Women. Am I Right?
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Yes to love. Yes to life. Yes to staying in more!

Very often I take reality shows for what they are – awesome escapes from my humdrum day-to-day where I get to laugh and freely judge others from the safety of my own couch; saddled with wine, cheese and crackers. Alright Bravo – let’s DO this!! “Oh, Luann…you are so on point. I used to hate you, but now you a sassy bitch and I love it!”, “Sonja, wtf? No seriously, wtf? Pick a goddamn brand and develop it…no, stop dating that creepy 23 year old, he pervs me out” (what can I say, it’s RHONY season….like wedding season for Vince Vaughn/Jeremy Grey, only better).

So, as I discuss the Bachelor/Bachelorette, it is with great trepidation and quite a helping hand that I climb on this high horse. But I must. To not do so would be a discredit to humankind. Not womankind, not mankind. Just people. People should be appalled by what I have seen. Now it started with Juan Pablo, “Carl” as I shall henceforth refer to him, who met a delightful little tart named Clare Crawly. I say tart because hey, I’m still on my judgment couch and listen, it’s the Bachelor, and some person is fighting against 26 other people all who are making out with the same bro, for a chance at true love…so yeah, I called her a tart. You signed up for this show – it’s not a great spectacle of self-worth and esteem as much as it is for those relishing competition and you know, a few steamy make out sessions. Perhaps US Weekly will do a story on you and before you know it you’re the new Doris Day. Or Kim Kardashian. I don’t know, whatever the kids are in to as celebrities these days.

So back to Carl and Clare. If you don’t already know (and obviously you do, but just in case) Carl has a daughter. A young six (then five) year old daughter. He loves her very much and her love, trust and respect for him is the most important thing to him. So, obviously, the next life step to find her a reliable and caring step-mom was to go on the bachelor to gallivant around with 20-some people and find her. Find the one. In this ridiculously bizarre, publicized television show. Carl, good call, keep that respect.

So ok, we’ve established Clare wants nothing but true love with one man and Carl wants nothing but the love and respect of his daughter, which will be achieved through dating 27 women. Done. Episode 9 season 18 commence. In the romantic throes of Vietnam Carl says to himself “self, what a lady you have here. So caring, so wise, so…vulnerable.” After taking Renee on a one-on-one date, and smooching with Sharleen, Carl goes for it. “Clare, in this world of dog-eat-dog, where women are pitted against each other and you must watch me select women one by one like things, I chose you, you Clare, to take a dip in the pool with me.” Shenanigans ensues. And because, well, it is a competition, and Carl just made out with her, Clare goes to Carl, a 33-year old father, and says “hey, let’s go to the ocean.” And Carl, a 33-year old father (I’m sorry, did I say that already?) says “yes”. He put up the fight of his life too. I mean he technically said yes. But he totally Tyra Banks’ed her. With his eyes. He said “no, this is too much, we’re going too fast, I have the respect of my daughter to think of” with his eyes. So we watch Clare, and apparently only Clare, snare this man and take him down in a moment of personal weakness for him, and sex him! In the ocean! FOR SHAME Clare, for shame. Because now, Carl has just lost the respect of his daughter and must somehow explain this debauchery, caused by Clare, to her. Worst. Thing. Ever. What is a Carl to do? In the most poetic and righteous way possible, Carl takes Clare aside to tell her that he regretted her actions, that this was an embarrassment to him because of his daughter, and that quite frankly, it wasn’t fair to the other girls. What Clare did, to him, wasn’t fair. To the other girls. Who are also competing for him. Again, to Clare – FOR SHAME! And as any Tom, Dick or Harry might surmise – Clare got sent home. Not immediately, but soon. Because, you know, chastity and all. She was no longer innocent. So glad Nikki won.

So a new season starts. And in ABC’s answer to the slut-shaming female against female The Bachelor, we start season 11 of “The Bachelorette”. Finally, some reprieve where I get to watch men fawn over a girl and compete against each other for the love of a single woman at one time. Oh, wait, wait. So, hold the phones there lady-friend. Let me get this straight. Before they can “earn” the right to have men fawn over them, we must STILL pit two girls against each other???? Ok, ladies – before you get anything in life, you must compete. Against each other. For love.

Perfect start to the episode. Us viewers, ladies mostly, watch two women fight it out, sassying up to the men to win them over, to win votes. Girls – sell yourselves to these men… 3…2…1…GO! Kaitlyn Bristowe is announced as the ultimate dating warrior champion. And what does she get?! DATES!!! Not like sex or anything, but you know, good old-fashioned wholesome dates with men. Perchance a good night kiss. God speed Britt – I’m sure you shall find your soulmate elsewhere (oh god, at least I hope so, or what does that mean for all of us non-reality show daters? Fuck). Anyway, Kaitlyn now has the right to date. And so the episode goes. A little fawning here, a little overplayed giggling there, some Chris dude kisses her. Oh my. Some bro is all, I love Britt, and I just can’t go on with this lie for another quarter of an episode, and removes himself from the competition without ever really getting to know Kaitlyn. You know, just some good old self-esteem building and all. Some other Calvin Harris-esque dude gets a rose. Then other guys get roses. They’re all jacked up by these roses they posses and the episode ends.

Then we get to the real meat and bones of the episode. Yes, at the very end. With a few minutes to show the viewers what is to come on this season of the bachelorette!! we are given a glimpse in to the most demoralizing, society-centric slut-shaming I have yet to see in reality. Though nothing is stated outright, it is implied (bedroom door closed, do not disturb sign, dark lighting, sheets, you know the drill) that Kaitlyn has in fact slept with one of the contestants. We don’t even get to know who. WHATT??!!!?!?!?! Is of course your immediate reaction. Kaitlyn, a contestant on a dating show, trying to find her true love, actually, fucking, slept with someone. It’s Clare all over again – FOR SHAME Kaitlyn, FOR SHAME! Only, I realize, it’s not just me who feels this way. Apparently every single other mother fucker on that show feels similarly. Additionally, they feel angry. These men are actually angry with Kaitlyn. Fans are shocked. Kaitlyn must address this atrocity asap.

In a clip from “dramatic highlights from this season on The Bachelorette” one jaunty young fellow, who we must assume has never had sex before marriage…or a fantasy suite episode (virrgginnn!!), dares to state “I don’t question his intentions, I question YOUR intentions.” Yeah dude, who is this girl, really? Stringing you along with 25 unsuspecting guys on a dating reality show. Where does she get off?? In response, because one must respond to this, Kaitlyn admits she made a mistake, a HUGE mistake. And that quite frankly “you’d think [she] would have learned at this point.” But she didn’t. She just goes around enticing men who are competing against 24 other men to win her heart and sluts it up. I’m glad at least. Unlike Carl, or even that tart Clare, Kaitlyn had the wherewithal to approach every single man left after that shenanigans she pulled, to address what she did. Good, you better let them know. They, and we the viewers, have the right to know the truth, Kaitlyn! As one gentleman put it “I hope you realize how you’re making us feel.”

Because Kaitlyn went “too far, too fast” – we must actually ponder, per ABC’s request, whether it will jeopardize all of her relationships. God, I hope not, I hope one single sole man will stay, and see past her flaw.

The problem with all of this is that EVERYONE, Carl, Clare, Kaitlyn, and whoever the fuck Kaitlyn slept with are all adults. Capable of making choices. And they ALL made the same damn choice – to have sex. Yet who is the one being shamed? Who’s the one having to go on camera and talk about their shame and their regret? It’s sure as hell not Carl – No, that motherfucker had the goddamn nerve to tell Clare SHE made him do something that would affect his daughter forever. And because of what Clare did, Carl can no longer respect her. Carl. Who said yes to the ocean. Who said yes to the sex. Who said yes to “The Bachelor”. Cannot. Respect. Clare. For what she did. I have no problem with Carl and what’s his face having sex. But you know what else I don’t have a problem with, Clare and Kaitlyn having sex. What I do have a problem with is that, whether for the show or for society, it’s the females that have to go on camera, crying. Apologizing for “what they’ve done” when they haven’t done shit. As Carl and what’s his face continue to sow their oats shame-free, one must ponder, Carrie Bradshaw style, “will Clare or Kaitlyn ever get their ‘happily ever after’ when they just can’t seem to control their sexual impulses?”

And we wonder why women don’t treat women with respect. And why men don’t treat women with respect. And why children think it’s a funny joke to say “hey girl, make me a sandwich!” Carl and what’s his face get to walk around society with their head held high blaming women for whatever went wrong, for whatever didn’t play well on tv, and of course, for bewitching them in to sex. You know, because we all know how much men hate sex. And how maniacal women are about sex. And how society feels about women having one-night stands (you go girl! you get that booty call! Oh man, did he have to do the walk of shame?! Guuuurrrlll high-five a girl!).

I don’t know what the solution is, but I know part of the problem is ABC, who presumably screens and tests shows and episodes before air, believes that society’s reaction is one of shame on Kaitlyn. And that is why we see her groveling and crying while the men are able to judge her freely. And no one is judging the men. No one’s angry at what’s his face. Well, I mean a little, but only out of jealousy. But Kaitlyn wasn’t given a pulpit to say “fuck you, I don’t care” until after the season wrapped. ABC has her on camera bemoaning her un-chaste decision and lamenting what effect it will have on her future; whether on the show, or you know, just as a woman in society trying to find love. WHAT will people think of her? It’s obvious what ABC thinks – apologize. If Kaitlyn apologizes for her actions and the other men condemn her for them – then society will be ok. People won’t be upset that this floozy had sex *gasp* before the fantasy suites. Now sex in the fantasy suites is ok (should you choose to have it – it is highly recommended the women remain chaste and say “I couldn’t, I respect myself and him too much”), because at that point she’s narrowed down the men and that sex is seemingly meaningful. But girls, you better not sleep with that dude before you get to know him, actually get to know his heart, and his soul. No, only Carl can do that. And most assuredly Carl does not like wine.

What’s up Miranda.
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Miranda. Being her obviously sexy self.

I used to watch Sex and the City as a high schooler and college student. In fact, there was one summer my younger (and of course wiser) brother and I had season-long marathons of the show to make sure we did not miss a single episode. Those were the days of Blockbuster movie rentals. When life was simpler, jobs nonexistent, and groceries were never-ending…name brand always.

Apparently those were also the days where people dressed like Miranda and got cat-called by every Tom, Dick and Harry on the street. Literally. I think there was an episode and all those bros were in it. But I’m here to ask the hard question, that I, at 30, cannot seem to get over. What the fuck Miranda?

The hair, the glasses, the clothes, the makeup, the sweaters, the green, the style, the constantly distasteful faces, the braces* (starred because as a keen observer will recall after one particularly embarrassing run-in with some high school girls she made the decision to switch to invisalign). I mean seriously. What the fuck. This woman was getting getting asked on a legitimate date every goddamn episode. She’s at the gym, sweating up a storm, face matching hair, and some hot-muscled bro approaches her all “yo girl, you look fine, let’s go get some drinks.” Now, we are already suspending reality to believe that this intelligent Harvard-educated high-pressured lifestyle attorney falls for this, but NOW you’re asking me to believe that this shit happens?? No.

Here I am, going about my life, looking like a fucking delight. I match, my hair is normal, face is fierce, wine in hand, and you know who asks me out? No one. You know who asks out my hot friends? No one. I mean sure, there are some flirtatious exchanges and “how you doing”s – but this is at 2 a.m., at a bar, closing, and everyone has secured a hefty bar tab. Yeah, let’s date. You’re so hot right now. Is that a polo and a dashing green checkered blazer? Oh, I love when your pants are skinnier than mine. Please, take me home. I totally see a sustainable winning and intelligent conversation with you over oysters and a bottle of pinot noir next Wednesday at 8. Oh, sorry, Let’s make it 7, Modern Family’s at 9. No, It doesn’t fucking happen. At no point that I am carrying on in a normal day am I EVER approached by a decent (looking) fella because he just thought I looked swell and wanted to actually get to know me at some later event, to be determined.

Now this has nothing to do with Cynthia Nixon (a doll, really), but about the fact that the same person tasked with dressing and styling Carrie, dressed and styled Miranda. Miranda. If she’s going to wear overalls and a sunflower jean bucket hat – treat her like she’s wearing overalls and a sunflower jean bucket hat!!! She already acts like it.

My nights end in cheese, boxed wine and some Chrisley Knows Best on demand (wondering when everyone is going to realize this is actually a mockumentary where the father is a sassy gay man and everyone but the family realizes it – you know, a la Ja’mie). I don’t need a woman who should, for all valid reasons, be the one shining example of female empowerment on that show to make me question my life choices. Miranda should be able to get any guy she wants. But she doesn’t. She gets asked out, all the fucking time, by these hot-ass mindless buttheads who are more in to how hot she is than who she is. What??!! She dresses like a 7th grader in 1997 and has the self-confidence of a gawky Niles Crane. You’re better than that Miranda. And this shit does not happen.

It’s all Relative. Because. Living.

How are we not having a more substantial dialogue about Willow and Jaden Smith. And that interview. Yes, I know they are still children in the most real sense of the word. But they are also dressing like sassy adults and giving (what I’m sure to be) parental-approved public interviews, all while writing their own books, nay, novels, and evading some time-space continuum. So, children? The point of childhood is to be stupid and bask in that stupidity. Once you become responsible that shit goes right out the window and all of a sudden eating Taco Bell at 3 a.m. is no longer socially acceptable, and sadly, in most places, judged. Oh my god – is that the point they are making? Oh my god – did I just try to validate this interview? Fuck. No, because they are clearly not children nor do they want to be considered children.

Maybe the problem is that we don’t don’t even know where to begin. I don’t even know where to begin. Is this something to tear apart as an exercise in celebrity (scientology?) gone to the head, or is the sheer ridiculousness so maddening that there is nothing left to say? Perhaps the interview is enough. I don’t know, but I just can’t get my head around it. But then again, I can’t write my own novels, and I sure as hell don’t have the creativity (balls?) to wear a white batman suit to a wedding. Kanye can’t even. And this is why I will be drinking wine later.

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Fighting crime. And time.

I take that back, Kanye could even. He’s just jealous a 16-year old beat him to it.

http://entertainthis.usatoday.com/2014/11/18/huh-willow-and-jaden-smiths-nyt-interview-is-the-weirdest-thing-youll-read-today/  (hope this one works…)

Night Cheese
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In the words of Liz Lemon…just workin’ on my night cheese

This happened last night.

You’ll note what appears to be a sweatshirt blanket under the beautiful arrangement. That is correct. After a bottle of wine shared with my good friend, Lauren. After my first foray into Babaganoush (at a quite underrated Gitan). And after watching Modern Family and eating some oriental ramen and turkey bacon (blissful pairing). I decided to take leave of the confines of my family room and head upstairs to indulge in this light after-everything snack. Fucking right. Often I question my ability to be an “adult” and ponder life’s meaning. But then I have a night like this and I think to myself “yeah…you’re allright in my book.”

So, cheese. That is all.

Grow Up. And Phone Home.
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Michael, ever distraught, phoning for confirmation

Michael, my younger but infinitely wiser brother, often discusses with me the need to grow up and start being myself. I don’t take this advice lightly. He’s right. Aside from being right, however, he also likes to lead by example. Our dear friends Alice and Matt were hosting a party this past weekend. After a prior invitation gone awry or, “the debacle” (Michael received his invite through a third party, me, so as to invalidate said invite), Michael was given a direct and emailed invite. This invite included a place to respond, inform the hosts whether you were bringing guests, when you might want to show up, etc. Over the course of three weeks I was asked not once, twice or three times, but 13 times whether or not his girlfriend could attend. Yes, reply with a +one. In fact, I’ll text Alice. Look at that, such dear friends we have their phone numbers. We don’t just have them, we text frequently with them. Confirmed. Come, bring your girlfriend, kegs and wine and merriment for all!

Fast forward to the day prior to the event. “Listen, I replied ‘maybe’. I’m coming. I’m bringing my girlfriend. I texted Matt, it’s been 3 minutes. I haven’t heard anything. You must call Alice. You need to confirm I can still come, with girlfriend, because I only replied ‘maybe’”. Now when I call them our “dear friends” I do not mean in some distant way that we have memories past but don’t socialize too often these days as to create some sense of self-doubt or restraint. It’s the type of closeness I imagine Ina has with her sassiest of gay friends from the Hamptons where a simple “Gary, I’m using good ingredients, bring wine” sends Gary on the swiftest of missions to pick the sassiest of wines to pair with a yet unknown meal of food Ina is surely making. No questions, no hesitation, just shit tons of classy wine, because you better bet there will be a lot of wine to be had later and Gary is definitely passing out on Ina’s basement floor mid “Pillow Talk” (a rising tale of the old party line system in New York where Doris Day is a delight and Rock Hudson is as captivating as ever and my the antics they get into…but I digress), only to have Jeffrey arrive some time later and give him a blanket, turn off the tv and the lights, and start prepping the scones Ina had made earlier for breakfast. Actually, this is not too dissimilar to a night Michael had at Matt’s. Where Pillow Talk was replaced by Sunday Night Football, wine with Loose Cannon and “good ingredients” with delivery pizza. So yes, Michael, it would be the highest disregard to their hospitality to show up, with girlfriend, after you so selfishly blew them off with a “maybe”. I had better call Alice most promptly and confirm that you are still allowed on their premises. A call was made without haste to Alice, to which she replied “I’m sorry, what? Do I need to call Michael? I will have Matt text him. Better yet, shall I send word by way of my carrier pigeon?”

As Alice and I laughed over said ridiculousness, I continued to receive multiple texts. From Michael. About attendance. Luckily, Matt texted Michael, Alice confirmed, and Michael was able to arrive without scorn or embarrassment, with girlfriend, for party.

And in case you were curious – the party was a sheer delight. Everyone drank too much, ate too much and overall enjoyed themselves too much. Alice prepared the most amazing Ina-inspired pulled pork and an onion dip. I ate most of the onion dip. I followed it with a bottle and a half of Pinot Noir. The fancy kind.

So as I continue through life, learning how to be myself; each day striving to become self-aware and self-possessed, I think fondly of my brother, Michael, whose sage words started me on this path, and his ever-shining example of comfort, friendship, and most importantly, how much more grown up he is.  This is a man that does not let anything get him down. And like him, I must carry on. I’ll start by having some wine later tonight.

Cheese. And wine. And a Queen
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Artist’s rendition of Queen Maxima. Being badass as usual

Oh my holy god. Queen Maxima is in Utrecht. Cutting cheese. And not just any cheese. But Beemster. Beemster is like a less crumbly parm, but with a nutty awesomeness that is unbelievably fantastic. She also looks phenomenal. The chapeau, the watch (it screams – I’m efficient and I value you and your time as much as mine – I love how she cares like that), the fucking blingin’ gold hoop earing. And there she is, just casually cuttin some cheese. I bet she’s going to go home and have some wine later. You know, because she has to pair 350 wheels of cheese with something. God I’m jealous of her night.

You’re in for a Rant.

Is it not like the most downer part of your day when you find what you think to be a cool blog on pinterest about diy ways to organize and be shabby chic with awesome ideas…and then you go to it and you slowly recall that you’ve been there before and that their ideas really aren’t all that good, or practical, or shabby chic, or appropriate to your lifestyle??

That just happened. Talk about an immediate high to slow low. I saw it earlier and was looking forward to lunch so I could peruse it. Now I have time to write you this diatribe instead. It’s almost like a read-along to the site.

Here is the web site in question:

http://www.harvardhomemaker.com/over-100-ideas-to-help-you-organize-your-home-and-your-life/

And here’s the pin that made it seem like this was gonna be “my” site:

http://pinterest.com/pin/254946028878379322/

I mean the first one – separate laundry in these bins. Fuck, separating my laundry just adds to my day. I do laundry in the organization style of “what fits, goes in – anything pricey to the cleaners”.

Don’t give your child a hamper – so they have a cleaner room! Lady, that shit has got to go somewhere. And I’ll be damned if they’re going to walk it to the laundry room on their own. No one’s got time for that. I’ll be picking up laundry all fucking day.

Nail polish on socks? wtf? You just showed me how to hang loners so they can find a mate, now I’ve also got to ruin them? Why do I need sock tip 1 if sock tip 2 solves all those problems?? Don’t try to reason with me woman!

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Picking up all this laundry. And one fucking sock…

I love her creative suggestion of using over-the-door racks. Like I haven’t been doing that since I was a college kid with 400 pounds of clothes and one square inch of storage.

Labels!  Label things! why? Because you’ll be able to find things easily. Genius.

Building shelves between your studs for cool knick-knack storage. How the hell am I going to do that? How long does this take? How do I find the space? How do I know how big it is? How do I know how secure the shelving will be? What is the pound limitation on this set up? How do I re-tile that shit? This seems much more complicated than some casual Saturday afternoon fun wine time craft.

I do like the toilet paper basket holder. Not the most ingenious thing but I like the look.

While she’s right that the hook looks nicer than the rack, it’s like those infomercials where the woman just makes a fucking mess using any regular blender. But never with this super special blender. Like couldn’t the kids still not hang their stuff properly and it will still fall to the floor?

Again, more ingenious hook ideas….

Glass jars – fine for the cotton balls but lady your makeup brushes are none too pretty to be displaying like art.

Online grocery shopping???!!  1. You’re a stay at home mom. Really? Going to the grocery store is just “too much”? 2. I freaking love grocery shopping. How dare you try to take that away from me.

List! Use lists – perhaps with a pen!!! I’m not even going to get in to this one.

Cabinets! Much like pantries, only slightly different. Oh, and it will require you to construct a cabinet because you’ll probably have a pantry….that also stores similarly to cabinets

Remove snacks from boxes and put in an open, separated free-for-all drawer. Yeah, I’d eat through about 10 packs of those keebler elves before I knew what hit me.

Always double recipes….I triple recipes and that barely covers dinner for one night.

Put appliances in cupboards – 1. don’t people already do that with appliances that are not used regularly. 2. How fucking annoying would it be to have to retrieve and put back your coffee maker every. damn. day. I mean when you’re a stay at home mom I guess you have that time, unless of course it’s grocery shopping. Then again, ain’t nobody got time for that.

A refrigerator drawer??? I would love that. Can someone please install it and then not charge me what I am sure would be $1000.00+ for it?

I actually do keep recipes in a binder. I approve.

Keep bags handy…..

Organize by color….

Ah, more hooks. You can use hooks for all kinds of things apparently.

Oh. My. God. More hooks. For more things.

More hooks. More things.

Use shower clips to hang bags – while in the picture it seems to make a lot of sense and gives you a shelf below that the bags were originally on, it’s making a lot of assumptions about that fact that I wasn’t already using the rod for clothes prior and need that shelf space to now put things, like bags, on. Or you know…a seat, to put shoes on. Because I don’t already have a bed, chair, couch, etc. And I need to sit to put on my shoes.

Again, label shit. It’s helpful.

Shoes stored in drawers – ew! That would smell awful. Maybe that’s just my shoes.

Again with the laundry – now we’re sorting by person and then by color. Oh my god, the time. I’d enforce the “kids do your own laundry and good luck policy”. One shrunk pair of pants – they’ll learn.

This woman must have about 500 doors and 600 blank walls.

Let your kids dress themselves – builds confidence. That girl is at least 7. If she’s not dressing herself you have issues other than just confidence. And you can let kids make their own bed (if you have the patience to deal with a somewhat messily made bed for 6 months, whew, tough).  I feel that this would pair well with my have your kids do their own laundry plan. But I guess we can only trust kids with minimal stuff right now. And we can only deal with the stress of their poor choices one chore at a time.

Put your backpacks somewhere….

I can’t even get in to keepsakes and memories. I don’t even take pictures these days. But that baby teeth thing grossed me out.

Journal what your kids do and say. I am sorry, but what? Now I’ve got to follow my kid around with a pen and paper like they’re fucking Bill Cosby, Churchill and George Carlin all rolled in to one???

Pregnancy book? Yeah let’s monitor how fat and bloated I can look over the course of 9 months.

This woman thinks you have time and space for a book on fucking everything.

Her 2012 gift list seems both sad and upsetting. I feel a lot of people were disappointed that year.

Install outlets in handy places. Yes, would love to – but then I’d have to call, pay and take time off to have an electrician do that shit for me.

Again with the labels.

All right, I’m done for now and lunch is over. Looking forward to wine later. Enjoy!