'd forgotten about this, until tonite. When I looked up at the TV and saw his smug little mug smirking at me. I wish I could say that Detective Briscoe had kicked his ass and locked him up for good, but it turned out—just like in life—that he wasn't the right guy.