This is a quick heads-up that I will cease to care about anything or anyone else on the planet this Friday except for the four-part revival of “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix. Here are just a few things the existence of which I will forget about for six full hours:
My failed high-protein diet(s)
My unkempt eyebrows
Neo-nazis (see above)
Deep dish pizza vs. regular pizza
Daylight Savings Time
Zucchini noodles aka “zoodles”
The oceans (all)
The continents (all)
1066 (I know stuff happened but I forget most of it anyways blah blah England)
Most of History
Whatever generation I am
Non-fat Greek yogurt
Your racist uncle
Birth control methods (all)
Indiana (included in above “red states” but I want to forget it twice)
The New York Times
Sort-of-real-maybe news, but it was retweeted by Joss Whedon so who knows?
All birds, really
Whether or not there is a God(s)
Whether my direct deposit for work will kick in soon
The fact that we are all, as Dickens said, fellow passengers to the grave
Why? Because after this year, I deserve this ONE THING, OKAY? WE ALL DO! JUST THIS ONE THING! SIX HOURS! FOUR NINETY-MINUTE EPISODES! PLEASE JUST LET US HAVE THIS, UNIVERSE!
Look, there have been a gazillion pieces on how even if someone voted for Trump for “non-racist” reasons, they still voted for racism. If you don’t buy it after folks like Scalzi break it all down for you in the easiest-to-understand terms, you’re not going to buy it from me, so I’m not going to write another one here.
There have also been a gazillion pieces written on the Electoral College (google it). I fucking hate the Electoral College, since it basically means my California vote is worth less than, say, a Wyoming vote because something something rural Real America(TM) slave state history blah blah blah. So I’m not gonna write one here, either.
Don’t even get me started on the gazillion pieces about how the left needs to understand Trump voters more because blah blah blah. I get it; many of them are losing traditional jobs that aren’t coming back because #robots and they’re mad, but many of them are also assholes who hate that they had to see a black dude on TV for 8 years and sure as fuck weren’t gonna look at an old lady for that long even if she’s white. You can guess where I come down on that argument so I’m not gonna write my own take here either.
So here’s what I have to say: ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything. The next four years are going to be apocalyptic. I’m especially excited for the inevitable Pence presidency, because, let’s get real, our Cheeto-Elect is not gonna last more than a year, tops. He’s never had to do any actual work in his life, and he’s just now realizing that the Presidency involves reading and sitting still and receiving criticism and not staying in Trump Tower among his gold-plated accessories unless he ventures out to grab him some fresh pussy. He’s going to resign, and if not he will be impeached, because the GOP would vastly prefer working with Pence (ugh) and, let’s face it, Mr. Cheeto has already committed about a zillion impeachable offenses and will accumulate more in his first five days in office than Nixon managed in five years. Pence hates gay people and women especially and is going to do his fucking utmost to take away our rights, so that’s gonna be GREAT.
And then there’s the worst part: the violence and harassment against minorities. This violence has existed for centuries, duh, but now it’s been validated in the mainstream by the dude who’s gonna be president. People are fucking scared. Hundreds of incidents a day have been reported since Nov. 8: women randomly getting grabbed walking down the street, Muslim women having their hijabs ripped off, black people called n****** who should “go back to Africa” (because it’s not like our white ancestors dragged their black ancestors from Africa against their will in chains, but okay, sure), anyone who looks vaguely Hispanic threatened with deportation (not that anyone should be threatened with deportation, but I’m almost tickled by racists who can’t tell the difference between someone of Asian descent or Mexican descent).
Also the environment is over and maybe there will be a nuclear war and Marie Le Pen will be elected and I can’t shop at Macy’s anymore and I’m a privileged-yet-depressed white bitch and I hate myself.
Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything.
Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything.
Ughhhhhhhh foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrr fuck everything. Also something about safety pins?
Okay. Thanks for listening. Now let’s do some shit.
I haven’t written in a long time because I was job-hunting. I have a new job now. So yeah, I’m back.
And this is my election post for the day (also found on FB).
Last night I was despondent. For a few moments, my depression reared its head in the ugliest way. I barely slept.
This morning, I realized a few things:
I am white
I am well-educated
I have an amazing job with amazing benefits
I have an amazing support system
I am cis-het
I live in California
Barring a national overturning of Roe v. Wade or an uptick in assault on women in general nationwide, my rights and I are ok for the foreseeable future. Which is why it is now my job to fight for others.
For people of color, ESPECIALLY women of color
For those who don’t have the chance to go to college
For the unemployed, under-employed, and disabled
For the uninsured or those soon to be uninsured
For the poor
For the LGBT community
For people in places like Flint (STILL NO CLEAN WATER Y’ALL) and Ferguson and Standing Rock.
If you are like me and you enjoy many tremendous privileges, it is also your time to fight.
In municipal politics
In state politics
In national politics
In our communities
In our homes
I’m scared tbh. But I know I’m not nearly as scared as those in the marginalized groups above. So it’s on me. It’s on us (that mostly means you, white people).
I start by setting up a monthly donation to Planned Parenthood, which will be crucial to the well-being of women and girls and even men in the coming months and years if the ACA goes down. And then I research my next steps.
Here are ten faces Paul Ryan* makes (to himself for now, but I’m sure increasingly to others as the election continues, especially if Trump continues to publicly accept congratulations on being “right” when 50 people are murdered in a gay club by an asshole) when he is just going about his day and then suddenly remembers that he has publicly endorsed Donald Trump for President and has committed himself to voting for him in November.
*Also applies to Mitch McConnell.
And, of course…
Oh, Paul. I’d say I feel sorry for you, but you brought this on yourself. If it makes you feel any better, at least people forgot about this for a moment!
So let’s get this out of the way: nobody likes pants*. NOBODY. Not real pants, anyways, with zippers and hooks and buttons and belts. I suppose that if you’re a guy they’re okay (guys generally have narrow hips and smaller butts relative to the rest of their bodies, and hips and butts are no friends to pants), but I’m sure most dudes still prefer joggers and sweatpants. if you’re a woman? Pfft, FOGEDDABOUTIT!
Pants are the worst thing to ever happen to the world, besides, like, Hitler and polio and war and stuff. If you’re not pulling them up, you’re tugging them down. They’re either falling off your butt or the button is pressing into your belly and leaving a mark. They’re made in every conceivable style and shape and length and crotch ratio (that’s what I call the “rise” of jeans–let’s not kid ourselves, “rise” just means “how much room do you want for your crotch?”), and yet there’s always SOMETHING wrong with them. Don’t lie–especially if you’re a woman, what’s the first thing you do when you come home after work? If you answered, “I take off my bra,” you are CORRECT! But this post isn’t about bras, it’s about pants, because it’s “P” day on the blogging challenge. So what’s the second thing you do? THAT’S RIGHT, YOU TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS! Why? Because you don’t hate yourself and it’s easier to eat cheetos when you don’t have to worry about getting orange dust all over your fucking pants.
No variation on pants for women are at all okay. Shorts are just even shittier-fitting pants that don’t cover your legs, which is the entire purpose of pants, so fuck them. Khakis are for park rangers. Slacks are just needlessly expensive pants that make your thighs and the part of your legs under your knees sweat. Bootcut pants are just bell bottoms that are too lazy to commit. Palazzo pants are only appropriate on palazzos, and, let’s be real, you’ve never been on (at?) a palazzo, so don’t get fresh. Culottes are some sort of invention by the devil. Hot pants are underwear. Jumpsuits are just torture, because it’s pants with a pre-attached top and HOW DO YOU PEE? Jeans are ubiquitous but if they were good people wouldn’t cry when they went shopping for them.
There are (and this is according to Science™, I checked) the only four pants-like items that don’t make you want to die when you wear them:
That’s it. That’s all we got. Anything else is an unnecessary sacrifice of comfort and sanity.
So my question is, WHY ARE WE WEARING ANYTHING ELSE? Is it because of SOCIETY?
Well, FUCK society, man! If we can give the middle finger up at the political establishment and throw the electoral process into chaos, we can CERTAINLY figure out how to eschew pants for the rest of the course of human civilization. I know, you’re probably thinking–but what about work? I’m a lawyer, I have to look professional! Or, I’m a news anchor, I have to appear put together! I’m a writer, I have to…well, okay, you’re probably fine. Resume eating nachos in your PJs.
I’ve given this a lot of thought, and so I’m proposing a two-tiered new System of Fashion™. One WITHOUT REAL PANTS! Interested? Well, here are the rules–they’re very simple:
In any situation where you are doing routine shit and do not have to impress a client, family member, world leader, or judgmental child, wear yoga pants, leggings, pjs, or sweatpants, and whatever top-half covering or footwear is appropriate for your climate or workspace.
In all other situations where you want to impress anyone–work conference, first date, meeting your prospective in-laws, presidential debate–wear an elaborate ballgown.
That’s it. Those are the rules–for both men and women, may I add.
Can you see the beauty of this? Let’s be real, the only point of wearing Real Pants is to impress your date, coworker, acquaintance or dog and show them that you own something other than stained GapBody leggings and care enough about that person to don them. Right now, between Not Real Pants and ballgowns there is a vast range of choices, from capris to slacks, to show varying degrees of Giving A Shit about how you look and what people think of you. Why not reduce the system to its logical extremes–one look for Giving A Shit, and one look for Not Giving a Shit? And if you really Give A Shit, why not go all out with a backless number with a tulle skirt?
Can you imagine how much more interesting this will make life? Can’t you see how many decisions would just be made for you by instituting this system?Let’s say you walk into your performance review with your boss wearing your “I’m trying, here!” canary-yellow ballgown with a beaded bodice, and your boss is wearing the footie onesie he slept in last night. Well, now you know it’s time to fucking get a new job, don’t you? Or say you’re at your anniversary dinner, and your husband is decked out to the nines in his midnight blue velvet sheath and you realize you couldn’t even muster up the enthusiasm to change your leggings with the hole in the crotch for your other leggings with a hole at the knee. Maybe it’s time to call up your divorce lawyer, isn’t it? And can you imagine Trump and Hillary debating this Fall, both in elaborate Marchesa (Hillary) and Ivanka Trump (Trump, and obviously it will be in gold satin with the MOST LUXURIOUS TRIMMINGS EVER, YOU WON’T EVEN BELIEVE IT) gowns?
I can sense you through the network of tubes which is the Internet–you’re feeling me! YOU GET IT. Of course, I’m not blind to the difficulties of putting this into practice. Ballgowns are expensive, and we need EVERYONE to at least have 2. So we’d need to institute a Ballgown Tax For the Provision of Ballgowns to All Citizens, which I would propose (because I’m a damned dirty socialist) be levied only against the top 1%, who already have enough ballgowns to make this work. Honestly, they should thank me, because I’m really saving them money–they can get rid of all their non-ballgown designer palazzo pants and $300 Lucky jeans and just pick up some yoga joggers from Old Navy and they’re set. Everyone wins, especially my butt.
Wow, I’m feeling really good about my proposal, so I think I’m going to go take off my pants and write some emails to Hillary, Bernie, and Obama to see if we can get this thing going. I think this is the issue that’s really going to bring the BernieBros and HillaryBots together! YOU’RE WELCOME, AMERICA.
*Yes, I am aware that people in the UK say “pants” when they mean “underwear,” and “trousers” when they mean “pants” and that this may be confusing for them. I don’t care. This is why you guys lost the Revolutionary War. Get with it.
Please let me know your thoughts on my proposal in the comments, and do share and like this post to get the No Pants Movement going.
Prior to this past weekend I was a thirty-year-old Human Woman. Over the weekend I died and became a ghost. Behold a picture of me as I appear today:
Basically what happened is I went to a birthday party Saturday night and had many, many drinks. I also danced for more than three consecutive minutes (I “Got Low” and “Jumped Around,” among other life errors), and topped it all off by going to sleep after 2 a.m.
This behavior, while apparently not a problem in my twenties, was sufficient, at age thirty, to kill me and transform me into a ghost. A ghost with an aching right foot, perpetual exhaustion, a scratchy throat, and a neck with a severely reduced turning radius that is somehow exacerbated by sleep. My new identity as a ghost was confirmed earlier today when a man almost walked into me on the sidewalk even though he clearly should have been able to see me coming. Also, a few minutes afterwards a small child looked RIGHT AT ME with frightened eyes and gave me a wide berth. Everyone knows that children are the only ones who can see ghosts, so I took this as final confirmation of my new plasma-tastic state. I tried to reassure the child that I was a friendly ghost, like Casper, by giving her a huge grin, but this only seemed to frighten her more as she wailed and ran to catch up with her mother. So I guess this means I’m not a friendly ghost and should start haunting the crap out of everyone who ever pissed me off before this weekend. I’m compiling a list and am open to suggestions on this now (haunted) blog. The first person on the list is currently Donald Trump. TRY KEEPING THAT COMBOVER STRAIGHT WHILE YOU’RE SCREAMING IN TERROR AT MY GHOSTLY VISAGE, JACKASS!
Soooo…I guess my main message here is to avoid ghost-hood by just staying in and never drinking alcohol once you hit thirty, and also that if people could just all agree to haunt horrible politicians once they become ghosts our country would be a lot better off, policy-wise.