That's Empress to You

Hilary Rosen did choose the wrong words. Saying that Ann Romney "never worked a day in her life," is inaccurate, because blah-blah-blah we all know raising children is hard. As is sucking up to your bland yet odious, satanically unprincipled asshole husband. Should he be one. I'm not naming names. And I'm not even going to mention the undoubtedly soul-destroying unzipping kind of duty-thing that has to have gone on in the Romney household to produce those five future flesh-eaters business leaders.

But it's also inaccurate because I think what she meant to say was that Ann Romney never had to raise children the way a lot of women do, whether they're stay-at-home-mothers or not, which is deciding whether to pay the water bill or the PG&E bill, or worrying how the hell she's going to pay for the field trip everyone's so excited about.

I am sure Ann Romney is a nice person, and I know she must break a sweat glow when she has to coordinate the help's days off. Or when she has to come up with new scary threats to make her grandchildren wear those matching clothes they wear for every photo shoot.

But really, here's the last word on the Missus Romney dust-up, from the incomparable Jenny Lawson.

Next innovation in travel: Passenger-free Airlines!

So Malaysia Airlines is offering kid-free air travel. Apparently sensitive adults “...value their peace and quiet and [this way] can rest assured that they won't be disturbed by kids on long-haul flights.”

Disturbed by kids? What we need is an adult-free zone. I'd much rather fly with a bunch of children, even if they do occasionally cry, or kick the back of your seat. All you have to do is ask them, wearing that special smile, to please be quiet. You almost never even have to say, "or I will stuff your head into the seat pocket in front of you."

I bet anything you've never flown with kids who take up half your (center) seat with their 400-lb. girth. Or who spend two hours cackling over Adam Sandler's latest shenanigans. Or engage in a coast-to-coast monologue about their cousin Mary the dietician who loves living in Seattle, except for the rain, so she's thinking about moving down to the Orange County area,which everyone says is so pleasant, what with the beaches and the weather and all. Or who, the minute the electronics hold is lifted, pulls down a Dell and a stack of papers and officiously clacks away at a spreadsheet showing landfill usage over a four year period, glowering at you when, after your, okay whatever, third gin and tonic, you need to get up to go to the bathroom so he has to gather together his reams of important data about discarded appliances and let you climb over his Docker-clad knees. Or who make the flight attendant tell them exactly what kinds of nuts are in the nut medley that's included in the snack box they might purchase.

Anyway, I've observed that the only obnoxious kids on planes are the ones flying with adults.

 

 

Department of: Shield Their Eyes, They're only 17

Because high school students get really really upset about things like this, and it would never occur to them to walk away from someone who's got his his pants hanging open. But the best part is, "Write down or capture descriptive features to share with the police."

Dear [Name of High School] Parents and Guardians,

I am writing to let you know about an upsetting incident that happened earlier this week. Some of our students were at Café [blank] on [blank] Street when a man walked into the café with his genitals exposed. He asked our students for directions and left the café. When we found out about this incident, we filed a police report and our students were interviewed by an officer. We wanted to inform you of what happened, as well as our response, so that you know how seriously we take this incident and can speak with your child about how to handle anything like this in the future. After talking with the officer yesterday, he wanted our students to know what to do if something similar occurs again: 

• Report the incident immediately to the local police or to an adult who can call the police with you
• Write down or capture descriptive features to share with the police
• Do not engage with the predator
• If you are alone, walk away or find other people to be with and tell an adult (parent or teacher) immediately

Such situations are very upsetting and we want the community to feel equipped with information and ways of responding should something like this happen again. We will have an officer come to an All-School Meeting after the February Break to speak with our students about the recommendations above, and so they can get the chance to see our local officers as allies.  

I'm sorry to share this news on the eve of our February break. I hope you can take some time next week to relax with your family.

Warm regards,

[Name of Head of School]

Head of School

[blank] High School

San Francisco, January 2012

This morning while walking to Bi-Rite to spend $62 on one bag of groceries, a Google Bus pulled up on 18th and Dolores. Suddenly hipsters emerged from doorways and stupors and began fluttering toward the big white bus like leaves wearing large glasses. It was a small squall and then I bought oranges.

Next time just smash in my head with a rock

If a woman in a blue mask, rubber gloves, and sharp instruments comes after you, run. Everyone in the office will say she’s a dental hygienist but she’s not. All you have to do is look at their phone headsets and comfortable shoes to know it’s a plot and they’re all in on it. This woman whose props include a photo of a chubby kid and pretty butterflies behind a plastic frame is really a sadistic monster. (Do you know how they mount those pretty butterflies? Right, they STAB them.) This “dental hygienist” is wearing that mask only to hide her evil leering grin.

She’s going to do something she calls Measuring Your Gum Line, but which is really stabbing you repeatedly in the gum with a small metal poker. When she is done with the outside of the upper teeth, contrary to the grateful prayer you are saying to the God you once again started believing in, about five minutes ago, she is not 50% done. She is only 25% done, because she’s going to do the same thing on the inside. And on the lower teeth, outside and inside.

Then she’s going to make horrific scraping noises right in the inside of your head, and because she’s holding your mouth open you can’t even ask her, “Why, for the love of God, why? What are you doing that is going to markedly improve my life?” Any gain in attractiveness due to clean teeth is more than offset by the wrinkles you’ve just cemented into your face from twisting it into grotesque expressions of pain and terror. She does it to every tooth, upper and lower, inside and outside, making each one creak and squeal and threaten to crack right in half.

After that she will try to choke you with poison mint powder, which she administers on the end of a whining drill-like instrument. She’ll only be finished after she invites Head Devil Incarnate to come over to poke some more and tell you you need a gum graft and it costs lots and lots of money.

On the bright side, you will be very happy when the "receptionist" tells you that you don’t owe anything, because you overpaid for the $950 crown you just got. And if you really want to feel better, when the "receptionist" tries to schedule an appointment for six months from now, pretend to enter it on your phone calendar, but instead simply push random buttons on the calculator app.

Describe an experience that changed your world view.

Not that we're normally all that religious or anything, but this college application shit is seriously fucking up our holidays. Hanukkah tonight consisted of Jackson practically lighting his sleeve on fire, spitting out the prayer so fast it sounded like an asthma attack and then going back to writing about how the Columbia core curriculum is going to save his life. 

I bought a third of a Christmas tree, it's like a foot and a half tall, just because neither of us is really soused by the spirit of Christmas this year. Maybe it's the ubiquitious essay question "Why (insert name of school)" which can only make a sentient person say, "Why indeed? Get me a bourbon."

And yet he soldiers on. Happy holidays. To all fellow sufferers and those who have suffered: Baruchataadonaiwewishyouamerrychristmas.

 

Media assault

Stop looking at me, you're weirding me out.

 

 

You too. Seriously.

 

 

 

And stop sticking that crap all my newspaper.

 

 

 

Finally: you have got to be kidding.

I'm calling Child Protective Services

I am huddled in the fetid corner of a college application sweatshop watching one skinny, exhausted 17-year-old employee doing all the work: making the mold, pouring it, watching it cool, taking it out with big metal tongs last seen in Frankenstein, shipping it on time to someone who may not even want it, bracing to hear that customers prefer the hand-woven, suspended-in-a-delicate-bottle type of application this year.

Then there’s the prospect that a successful shipment, signed for and accepted, will turn out to be about as useful as a Crazy Eddie gift certificate.

No wonder he’s like, yeah, take this shit to China. I don’t need it.

Zen in West Lebanon, NH

I get up, pack, force myself not to drag Jackson out of bed. I tell myself that wanting to get out of the Baymont Inn & Suites more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, doesn't make leaving at 9:30 for a 2:45 flight any less crazy. I drink half a styrofoam cup of Folger's coffee (the second this week), eat half a styrofoam bagel (both from the Breakfast Nook out in the lobby), read last week's NY Times Magazine section, the whole time wondering, existentially and materially: why? (see: questions for Tony Blair, Spalding Gray's journals and the Ethicist)

I am not centered. This is my sudden realization while Google-mapping Enterprise Rental Car at Logan Airport for the third time. Yoga is the answer. I stand in the narrow hallway next to the bathroom and closet alcove (non-removable hangers, iron). There is no room to do a real sun salutation because it's a hallway, and the carpet is too slippery for a real downward dog. I tell myself, this is okay. This is fine. This is imperfect yoga. It's better than perfect yoga. I see this in a way only the actualized can.

It's my second set of sun salutating. I raise my arms forward, in a clever adaptation of raising arms from the side, looking up toward the pebbled foam-tiled ceiling. Something brown and hard falls on my face. I Google-map Enterprise again and wake up Jackson.

When I say "Jackson, it's time to get up," he mutters, "I'm up. I'm washing my face."

Al-Qaeda Makeover

Dudes. I know it’s an easy, no-fuss look, and no doubt, the look is timeless, actually kind of Yohji goes desert. And it will unquestionably see a revival sometime down the road. Like the crocheted poncho, or striped leg-warmers. But really.

Definitely time for a makeover.

First. The beard. You guys are not seeing what we’re seeing here. Okay? Which is that those beards are making you look exactly alike. No one wants to be mistaken for that other high school prom queen, am I right? So how about: go out on a limb, take a flying fashion leap. Find your own individual style. Easy-care little soul patch. 1" x 2" inches tops. Totally easy care. Or Brad Pitt stubble. Maybe even no facial hair at all: think Chris Evans in Captain America. No offense. Anyway, any necklace statement is totally going to be obscured by the beard.

As for the coif, I know you’re all like, rocking that Norma Desmond turban look. But it is 2011, and it is time to say, “Hello Vidal Sassoon!” I’m thinking a Justin Bieber, forehead sweeping feather cut. Brushed forward around the face, the look accentuates cheekbones and is surprisingly easy to maintain. All you need is a bottle of Johnson’s baby shampoo and a blow dryer (120 V. generator-adaptable).

Also, hello, News Flash. The floor-length white robe is so 13^th century. How about a Lululemon pant, flattering for every body type, lengthening the leg while perking up the posterior. Top the flared crop, or the boot-cut yoga pant with a slimming tank and wrap sweater – in masculine Yankee-pinstripe no offense print – and you’re ready to go from sand-swept tent city to walled-in Pakistani compound in the blink of an eye.

As for footwear, I totally know where you can get some street-savvy plaid Van’s slip ons. Or some super cute peep-toe pumps.