If 2010 has taught me anything, it is that apparently just anyone can grace the front page of the New York Times Sunday Styles. After a year of mediocre (and frankly, oftentimes insipid) profiles, I’m about ninety-eight percent certain that these editors are just plucking people from obscurity and declaring them “The Next Big Thing!”
Let’s take a look at this week’s profile: oooh, a debutante (wait…we still have those? Seriously? I kind of want to shake whoever is in charge of deciding that debs are still chic and say “darling, it’s 2010…it’s over.”) who is charitable and read “Great Expectations” when she was in third grade. Wow. Groundbreaking.
Guess what New York Times? I read “Great Expectations” when I was in third grade too! I also took elocution lessons and had classical vocal training for five years. Add to that the fact that I’m also writing a book and I’m sure you could spin this into my very own “The Next Big Thing!” profile. So…when would you like to set up the interview for my front page story?
Me: (standing over the counter in the kitchen, sampling all of the holiday treats) I really love these cookies and those cookies…actually I love this entire tin of goodies. Be sure to thank Mrs. XYZ for me.
Mama Winkelman: Oh she’ll be glad to hear that.
Me: The only thing I don’t love is this weird, caramel-y Chex Mix concoction…she kind of missed the mark on this one.
Mama Winkelman: Oh, she didn’t make that one. That’s from Ms. X.
Me: Ohmigod! You let me eat something that Ms. X made for you?? She hates you! She could have poisoned this or spat in it or something!
Mama Winkelman: I know, I thought of that.
Me: Ohmigod! I had like, two handfuls! And you just stood there watching me? What’s wrong with you woman?
Mama Winkelman: Don’t worry. If you die, I’ll bag up the rest as evidence and then I’ll kick her out of my club.
Me: Gee, that makes me feel better. Forget about prison time, she’ll just have her gym membership revoked. That’s justice.
I can’t believe it’s two days before Christmas and I’m shopping for summer fashions. Last year I (foolishly) waited until April to go shopping for jean shorts and boat shoes only to find nothing left in my size. Lesson learned.
If you feel like descending into the bowels of hell, try doing some last-minute Christmas shopping in Iowa. Nothing screams “Happy Holidays” like being pushed and shoved in a crowd of crazed simpletons who feel the need to loudly alert those around you that you are a “faggot.”
I just realized that “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” is slowly giving cameos to everyone involved in the OJ Simpson trial. Last week, Kato Kaelin made an appearance, tonight is Faye Resnick. I shudder to think who might pop up next week.
The irony of Camille calling out a guest with “blown-up fake lips” while she sits there with her own blown-up fake tits is just too delicious.
And I’m sorry, but at least the “morally corrupt” Faye Resnick has a career as an interior designer (and she does damn good work I must say). What do you do with your time Camille? Oh that’s right, you think you’re a producer live off of your soon-to-be-ex-husband’s money and bitch and moan about just how busy you always are. Hmm.
Yes, this is one of those times where I realize that I’ve become way too involved in the lives of the Real Housewives. I regret nothing.
I hate losing my voice, but I secretly love that stage where it’s a cross between smokey, whispery Marilyn Monroe and complete laryngitis. I feel like I should be charging $1.25 per minute on the phone today.
I’m not even going to try and pretend like I’m not having a ball pulling potential NYC looks from my closet whilst having a dance party to “Oh Santa!” and “All I Want For Christmas Is You (Extra Festive)” on repeat.
A black velvet blazer? Sure why not. A fringe scarf trimmed with black sequins? I’m sure I can work that into some glamorous Starbucks run ensemble.
Another holiday season, another reminder of just how much I suck at wrapping gifts. It must be some sick ironic twist courtesy of the universe that a perfectionist of the highest order would have the wrapping “skills” of a straight man. Seriously, all my packages turn out lumpy, bumpy, and not even cute. A drunken monkey could probably do better.
Sigh. On the plus side, at least I give sparkly gifts.
Did I miss the memo that gave people a free pass to be utterly condescending to those who are lucky enough (or maybe cursed? It’s a fine, fine line at times) to possess a bone of creativity in their body?
I’ve honestly lost count of the number of times I’ve introduced myself as a writer or explained that I’m in the process of trying to find an agent/publisher only to be confronted with the dreaded “I dated Aidan right after you” face, followed by the smug line “You know, it’s really hard to get published…tsk tsk.”
I’m sorry, I don’t recall saying “Oof, you know it’s really hard to become a doctor…” when you bragged about your son going pre-med. I smiled and said “Oh good for him!” I expect the same courtesy.
"I think my mother’s dead husband’s family is from Iowa."
Yes, this was seriously someone’s idea of a good pick-up line. Needless to say, it didn’t work. Actually, just about anything involving the words “mother” “dead” and/or “Iowa” will guarantee you won’t be getting lucky with me.