All The Single Ladies

Friends, do you yearn for him to “put a ring on it”? Do you mourn your unwed status, your marginalized place in society? Do you desire the simpler times before 1970, when purpose and meaning were assigned to you by the number of meals you could prepare while expelling babies from your baggy old uterus onto the kitchen floor?  Of course you don’t, because you’re a living human being with brain activity. But in the event that you are a misogynist or a woman desperately seeking to to be scolded about all the things she’s done wrong with her life, then let me introduce you to your new God:

Look upon me and despair.

Behold Suzanne Venker – author, speaker, wife, mother – who’s bravely fighting to put your vaginas and self-worth back where they belong – in the clumsy hands of one man for the rest of your life like it’s 1892. Here, suck on these delightful tidbits of Venker gospel, won’t you? Continue reading


DisPinterested, Part Un

“Pinterest lets you organize and share all the beautiful things you find on the web. People use pinboards to plan their weddings, decorate their homes, and organize their favorite recipes”.

See? Girly.

Well just breathe the word ‘wedding’ to me and you’ll trigger an epic fight-or-flight response.

Thus I avoided Pinterest for a long time and watched others on Facebook* gleefully pinning recipes for this and tutorials for that; pictures of how to decorate their bathroom with “shabby chic white wicker” or the cutest “cake-pops” to bring to a baby shower. It seemed trendy and nauseatingly girly, so I ignored it as is my Professional Pop Culture Contrarian way.

But then, once, in a rare moment of curious desperation, I turned to Pinterest for help: Hmm, how to motivate myself to eat better and exercise? Why look at rich, skinny women in photographs wearing all sorts of expensive clothes I can’t afford, of course!

Uh uh bitches. I invented Pinterest.

I mean, this is the idea behind that barf-inducing bestseller The Secret from a few years ago. And I’m pretty sure Oprah has even talked about this, a “vision board” or some such bullshit I recall from past afternoons of unemployment. Pinterest is just the electronic form of all this nonsense.

Scrolling through “the boards” is more or less a form of self-administered subliminal messaging. Seeing the same images over and over can really brainwash a person (ie. “I must have atrociously expensive boots must have atrociously expensive bootsmusthaveatrociouslyexpensivebootsmusthaveboots”).

But you tell yourself it’s pretty innocent, just another time-waster cousin of Twitter and Facebook. (Sedate the masses!) And because you are saving/pinning things, you can convince yourself that it’s somewhat productive, even if it is just an impulse reaction to something pretty. And so I branched out of my comfort zone of “Women’s Fashion” and “Recipes” to  “Health & Beauty”, and then to “DIY Crafts”.

Look at the colorful bowls! Ooh, aren’t they cute? Repin!

Or this amazing homemade-from-what-you-already-have-in-your-pantry face scrub! MUST MAKE! Pin!

Merde Rinçage Pour Le Visage- It’s French!


Pretty fabulous right?

But wait a tick. Let’s go back to those bowls. Those fabric bowls. What does one usually do with a bowl? In a regular bowl, one puts Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Or soup. But in a bowl made entirely out of fabric, one puts….?

Jewelry? Coins? Wax fruit??

The problem is if you spend enough time on Pinterest, you’ll quickly find that fifty percent of it is a collection of junk or a collection of ways to help you clean/organize/bedazzle your junk. Just because. For example, behold these tacky candy..things.

All you need is a three ugly-as-sin candle holders, a few empty jars of salsa you should have hoarded away and some hellacious lime paint and you too can make your very own grotesque set of Crapholders!! Hurray!!

The worst part is that I will find myself thinking for a moment, YES THAT’S A GREAT IDEA!

Glue shiny rocks you buy at the store to a wine bottle to make a night light?! HOW DID I NOT THINK OF THIS?!

You see, for some reason, women are suckers for making dumb shit out of other shit they have lying around (or think they have lying around) just because. And so then stuff like this starts to happen:

Maybe I’ll take all these washers I have and glue them onto a piece of paper in a cute shape! HEHEHE!

On second thought…

Where’s my hot glue gun from 1992?

No, wait. There must be something more fucking ridiculous I can do with washers…

Ah, yes! I mean, I was just staring at my cabinet handles the other day and said to myself, “Wouldn’t it be amazing to glue some paper to a washer and stick it between the handle and the door??”

But then I decided, I have all this nailpolish here that I only use on my nails! What a waste!

Aren’t they pretty! I’m not sure what I’ll do with them but worst case scenario I have some fabric bowls over there and nothing to put in them!**

And so it goes. When you consider that those foolish enough to actually attempt these absurd projects to make shit out of other shit usually end up with a new pile of the same shit, I’m convinced we could all be doing something better with our time and our homes would be less cluttered for it. And yet I will continue to use Pinterest, how else would I know to salt-brine a new t-shirt to give it a vintagey feel JUST BECAUSE?!

*Someone explain to me why we must see Pinterest pins on Facebook? Is this not redundant?

**The best part is that as I pinned all these ridiculous projects onto my HoS board to save and make fun of later, others were pinning them onto boards named “Must Make” and “So Cute”.

Sunday Morning Existential Crisis

Oh, of course no pickles. That would make this disgusting.

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy: Why is this a thing? Why did someone get paid to design this recipe? Why does White Castle even feel the need to provide recipes to the world? Why would anyone think it was a good idea to fist a million shitty little hamburgers up a turkey’s ass?

Why was this goddamn ad looking at me from the Sunday paper, as there are no White Castles even in this goddamn part of the country??

Why is the universe conspiring to kill everyone I know thru congestive heart failure? Why is this the world I live in? Why is humanity fat and doomed?


Those Cows

On Nov 14, 2012, at 6:31 PM, Megan <> to Erin:

I am still at work. Now sitting on hold like an asshole at 6:30pm. I am not a happy person. But I want to share this.

From one of my favorites in the twittersphere:

@Pourmecoffee: Judging you. Always judging you

And I shall keep them forever.

On Wed, Nov 14, 2012 at 7:14 PM, Erin <> to Megan:

I am deeply offended by your work schedule. I hope I don’t see you at all tomorrow and that you sleep forever. 

Ps: you and I are those cows

Mean Girls

Like every other rational human being in the world (excepting Megan, who is a professional pop culture contrarian), I went to see Skyfall last weekend, and it was beautiful and awesome and I love it with all my heart and urge you to throw your money at it too. There was one, slight little thing though that irked me just the teensiest bit though…


(Spoilers ahead for dumdums who have never heard of James Bond movie tropes before.)

Oh Naughty Bond Girl. You are inarguably smokin’ hot and you have an accent. But I’m not jealous, no no, for in the world of Bond, the bad guys are always punished and the bad girls are always slutty collateral damage that drive our noble British hero toward kicking greater piles of ass for Queen and Country. Bang, betray, be killed – that’s the typical lifespan of a Bad Bond Girl. Hoo boy how many feminist film critics have had fun with that formula over the last fifty years? But come on. All this predictable misogyny? Trembling and victimized ladies at the mercy of violent men? Peace! Quell your ideological rage, Reader, for I have a solution.

The world needs a new kind of a Bond girl, and I am she. I will make that sacrifice.

I will make that sacrifice right into the middle of this man sandwich.

Let me count the ways in which I am a superior Bond Girl than boring old Severine up there. Let’s invert some cliches – Continue reading

Goodnight Election

I asked Erin how to discuss my election addiction publicly. Because my dirty, nasty election addiction and the emotions related to its culmination are weighing on me. She consoled me and suggested it’s okay to just tell you guys about my “throbbing election erection. Rubbed off by millions of Twitter feeds. There’s nothing gross about that. Perfectly natural!” Continue reading

Disaster Relief

Nature was some bitch this week, huh you guys? What an epic short stick was drawn by New Jersey and the rest of the eastern seaboard/various, devastated Caribbean islands. By God, these are good days to be landlocked.

                                         And yet Florida….unscathed.

As in the wake of every tragedy, with a healthy dose of reality and appreciation for our boring old lives, those of us not directly effected return to the business of living. We feel the need to be louder, better – we’ve been spared and it would be ungrateful to waste this new shot at life. We must go to that Whigs concert we have tickets for on Tuesday night (LISTEN), and we must look a billion times more fabulous than originally planned, because life is short and we need to get laid. To this end, it is imperative we go boot shopping.

Boots! The bane of my existence and one true love! The object of my desire, the most unattainable of goals! See, I too am a victim of fickle Nature. Not the big disaster version of Nature, but the smaller, more immutable and damning Nature. The nature of genes.

Specifically, the dumb genes that gave me the calves of a Fernando Botero nude.

                                 JUST THE CALVES

 I say this objectively and without body-image anguish: my lower legs are extravagantly disproportionate to the rest of my body. It’s a fact. Imagine stomping around the mall with those tree trunks jammed under your knees, trying to find a pair of boots that will zip up beyond your ankle. Nigh impossible! Hence my years-long struggle, condemned to flats and gym shoes.To fulfill my post-Hurricane Sandy dreams, I had to continue the hunt, doomed though I may be.

So there I was at the store, moping down the aisles of boots meant for the spindly-legged, the trendy, the stiletto heel favor-ers. I feared the shame of trying on yet another pair, forcing the zipper up as far as it would go before it caught my flesh between its teeth and refused to move either up or down until it drew blood and I had to alert the sales staff. I dragged my cumbersome legs to the abandoned discount section of the store and collapsed. I hung my head, for how could anyone like me ever hope to find hot Angelina Jolie boots and wear them to a Whigs concert where the lead singer would fall in love with me and induct me into the band and we would tour the world together, royal ambassadors of rock n roll?

Lo! There, wedged beneath the rack of hideous Kardashian heels  was a large, boot-sized box. And within that boot-sized box, a pair of boots! Attractive, knee-high boots, grey, glorious. Could they…? Would they….?

Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. Right the FUCK up to my knee.

Holy. Balls. It was a Hurricane Sandy Day miracle!

Nature giveth (to me), and nature taketh away (from everyone else, that day). And so that night at the show, as I jammed in a crowd of 15 people (median age roughly 65) in my tall boots and short skirt making eyes at the drummer, I thought, “Let this be a sign unto you, New Jersey, Hoboken, NYC. You too can overcome the shit hand you were dealt. You can rebuild. You will be so much sexier this time. Nature can’t keep us down – let’s dance!”

Insensitivity, thy name may be Erin, but goddamn if you don’t look good in those shoes.