As a writer, I am constantly concerned that something big might escape my notice, and when a new social trend is born, when something of cultural significance occurs, I will emerge from a bathroom that smells of methane and will ask the masses: What did I miss? And they will roll their eyes and feel embarrassed for me, as I did for that man who I encountered on a bus in mid-September, 2001, when he asked someone if they had heard about these planes crashing in New York (as he had just found out about them), and it was all the rest of us could do not to shout, HOW COULD YOU HAVE NOT HEARD ABOUT THAT?
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I spent the weekend in L.A.
After 48 hours or so, I was run out of town by an impeccably-dressed, gorgeous mob with chiseled abs, all screaming in unison: “DEATH TO THE SQUISHY MORTAL.”
Okay, fine. I’m exaggerating.
They actually said, “LASER HAIR REMOVAL AND NO MORE DESSERT TO THE SQUISHY MORTAL.”
Which is way worse, I’m sure you’ll agree.
But hey, a vicious mob is a great way to meet new people.
“You wield a torch like a pro!” or “OMG, that pitchfork matches your earrings!” are good ice breakers.
I am not a gambler. Should there be any doubts of this, note that I was in Vegas for two whole days and the greatest risk I took in a casino was ordering a savory crepe (don’t do it. Cheese is no substitute for Nutella, and anyone who says otherwise is likely trying to sell you something. Probably cheese).
But the TSA has turned me into someone who takes chances, who rolls the dice again and again, because if I win, I get a bit of humanity back. How? Via the TSA’s new PreCheck program.
Bavarian food doesn’t f#ck around.
Bavarian food is the guy at the gym in the tiny muscle tee who’s lifting weights so heavy, the veins in his neck and head (and other parts of the body that you didn’t even know HAD veins) start to pop out.
Bavaria‘s cuisine is a monster truck. It crumples the delicate-by-comparison culinary offerings of Spain, Italy, and France like tiny little Fiats and Peugots in its path.
Do you want to eat Bavarian food? OF COURSE YOU DO. It is rich and doughy and filling and is the only thing on the planet that can soak up German beer. Every other fare will simply hide in the corner of your stomach, petrified at the sheer awesomeness of the brew that resides in there with it, and it will never get digested.
Dear PR People (at least, I assume it’s PR people, and not random folks who are just really excited about spring break and luggage) who have been attacking my inbox with an onslaught of incredibly dry, often misspelled press releases;
- Please stop. You are wasting your time. I have never done more than occasionally skim a few of these in hopes they’re about the opening of a new bakery in my neighborhood. And they never are.
- Randomly writing things in all caps is MY THING. Copycats.
- For the love of Pete, stop sending me follow up emails asking if I have any further questions. I DIDN’T HAVE ANY QUESTIONS TO START WITH.
- My name is not Jenny (nor has it ever been). If you must continue harassing me, at least address it properly, okay?
That’s all. Thanks.
There are some arguments that will consume you. They will take over your entire mind and body, so that you find yourself shaking with rage, unable to think of anything else. Your hands clench into fists, your teeth gnash together, and you are filled with anger and the conviction that DEAR GOD YOU ARE RIGHT AND THEY ARE SO, SO WRONG.
This is a story about one such argument.
I don’t remember how it began. Few great battles in history have marked beginnings. We say it was the assassination of Ferdinand, we suggest that it may have been the killing of Crispus Attucks and four others on a chilly night in Boston, but we are only guessing – trying to add sense and order to a situation where there likely isn’t one. Where there is only chaos and conflict.
There are plenty of things in life that are beyond my understanding. The entire field of Physics, for one. The enduring appeal of Two and a Half Men, for another. Grooming your dog to look like another animal. The fact that Snooki published a NY Times best seller (sweet Lord in heaven, how? I DO NOT UNDERSTAND). But perhaps the biggest mystery that I’ve encountered thus far is this: How can a city as advanced as London not understand the concept of shower curtains?
The inner workings of my soul and a dark and hostile place. My husband has been with me for nearly 10 years, and there are still times when I will say something so full of vitriol and spite that he will look at me, his eyes wide, and whisper, “Jesus Christ, Geraldine.”
My response to this is usually to giggle, because it is always a comfort to know you can still surprise your husband, even if that surprise stems from his shock at how evil you are.