I'm no politico (which I can only assume is Italian for "douchebag") but I can't help having an opinion on the current candidates for the Republican presidential nomination. Between the vague but catchy numerical plans to fix our economy and the endless debates, how can one not have an opinion? I am, after all, an opinionated woman. Again, my qualifications to determine the merit of one's political prowess are only slightly stronger than Donald Trump's. But I need to get this out because my television must be growing tired of me yelling, "Is this a fucking joke" at it.
And so, in no particular order, I opine on the motley crue currently vying to lead America (sorry Motley Crue!).
Herman Cain: I know very little about this man. My father worked with him decades ago; he was a franchisee for Burger King and my father did some contract consulting for Burger King. Now, I cannot judge him based on his behavior in that context. After all, no one can be expected to conduct himself rationally in a flame broiled environment.
Here's what I do know: I hate Godfather's Pizza. When I was a kid, there was a Godfather's Pizza near my house. Whenever I was forced to eat there, I was overwhelmed by sadness. Who wouldn't be sad while choking down the shittiest pizza in the entire world? I really don't know anything about his political qualifications. But if he plans to hold this country to the same sub-standards that he uses for pizza, he ain't gettin' my vote. Plus I am automatically suspect of any black man who wants to be a part of the Tea Party. I bet he skis, too.
Mitt Romney: Everyone is making a big deal about this guy. He's Mormon. He's boring. He looks as if he's made of shiny, taut plastic. He must spend a small fortune on pomade. Blah blah blah. No one seems to be bothered by the two things that seriously concern me about this guy.
He's a nervous laugher. We've all known these people; they smile and laugh at inappropriate times. It's a nervous habit. If he were just a normal guy not running for president, this wouldn't bother me. But I don't want my president to respond to the question, "How do you plan to address the the fact that an overwhelming number of US citizens cannot afford health care?" with a giggle.
I'd also like to know how we plan to defend ourselves against the fact that our president's name is Mitt. That alone leaves us open to any number of attacks. If a guy named Mitt told me he had a solution to the jobless rate, I would tell him to call me when the shuttle lands. However, if a guy named Mitt offered to pay for the party keg, that would feel just right.
Rick Perry: Rick Perry is angry. As his numbers have slipped, he has become more and more hostile. This should be a red flag, considering he will encounter any number of frustrating situations during his presidency. Urgency is one thing. Baby tantrum rage is quite another.
But my main issue with Rick Perry is his wife. I appreciate that wives and husbands of people running for office are going to defend their spouse. And I certainly don't mean to imply that Anita Thigpen Perry should stand motionless and silent next to her husband. But please....stop trying to garner sympathy for your husband because of how he's been attacked by the media and the other candidates. He's running for president. If he was just a guy going to Wal-Mart and the other shoppers suddenly began pointing out all his flaws, well, that would be sad. And weird. But like I told Britney Spears: if you want everyone to stop calling you trashy, stop going into gas station bathrooms barefoot.
Michele Bachmann: I'm a Minnesotan, which means I am very familiar with Michele, or, as I like to call her, Beelzebub. I actually have sympathy for old Beelz. Being a beard is hard. I played that role on a number of awkward occasions at various weddings and family reunions. But for God's sake, I didn't marry it! Rookie mistake, sweetie. Rookie mistake.
Recently, Michele (one "L" and that stands for "Lucifer", FYI) started shopping her latest bill, which would force women getting abortions to see an ultrasound picture of the fetus and hear the heartbeat before the procedure. You know what? I'm willing to sign off on it. But only if we can also create audio of what it does to someone's heart, mind and soul every time you and your squad of assholes condemn them for being who they are. That's a loud, ugly sound, Beelzebub, and God ain't nowhere in it. Also, I vote for an auditory study of what's happening in your husband's mind. I can't say for sure but I'm betting it's real danceable and has a heavy baseline.
Newt Gingrich: Seriously? I'm getting sleepy; what little energy I have left can't be wasted on this tool.
Rick Santorum: Someone recently said to me, "Your name reminds people of suffering." It's true; I was named after a city that was bombed to shreds in WWII. But at least my name doesn't remind people of this. But you have to give it to a guy who keeps on keepin' on even after his family name has been reduced to poop and lube. Many could not have come back from that. It looks like Rick won't be able to, either.
Ron Paul: Ron Paul wrote a book called The Revolution: A Manifesto. My ears perk up and bells and whistles go off when I hear certain words and phrases, like, "The more people you recruit, the more money you can make"; "vegan"; and "manifesto." Know who else has written a manifesto? Anders Behring Breivik, the guy who killed all those folks in Norway this past summer. Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Andy Warhol. The Unibomber. Clearly a manifesto is not something a sane person writes. Therefore, I do not believe Ron Paul to be playing with a full deck of cards.
There is nothing about any of this that is not delightful. I've heard a lot of people say that they are disappointed in Obama; that he has been soft on certain things; that he hasn't followed through on some of the things he promised during his campaign. He certainly hasn't done a flawless job and he's made a lot of mistakes. But long ago, when people were running their mouths on CNN, MSNBC, Fox "News", etc a mere 20 days after Obama began his term, about how he wasn't doing what he should be doing, I offered this: anyone who had taken office after GWB was basically being handed a giant pile of shit. Just a tin plate piled high with dung. Two wars, an economy in the toilet, more people than ever without affordable, quality health care, etc, etc, etc.
But this was no average Tupperware container packed with turds. These turds had been mixed with thousands of tiny shards of broken glass and we expected Obama to hand pick every single shard of glass out of a pile of deuces without a) cutting himself and b) getting any shit underneath his nails. These were the only measures of success.
But even if Obama had spent the last 3 years mooning the press and responding to every question with a cry of, "By the power of Greyskull: I have the power!" he would still be a more acceptable option compared to the clown car full of assholes the Republicans are putting forth as their best and brightest. The may as well have set a chicken on a podium at a press conference.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Don't stop to pee in Coeur d'Alene
The 45-60 minutes it takes one to drive through the Idaho panhandle should be executed with efficiency, a full tank of gas and an empty bladder. Do not be fooled by the stunning beauty of these mountain roads; the rule is, haul ass. If you lose your mind and stop the car, you will be surrounded by insane bigots and scarificed to Richard Butler, president of the Aryan Nation, which was headquartered in Hayden Lake, Idaho (a mere 8 miles off I-90 in the panhandle).
Now, I didn't come up with this on my own. Other people warned me of the certain death I would face unless I drove like hell. In 1994 I had to pee in Coeur d'Alene and got a taste of what they were talking about.
But I made that same trip, from Minnesota to Seattle, about ten days after 9/11. The experience was completely different. There was a sense of camaraderie; a gentleness of spirit, like wounds were healing. How pleasant.
Unfortunately it did not last. And for some, it was not pleasant at all. Yes, we were all brothers and sisters, unless we happened to be Muslim or of Middle Eastern descent. Those communities were terrorized in the days, weeks, months and years following 9/11.
Today, I know a lot of people are remembering the lives lost that day. They are quick to recall where they were, how they felt, what they did next, etc. But today, I'm remembering how far we have NOT come.
I'm angry today. I'm angry that so many people died. I'm angry that so many people will be forever deeply scarred by the things they witnessed and the terror they felt that day.
But I'm really angry that we seemed to have learned nothing. There are countless opinions about whether or not we're any safer from attacks; about the strength and preparedness of our military; about our ability to respond quickly and appropriately should this ever happen again. But we continue, seemingly unchecked, to treat each other like garbage, and to throw blame in all the wrong fucking directions.
The biggest tragedy of all, in my opinion, is that we didn't learn a goddamned thing from September 11, 2001. Cultural change is difficult, to say the least. We appear to have a very high learning curve. I wonder what it will take to change us. Or if we can change at all.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Everything is going to be ok
Hi Steph.
It's barely 6am on September 2, 2011, and I am awake. Which, on a normal Friday, would be fine. But I don't have to work today. I should be asleep, dreaming of puppies and rainbows. I never dream of such pleasant things but hey...it could happen.
Five years ago today, your father called to tell me you'd passed. I knew it was coming but that didn't make it any easier. I had to go to this asshole's birthday dinner and sit there, trying to make sense of the fact that people were still doing things like having birthday dinners when the world as I knew it had dramatically shifted. Of course, I drank my ass off. I wandered the streets of Uptown, blindly shitfaced, sobbing. I was so angry. Angry that you died, angry that I couldn't seem to handle it. Eventually, I passed out and spent the next day in bed, nursing a hangover.
I'm sure that's what you would have wanted.
You were so good, Stephanie. So funny, so smart. Such a delicate looking woman who was tough as shit. And I was such a fucking baby, using your death as an excuse to continue to act like a child, continue destroying my life. Life! I had life and you no longer did and there I was, pissing it away.
So many times over the past five years, when I've been in a state of hopelessness, deeply depressed and unable to find my way out...I've thought of you. I thought of you and I knew instantly that this is not what you would have wanted for me. I know you're watching over me, dude. I'm sure of it. More sure than I have ever been of anything.
The way you handled illness with such stunning grace and acceptance floored me. You never seemed angry or sad. I'm sure you were from time to time. But I remember being in the bathroom with you at The Red Dragon. We were there with friends and I was happy to have a few minutes alone with you. You stood looking in the mirror, fixing your hair, and you were the most calm I had ever seen you. Your enormous eyes were bright and a small, satisfied smile played on your lips.
You were at peace.
I think of that moment all the time. That incredible place of stillness in your heart and mind. I knew looking at your face in that moment that all you felt was love. That's how I imagine you are now. Probably without the mirror, and good fucking God, I pray you're not trapped in the bathroom at The Red Dragon, which is a fate worse then any hell I can imagine.
I know you're all around the people you love. And for me, you bring peace, grace, unconditional love and the very real feeling that everything is going to be ok.
I love you.
It's barely 6am on September 2, 2011, and I am awake. Which, on a normal Friday, would be fine. But I don't have to work today. I should be asleep, dreaming of puppies and rainbows. I never dream of such pleasant things but hey...it could happen.
Five years ago today, your father called to tell me you'd passed. I knew it was coming but that didn't make it any easier. I had to go to this asshole's birthday dinner and sit there, trying to make sense of the fact that people were still doing things like having birthday dinners when the world as I knew it had dramatically shifted. Of course, I drank my ass off. I wandered the streets of Uptown, blindly shitfaced, sobbing. I was so angry. Angry that you died, angry that I couldn't seem to handle it. Eventually, I passed out and spent the next day in bed, nursing a hangover.
I'm sure that's what you would have wanted.
You were so good, Stephanie. So funny, so smart. Such a delicate looking woman who was tough as shit. And I was such a fucking baby, using your death as an excuse to continue to act like a child, continue destroying my life. Life! I had life and you no longer did and there I was, pissing it away.
So many times over the past five years, when I've been in a state of hopelessness, deeply depressed and unable to find my way out...I've thought of you. I thought of you and I knew instantly that this is not what you would have wanted for me. I know you're watching over me, dude. I'm sure of it. More sure than I have ever been of anything.
The way you handled illness with such stunning grace and acceptance floored me. You never seemed angry or sad. I'm sure you were from time to time. But I remember being in the bathroom with you at The Red Dragon. We were there with friends and I was happy to have a few minutes alone with you. You stood looking in the mirror, fixing your hair, and you were the most calm I had ever seen you. Your enormous eyes were bright and a small, satisfied smile played on your lips.
You were at peace.
I think of that moment all the time. That incredible place of stillness in your heart and mind. I knew looking at your face in that moment that all you felt was love. That's how I imagine you are now. Probably without the mirror, and good fucking God, I pray you're not trapped in the bathroom at The Red Dragon, which is a fate worse then any hell I can imagine.
I know you're all around the people you love. And for me, you bring peace, grace, unconditional love and the very real feeling that everything is going to be ok.
I love you.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Sweet Valley High Ten Years Later: Like Eating a Bolonga Sandwich When You're 25
I’ve decided that occasionally, I am going to review ridiculous things. Like products that I buy off late night television and direct-to-video horror films. First up: Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.
I’d love to say that, as a child, I lost myself in the likes of Wuthering Heights and Pride & Prejudice. But that would be a big, fat lie. Instead, I got swept away in gossipy, vastly inappropriate junk food books; namely, the Sweet Valley High series.
I don’t know how it started. I was on my way with Judy Blume classics, like Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, Blubber and Deenie. And then, one day, I picked up a copy of Sweet Valley High and fell in love with it. It’s easy to understand why. These books are, on average, 150 pages, which meant you could read one in an afternoon. They were about nothing important; just filled with schlocka that allowed you to escape your crappy Midwestern life and indulge in the antics of the Wakefield sisters.
Give me a break. I was a fat nerdy kid in Minnesota. Why wouldn’t I be impressed with the likes of Sweet Valley, a magical place in Southern California filled with Fiat convertibles, boyfriends with motorcycles and parents who were seemingly never there to stop their children from being giant assholes. Who wouldn’t want to live there, if only for an afternoon?
Just in case you’re a terrorist and therefore unfamiliar with the Sweet Valley High series, let me give you a high-level overview: Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield are 16 year old twin sisters. Each twin is vastly different: Elizabeth is sweet, studious, responsible and ambitious; Jessica is scheming, petty, gossipy and hot-to-trot. They have friends named Enid, Lila, Winston and Bruce. Elizabeth has a boyfriend named Todd and Jessica dates everyone. The original series was written in the 80s, so things like wild parties, drinking, drugs and sex were off limits. If they wrote the series now, Jessica would likely be at the free clinic on a weekly basis and Elizabeth would be vying for an anchor position at Fox News.
Francine Pascal is always listed as the author of all Sweet Valley High books, as well as all the books in all the spin-off series: Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley University and The Unicorn Club. Yes, The Unicorn Club. I have no idea what this was about. I should mention that I have never read any of the spin-off series.
In truth, Francine Pascal is the head writer of a team of ghost writers, all of whom stick to a certain predetermined Sweet Valley formula for each book. In my mind, I picture an older, glamorous woman, a la Lauren Bacall, wearing a Chanel suit, sitting at the head of a giant table, barking commands at weary, defeated young writers who are happy to have a job but less-than-thrilled to be writing about the high school shenanigans of a couple of Aryan Nation look-alikes. I also imagine she has a little dog in her lap and always wears pearls.
I digress. The topic at hand is my review of Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later, a book released in early 2011 that catches up with Elizabeth, Jessica and the gang at age 28. You may be wondering, “Why in God’s name did you read that?” Well, technically, I didn’t. I listened to it. I’m a sucker for free trials and Audibles.com offered me two free book downloads to try their service. Digital books are fantastic on long road trips. I don’t plan on taking any long road trips any time soon but…it could happen. SVC is so far the only book I’ve downloaded.
I knew it would be bad. No…horrendously bad. Like deciding to have a bologna and cheese sandwich in your 20s because you loved them when you were 8. You take a bite and immediately ask yourself why you aren’t eating a nice maple ham or smoked turkey from Lunds. What did you ever find appealing about creepy suspect parts of a pig smushed together into a log and then sliced into floppy, moist pink circles? And then you throw the sandwich away and go out for sushi.
Truthfully, I have been intrigued by this book since I read a review of it in Entertainment Weekly. The reviewer warned me that it was baaaaad…but my curiosity was still there. So one Audibles download later, I was in the car, listening to Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.
The nice thing about listening to books is the warm, soothing sound of the professional voice reading them to you. January LaVoy, who is apparently on One Life to Live or All My Children or something, did an excellent job of voicing each character uniquely, including the men. She should also be commended for not stopping in the middle of taping and saying, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Or maybe she did; that’s the power of sound editing.
It is present day and Elizabeth Wakefield is living in New York City, writing for a publication called Stage Survey, which she constantly describes as “a Zagat-type guide to off-Broadway shows.” Immediately, we see that our normally gentle, loving Liz is troubled. Why is she troubled? Where is Todd, her basketball player boyfriend from high school? Where is Jessica?! How could she have left the marshmallow filled streets of sunny Sweet Valley for the cold, bleak hardness of Manhattan?
Because Todd left her for Jessica. What? Daaaaaaamn. That’s right; Todd Wilkins and Jessica Wakfield live together a town house in Sweet Valley, agonizing over how they’ve destroyed poor Elizabeth’s life. There is lots of crying and moaning and writhing about what they’ve done. So much so that I have no idea why they’re still together.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, seems to have a pretty amazing life: she’s a working journalist in New York City, which is what she always wanted to be. She has a one-bedroom apartment. One bedroom. In Manhattan. Considering that Show Survey is a freebie that homeless people wipe their bums with, I’d say Ned and Alice are footing the bill for their daughter’s high-falootin’ one bedroom Upper East Side digs. She even has a doorman and an elevator. Who needs Todd?!
The book centers around Jessica and Todd’s impending wedding and whether or not Elizabeth will forgive them and be Jessica’s maid of honor. I’m going to guess NO because who in the hell would do that? “Ok, I forgive you.” “Oh good! Will you be in the wedding when I marry your former boyfriend, who I started sleeping with five years ago behind your back?” “Go fuck yourself.”
The book provides us with flashbacks that uncover how Jessica and Todd’s betrayal came to fruition. Apparently, during their time at Sweet Valley University, Elizabeth was sick one evening and begged Jessica to go with Todd to a college party, which he refused to attend alone. I’m sorry, but what is this guy’s problem? Are you 5? Can you not go to a party without your girlfriend? Anyway, Jessica begrudgingly agrees, even though she and Todd cannot stand each other. For no reason I can determine, they end up sleeping together. Sure, there’s some sexual tension in the air and they’ve had a few dozen cocktails. So logic would step in here and say, “Ok, they had a drunken fling one night. It happens. Moving on.” But no; they begin a secret affair that mostly takes place in Todd’s car. Gross.
Then, while on vacation in Paris, Jessica meets and marries a dude named Reagan. Reagan is loaded and hot. He showers Jessica with jewelry, handbags, clothing, glamorous trips and a yacht, and all she has to do is look pretty and provide the occasional blow job. This is not enough for her, so she leaves Reagan and moves in with Elizabeth and Todd. She could have moved in with her parents down the street, but because Jessica Wakefield is apparently an antisocial sociopath, she moves in with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend, who she was buggering not long ago.
Reagan shows up in Sweet Valley and picks up on the fact that there is sexual tension between Todd and Jessica that has its own zip code, a fact Elizabeth seems to miss entirely. Perhaps it was all the grief surrounding the death of Winston Eggbert, who, in his 20s made a billion dollars in the “dot com boom” and became a super asshole who died alone in his McMansion. Reagan blows the lid off Toddgate and Elizabeth flees to New York.
8 months later, she is convinced to return to Sweet Valley for the 80th birthday of her “grandmommy.” Because she is a planner, Elizabeth brings a hot Irish bartender named Liam with her in an attempt to show Todd that Jessica is still the whore she was in high school. Liam is all over Jessica and Todd gets mad and a big old fight breaks out at Grandmommy’s birthday celebration at The Sweet Valley Golf Club. Liz returns to New York but not before blaming Liam for the whole mess, which makes zero sense.
Todd accuses Jessica of flirting and won’t speak to her, so she does what anyone in this situation would do: she leaves him. One fight and she’s gone. She shows up at Elizabeth’s in New York, thoroughly confusing the doorman, who has apparently never heard of identical twins. There is sobbing and embracing and all is forgiven. The end.
The fringe characters make an appearance throughout the book. Lila Fowler, Jessica’s snotty, rich bestie in high school, has married Ken Matthews, SVH’s star quarterback who is now a professional football player. They are separated due to Lila’s need to share her snatch with the neighborhood. Everyone thinks Lila and Steven Wakefield, the twins’ older brother, are doin’ it but surprise! Steven Wakefield is secretly GAY, which his wife, Cara Walker, is not aware of. Jessica busts Steven and his boyfriend Aaron and decides to tell Cara that Steven is a fan of the skin flute, further proving that she is a complete and total psycho. No redeeming qualities. None whatsoever.
Enid Rollins, Elizabeth’s former best friend, is a gynecologist who is dating a younger, hot guy who works at the mall. This causes people to mock her behind her back but I think it sounds awesome. I’d say that, out of everyone, she’s got the best deal. Caroline Pierce, Sweet Valley’s resident gossip, is up to her old tricks, despite being nearly bald after a battle with cancer. In one fantastic moment, Jessica snaps at Caroline, “You’re sick!” and then realizes that she really is sick. Seriously, I’m expecting Jessica to start murdering and dissecting small animals any time now.
And finally, Bruce Patman, the swanky “It” boy who drove a Porche all through high school with a license plate that read “1BRUCE1” has become Elizabeth’s best friend. She sat with him at the hospital while his father clung to life after an accident that killed his mother. And now, he realizes he loves her. Bruce ends up slipping her the hot beef injection and then accompanies her to Jessica and Todd’s wedding. Call me crazy but I always thought Bruce was gay. His name is Bruce and he drives a Porche. Missed opportunity, Francine.
So here’s why it sucks:
1. Jessica is so unlikable, you’re practically praying that her ex-husband Reagan murders her and tosses her over the side of his yacht, Dexter-style. She was always despicable but she seems to have reached new, ultraviolet levels of awful. She does things like outing her brother and his boyfriend, stealing her sister’s one true love, and being a total bitch to a woman with cancer and we’re supposed to feel sorry for her because Elizabeth won’t take her phone calls. She’s lucky Elizabeth and Steven don’t perform Nazi-era medical experiments on her without anesthesia.
2. Todd is sooooooooo lame. Why any two women would fight over this guy is totally beyond me. He’s closed off, super jealous, has no personality and there isn’t even a passage about his amazing sexual prowess or anything that would explain to me WHY he’s still a part of this story. He’s like a piece of furniture through most of the book. He does nothing except fulfill a perverted fantasy of fucking two chicks that look exactly alike.
3. Steven Wakefield’s Journey to Gaytown doesn’t even have a bisexual pit-stop. He’s married to Cara Walker and then runs into Aaron Dallas one day and BAM. They go back to Aaron’s place and Steven plays pitcher to his catcher. Whichever ghost writer did Steven’s storyline has apparently never even sat next to a gay man on a bus. It goes something like this: “Steven always had a lot of male friends. He also had several girlfriends and currently has a wife. The idea that he might be attracted to men has never, for one nano second, crossed his mind. Once, he looked at a fellow basketball player’s balls and sack in the locker room but felt nothing remarkable. Then he plowed Aaron Dallas. Aaron Dallas is an interior designer, which is a really popular job amongst gay men, I heard.” Yep, that’s about all we get regarding Steven’s sudden affinity for buttholes.
4. Elizabeth is clearly an alcoholic. Every move she makes that has any amount of balls only happens when she’s had 4 or 5 drinks. The rest of the time, she moves through her life like a zombie, completely gutted over her sister’s betrayal. She leaves old food on the kitchen table, eats chicken that’s been in her fridge for a week and blames everyone else for her misery. Also, she sleeps with randoms and cries after every orgasm. She cries after every orgasm. I’m not making this up. Someone else did.
5. All old rich people are completely insane and Francine Pascal is no exception. Apparently, in a fit of unleashed crazy, she commanded her team of writers to use the word “additionally” as many times and they could. I imagine she was proofing pages of copy and let loose howls of rage, ripping the pages to shreds, screaming, “MORE ‘ADDITIONALLY' GODDAMMIT! WHEN I SAY TO USE THE WORD ADDITIONALLY TO EXCESS, I FUCKING MEAN IT! YOU SONS OF BITCHES! BUY COPPER! BUY COPPER!”
In conclusion, this book is terrible. You should read something meaningful instead of reading this book. However, it is sort of fun, in the same way ding-dong-ditch is sort of fun. Additionally, I imagine in a few weeks time it’ll be found on the bargain table for about 50 cents. Then you should buy it.
I’d love to say that, as a child, I lost myself in the likes of Wuthering Heights and Pride & Prejudice. But that would be a big, fat lie. Instead, I got swept away in gossipy, vastly inappropriate junk food books; namely, the Sweet Valley High series.
I don’t know how it started. I was on my way with Judy Blume classics, like Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, Blubber and Deenie. And then, one day, I picked up a copy of Sweet Valley High and fell in love with it. It’s easy to understand why. These books are, on average, 150 pages, which meant you could read one in an afternoon. They were about nothing important; just filled with schlocka that allowed you to escape your crappy Midwestern life and indulge in the antics of the Wakefield sisters.
Give me a break. I was a fat nerdy kid in Minnesota. Why wouldn’t I be impressed with the likes of Sweet Valley, a magical place in Southern California filled with Fiat convertibles, boyfriends with motorcycles and parents who were seemingly never there to stop their children from being giant assholes. Who wouldn’t want to live there, if only for an afternoon?
Just in case you’re a terrorist and therefore unfamiliar with the Sweet Valley High series, let me give you a high-level overview: Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield are 16 year old twin sisters. Each twin is vastly different: Elizabeth is sweet, studious, responsible and ambitious; Jessica is scheming, petty, gossipy and hot-to-trot. They have friends named Enid, Lila, Winston and Bruce. Elizabeth has a boyfriend named Todd and Jessica dates everyone. The original series was written in the 80s, so things like wild parties, drinking, drugs and sex were off limits. If they wrote the series now, Jessica would likely be at the free clinic on a weekly basis and Elizabeth would be vying for an anchor position at Fox News.
Francine Pascal is always listed as the author of all Sweet Valley High books, as well as all the books in all the spin-off series: Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley University and The Unicorn Club. Yes, The Unicorn Club. I have no idea what this was about. I should mention that I have never read any of the spin-off series.
In truth, Francine Pascal is the head writer of a team of ghost writers, all of whom stick to a certain predetermined Sweet Valley formula for each book. In my mind, I picture an older, glamorous woman, a la Lauren Bacall, wearing a Chanel suit, sitting at the head of a giant table, barking commands at weary, defeated young writers who are happy to have a job but less-than-thrilled to be writing about the high school shenanigans of a couple of Aryan Nation look-alikes. I also imagine she has a little dog in her lap and always wears pearls.
I digress. The topic at hand is my review of Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later, a book released in early 2011 that catches up with Elizabeth, Jessica and the gang at age 28. You may be wondering, “Why in God’s name did you read that?” Well, technically, I didn’t. I listened to it. I’m a sucker for free trials and Audibles.com offered me two free book downloads to try their service. Digital books are fantastic on long road trips. I don’t plan on taking any long road trips any time soon but…it could happen. SVC is so far the only book I’ve downloaded.
I knew it would be bad. No…horrendously bad. Like deciding to have a bologna and cheese sandwich in your 20s because you loved them when you were 8. You take a bite and immediately ask yourself why you aren’t eating a nice maple ham or smoked turkey from Lunds. What did you ever find appealing about creepy suspect parts of a pig smushed together into a log and then sliced into floppy, moist pink circles? And then you throw the sandwich away and go out for sushi.
Truthfully, I have been intrigued by this book since I read a review of it in Entertainment Weekly. The reviewer warned me that it was baaaaad…but my curiosity was still there. So one Audibles download later, I was in the car, listening to Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later.
The nice thing about listening to books is the warm, soothing sound of the professional voice reading them to you. January LaVoy, who is apparently on One Life to Live or All My Children or something, did an excellent job of voicing each character uniquely, including the men. She should also be commended for not stopping in the middle of taping and saying, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Or maybe she did; that’s the power of sound editing.
It is present day and Elizabeth Wakefield is living in New York City, writing for a publication called Stage Survey, which she constantly describes as “a Zagat-type guide to off-Broadway shows.” Immediately, we see that our normally gentle, loving Liz is troubled. Why is she troubled? Where is Todd, her basketball player boyfriend from high school? Where is Jessica?! How could she have left the marshmallow filled streets of sunny Sweet Valley for the cold, bleak hardness of Manhattan?
Because Todd left her for Jessica. What? Daaaaaaamn. That’s right; Todd Wilkins and Jessica Wakfield live together a town house in Sweet Valley, agonizing over how they’ve destroyed poor Elizabeth’s life. There is lots of crying and moaning and writhing about what they’ve done. So much so that I have no idea why they’re still together.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, seems to have a pretty amazing life: she’s a working journalist in New York City, which is what she always wanted to be. She has a one-bedroom apartment. One bedroom. In Manhattan. Considering that Show Survey is a freebie that homeless people wipe their bums with, I’d say Ned and Alice are footing the bill for their daughter’s high-falootin’ one bedroom Upper East Side digs. She even has a doorman and an elevator. Who needs Todd?!
The book centers around Jessica and Todd’s impending wedding and whether or not Elizabeth will forgive them and be Jessica’s maid of honor. I’m going to guess NO because who in the hell would do that? “Ok, I forgive you.” “Oh good! Will you be in the wedding when I marry your former boyfriend, who I started sleeping with five years ago behind your back?” “Go fuck yourself.”
The book provides us with flashbacks that uncover how Jessica and Todd’s betrayal came to fruition. Apparently, during their time at Sweet Valley University, Elizabeth was sick one evening and begged Jessica to go with Todd to a college party, which he refused to attend alone. I’m sorry, but what is this guy’s problem? Are you 5? Can you not go to a party without your girlfriend? Anyway, Jessica begrudgingly agrees, even though she and Todd cannot stand each other. For no reason I can determine, they end up sleeping together. Sure, there’s some sexual tension in the air and they’ve had a few dozen cocktails. So logic would step in here and say, “Ok, they had a drunken fling one night. It happens. Moving on.” But no; they begin a secret affair that mostly takes place in Todd’s car. Gross.
Then, while on vacation in Paris, Jessica meets and marries a dude named Reagan. Reagan is loaded and hot. He showers Jessica with jewelry, handbags, clothing, glamorous trips and a yacht, and all she has to do is look pretty and provide the occasional blow job. This is not enough for her, so she leaves Reagan and moves in with Elizabeth and Todd. She could have moved in with her parents down the street, but because Jessica Wakefield is apparently an antisocial sociopath, she moves in with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend, who she was buggering not long ago.
Reagan shows up in Sweet Valley and picks up on the fact that there is sexual tension between Todd and Jessica that has its own zip code, a fact Elizabeth seems to miss entirely. Perhaps it was all the grief surrounding the death of Winston Eggbert, who, in his 20s made a billion dollars in the “dot com boom” and became a super asshole who died alone in his McMansion. Reagan blows the lid off Toddgate and Elizabeth flees to New York.
8 months later, she is convinced to return to Sweet Valley for the 80th birthday of her “grandmommy.” Because she is a planner, Elizabeth brings a hot Irish bartender named Liam with her in an attempt to show Todd that Jessica is still the whore she was in high school. Liam is all over Jessica and Todd gets mad and a big old fight breaks out at Grandmommy’s birthday celebration at The Sweet Valley Golf Club. Liz returns to New York but not before blaming Liam for the whole mess, which makes zero sense.
Todd accuses Jessica of flirting and won’t speak to her, so she does what anyone in this situation would do: she leaves him. One fight and she’s gone. She shows up at Elizabeth’s in New York, thoroughly confusing the doorman, who has apparently never heard of identical twins. There is sobbing and embracing and all is forgiven. The end.
The fringe characters make an appearance throughout the book. Lila Fowler, Jessica’s snotty, rich bestie in high school, has married Ken Matthews, SVH’s star quarterback who is now a professional football player. They are separated due to Lila’s need to share her snatch with the neighborhood. Everyone thinks Lila and Steven Wakefield, the twins’ older brother, are doin’ it but surprise! Steven Wakefield is secretly GAY, which his wife, Cara Walker, is not aware of. Jessica busts Steven and his boyfriend Aaron and decides to tell Cara that Steven is a fan of the skin flute, further proving that she is a complete and total psycho. No redeeming qualities. None whatsoever.
Enid Rollins, Elizabeth’s former best friend, is a gynecologist who is dating a younger, hot guy who works at the mall. This causes people to mock her behind her back but I think it sounds awesome. I’d say that, out of everyone, she’s got the best deal. Caroline Pierce, Sweet Valley’s resident gossip, is up to her old tricks, despite being nearly bald after a battle with cancer. In one fantastic moment, Jessica snaps at Caroline, “You’re sick!” and then realizes that she really is sick. Seriously, I’m expecting Jessica to start murdering and dissecting small animals any time now.
And finally, Bruce Patman, the swanky “It” boy who drove a Porche all through high school with a license plate that read “1BRUCE1” has become Elizabeth’s best friend. She sat with him at the hospital while his father clung to life after an accident that killed his mother. And now, he realizes he loves her. Bruce ends up slipping her the hot beef injection and then accompanies her to Jessica and Todd’s wedding. Call me crazy but I always thought Bruce was gay. His name is Bruce and he drives a Porche. Missed opportunity, Francine.
So here’s why it sucks:
1. Jessica is so unlikable, you’re practically praying that her ex-husband Reagan murders her and tosses her over the side of his yacht, Dexter-style. She was always despicable but she seems to have reached new, ultraviolet levels of awful. She does things like outing her brother and his boyfriend, stealing her sister’s one true love, and being a total bitch to a woman with cancer and we’re supposed to feel sorry for her because Elizabeth won’t take her phone calls. She’s lucky Elizabeth and Steven don’t perform Nazi-era medical experiments on her without anesthesia.
2. Todd is sooooooooo lame. Why any two women would fight over this guy is totally beyond me. He’s closed off, super jealous, has no personality and there isn’t even a passage about his amazing sexual prowess or anything that would explain to me WHY he’s still a part of this story. He’s like a piece of furniture through most of the book. He does nothing except fulfill a perverted fantasy of fucking two chicks that look exactly alike.
3. Steven Wakefield’s Journey to Gaytown doesn’t even have a bisexual pit-stop. He’s married to Cara Walker and then runs into Aaron Dallas one day and BAM. They go back to Aaron’s place and Steven plays pitcher to his catcher. Whichever ghost writer did Steven’s storyline has apparently never even sat next to a gay man on a bus. It goes something like this: “Steven always had a lot of male friends. He also had several girlfriends and currently has a wife. The idea that he might be attracted to men has never, for one nano second, crossed his mind. Once, he looked at a fellow basketball player’s balls and sack in the locker room but felt nothing remarkable. Then he plowed Aaron Dallas. Aaron Dallas is an interior designer, which is a really popular job amongst gay men, I heard.” Yep, that’s about all we get regarding Steven’s sudden affinity for buttholes.
4. Elizabeth is clearly an alcoholic. Every move she makes that has any amount of balls only happens when she’s had 4 or 5 drinks. The rest of the time, she moves through her life like a zombie, completely gutted over her sister’s betrayal. She leaves old food on the kitchen table, eats chicken that’s been in her fridge for a week and blames everyone else for her misery. Also, she sleeps with randoms and cries after every orgasm. She cries after every orgasm. I’m not making this up. Someone else did.
5. All old rich people are completely insane and Francine Pascal is no exception. Apparently, in a fit of unleashed crazy, she commanded her team of writers to use the word “additionally” as many times and they could. I imagine she was proofing pages of copy and let loose howls of rage, ripping the pages to shreds, screaming, “MORE ‘ADDITIONALLY' GODDAMMIT! WHEN I SAY TO USE THE WORD ADDITIONALLY TO EXCESS, I FUCKING MEAN IT! YOU SONS OF BITCHES! BUY COPPER! BUY COPPER!”
In conclusion, this book is terrible. You should read something meaningful instead of reading this book. However, it is sort of fun, in the same way ding-dong-ditch is sort of fun. Additionally, I imagine in a few weeks time it’ll be found on the bargain table for about 50 cents. Then you should buy it.
Monday, August 8, 2011
We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day
When I was a kid, I was a burgeoning alcoholic, desperate for attention. I could never have enough. I used to throw myself down the stairs so my mother would rush to my side and lavish me with concern, love and unconditional devotion.
And that is why I am nearly blind at age 35.
Not the stairs. Please; I was a kid, which means I was practically made of rubber and other bouncy material. An ass-over-tea kettle tumble down the stairs was a Saturday afternoon. No, my blindness came from my insatiable need for attention.
Here's how it works.
Remember all the tests you had to do when you were in elementary school? Blood pressure, hearing and vision. We all filed into the multipurpose room (which was used for a multitude of purposes) and made our way through the stations. You'd put the headphones on and raise the hand that corresponded with the ear in which you heard the beep. You'd have your blood pressure taken by a sadistic school nurse you were pretty sure was trying to cut off your arm using only her blood pressure cuff. You'd cover one eye and read the smallest line on the chart.
Incidentally, do they still do this? What was this all about, anyway? Were we a generation of children whose parents didn't take us to the doctor? My parents used to drop volumes of the encyclopedia on the kitchen floor to see if I was deaf because I talked so fucking loud. They also probably figured I would tell them if I couldn't see.
One year on We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day, I decided that my parents needed to show me a little bit more concern, dammit. I covered one eye and read the top line on the eye chart. The teacher manning this particular station looked at me with concern.
"Is that the smallest line you can read, Dresden?"
"Yes," I replied, with wide brown eyed innocence. She wrote something in my chart.
A few weeks later, I left school early with my mother for a real vision test with a doctor. My little legs swung off the edge of the creepy chair they make you sit in and the doctor talked to me like you'd talk to any 8 year old...who was an idiot.
"Ok, now, Dresden. What we're going to do is cover up your left eye with this little thingamajig here. When your left eye is covered, I want you to look at the chart out there--you see that chart on the wall? The one with all the letters. Ok, I want you to look at that chart and read the smallest letters you can see. Are you ready? Ok, now, I'm going to cover your eye. I want you to read the smallest letters you can see."
"K H O R."
It was the top line, the line with the biggest letters. Even in the darkened room, I could see the concerned look that passed between my mother and the doctor. He did the same thing with my right eye and this time, I read the line directly under the top line. You know, so they didn't think I was blind. Then the doctor put some drops in my eyes and gave me a pair of disposable sunglasses because those are eye exploding drops and if you look directly at the sun after they give them to you, you'll turn to dust in an eyesplosion.
Then one day, it happened. I went to get glasses. This was a big fucking deal. I couldn't see, so my parents were very concerned, which meant I got glasses. Naturally, like any good 8 year old girl, I picked out the pink plastic frames. As anyone who has gotten glasses for the first time knows, a new prescription is like putting two random round bottoms of drinking glasses over each eye. It's what I imagined dropping acid would be like: circusy and unbalanced.
Eventually, Dresden Getting Glasses wasn't a big deal and I was just another fat nerd. Then my sister--the bitch--had the nerve to have seriously crooked teeth and got braces. I begged my parents for braces but they said I didn't need them. Braces were even better than glasses; every time my sister got her braces tightened, she'd lay on the couch moaning and my mother would let her eat ice cream and NO ONE PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEE.
Now, AT 35, I'm fucking blind. I can't see shit. Without my glasses or contacts, anyone could easily take me prisoner. Justin Beiber could be standing right in front of my face telling me he's George Clinton and The Parliament Funkadelic and I'd be like, "Well...if you say so." Sometimes I wake up in the morning and don't put my glasses on right away and try to do something. I usually just end up knocking over everything in the room before I think, "Shit, where are my glasses?" I've taken my contacts out at night before knowing the exact location of my glasses and then flown into a full-blown panic because it's really hard to look for something when you can't see.
And all because I needed some attention. I should have stuck to throwing myself down the stairs.
For the next two weeks, I have to wear my glasses because I'm going into see Dr. Skywalker, who will determine if he can shave some layers off my eyeballs with his light saber and restore my sight. Even though I'm terrified of the process, I know I'll be happy when I can see. Or I'll be totally blind because he burned my retinas and drilled a laser hole in my iris. But then maybe they can do an eye transplant and I'll get the eyes of a serial killer and spend the rest of my life helping the police find the bodies of his victims. That would be cool.
And that is why I am nearly blind at age 35.
Not the stairs. Please; I was a kid, which means I was practically made of rubber and other bouncy material. An ass-over-tea kettle tumble down the stairs was a Saturday afternoon. No, my blindness came from my insatiable need for attention.
Here's how it works.
Remember all the tests you had to do when you were in elementary school? Blood pressure, hearing and vision. We all filed into the multipurpose room (which was used for a multitude of purposes) and made our way through the stations. You'd put the headphones on and raise the hand that corresponded with the ear in which you heard the beep. You'd have your blood pressure taken by a sadistic school nurse you were pretty sure was trying to cut off your arm using only her blood pressure cuff. You'd cover one eye and read the smallest line on the chart.
Incidentally, do they still do this? What was this all about, anyway? Were we a generation of children whose parents didn't take us to the doctor? My parents used to drop volumes of the encyclopedia on the kitchen floor to see if I was deaf because I talked so fucking loud. They also probably figured I would tell them if I couldn't see.
One year on We'll Determine if Your Kids Are Blind, Deaf or Hypertensive Day, I decided that my parents needed to show me a little bit more concern, dammit. I covered one eye and read the top line on the eye chart. The teacher manning this particular station looked at me with concern.
"Is that the smallest line you can read, Dresden?"
"Yes," I replied, with wide brown eyed innocence. She wrote something in my chart.
A few weeks later, I left school early with my mother for a real vision test with a doctor. My little legs swung off the edge of the creepy chair they make you sit in and the doctor talked to me like you'd talk to any 8 year old...who was an idiot.
"Ok, now, Dresden. What we're going to do is cover up your left eye with this little thingamajig here. When your left eye is covered, I want you to look at the chart out there--you see that chart on the wall? The one with all the letters. Ok, I want you to look at that chart and read the smallest letters you can see. Are you ready? Ok, now, I'm going to cover your eye. I want you to read the smallest letters you can see."
"K H O R."
It was the top line, the line with the biggest letters. Even in the darkened room, I could see the concerned look that passed between my mother and the doctor. He did the same thing with my right eye and this time, I read the line directly under the top line. You know, so they didn't think I was blind. Then the doctor put some drops in my eyes and gave me a pair of disposable sunglasses because those are eye exploding drops and if you look directly at the sun after they give them to you, you'll turn to dust in an eyesplosion.
Then one day, it happened. I went to get glasses. This was a big fucking deal. I couldn't see, so my parents were very concerned, which meant I got glasses. Naturally, like any good 8 year old girl, I picked out the pink plastic frames. As anyone who has gotten glasses for the first time knows, a new prescription is like putting two random round bottoms of drinking glasses over each eye. It's what I imagined dropping acid would be like: circusy and unbalanced.
Eventually, Dresden Getting Glasses wasn't a big deal and I was just another fat nerd. Then my sister--the bitch--had the nerve to have seriously crooked teeth and got braces. I begged my parents for braces but they said I didn't need them. Braces were even better than glasses; every time my sister got her braces tightened, she'd lay on the couch moaning and my mother would let her eat ice cream and NO ONE PAID ANY ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEE.
Now, AT 35, I'm fucking blind. I can't see shit. Without my glasses or contacts, anyone could easily take me prisoner. Justin Beiber could be standing right in front of my face telling me he's George Clinton and The Parliament Funkadelic and I'd be like, "Well...if you say so." Sometimes I wake up in the morning and don't put my glasses on right away and try to do something. I usually just end up knocking over everything in the room before I think, "Shit, where are my glasses?" I've taken my contacts out at night before knowing the exact location of my glasses and then flown into a full-blown panic because it's really hard to look for something when you can't see.
And all because I needed some attention. I should have stuck to throwing myself down the stairs.
For the next two weeks, I have to wear my glasses because I'm going into see Dr. Skywalker, who will determine if he can shave some layers off my eyeballs with his light saber and restore my sight. Even though I'm terrified of the process, I know I'll be happy when I can see. Or I'll be totally blind because he burned my retinas and drilled a laser hole in my iris. But then maybe they can do an eye transplant and I'll get the eyes of a serial killer and spend the rest of my life helping the police find the bodies of his victims. That would be cool.
Friday, June 24, 2011
I hope that you have girl babies and I hope they have terrible acne and get harassed by a little bitch named Allison.
If you were teased a lot in school (as I was), you will inevitably have weird, awkward moments as an adult with the people who made your life miserable as a child. You’ll be minding your own business in the produce section at Lunds when suddenly—
“Dresden? Dresden Jones? OH MY GOD, we went to ELEMENTARY SCHOOL together! How ARE you?”
If you’re anything like me, you will, at first, have no earthly idea who this person is. Then slowly, the recognition will start to wash over you. And while this person is chattering on and on about her job, her kids and “Hey, do you still talk to what’s-her-face,” you’ll be having a swell of dark, terrible memories about the girl who pantsed you in front of the whole lunch room in 5th grade.
Of course, you have your super fantastic fantasy reaction:
“Hey. Allison. Yeah, I’m just gonna stop you there and go ahead and remind you that you’re the stank ho who ruined my life when I was 11 years old. You may be wondering, how can she remember something that happened so long ago? Well, Allison, I’ll tell ya; because just like every other fucking kid in the world, I walked into the cafeteria with the hope that I could get my goddamned pizza burger with a side of French fries and sit my fat ass down with the 3 friends I had, have a lovely fucking time and go back to my business. But no. You decided that it would be hilarious to expose my pink floral panties to the entire 5th and 6th grade classes. And why did you do this? Because you were—and likely still are—an awful fucking person. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to purchase some goddamned arugula and pablano peppers in peace and not have to take a fucking trip down memory lane with your dumb ass. Also, I hope that you have girl babies and I hope they have terrible acne and get harassed by a little bitch named Allison.”
Yes. That is a reaction you have. In your head.
In reality, you stand there with a tense half smile on your face, nodding and wrestling with yourself. “God, get over it, Dresden. She was a kid, you were a kid. Yeah but…look at her, she looks like she’s still a big bitch. Oh my God, I don’t care that you have kids and work at an insurance company. What I would like to know is, why are you talking to me?! We were never friends!!!!”
I’d like to thank Al Gore and Mark Zuckerberg for making this dilemma ten thousand times worse. Because now, not only do I risk running into these assholes at the gas station; I also have to worry about them friend requesting me.
This horrendous girl who called me every single day the summer between 5th and 6th grade to tell me how fat I was keeps. Friend. Requesting. Me. I have denied her friend requests several times but we happen to have 3 mutual Facebook friends. Every time I comment on a mutual friend’s Facebook page (which isnt often), she takes this as an invitation to try again.
There are 3 paths I can take: the path of forgiving and forgetting, the path of silence or the path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey”.
The path of forgiving and forgetting means I accept her friend request and smile through as she “likes” things that I post. I turn it all over to The Big Guy and quietly move on with my life. Let’s face it—that just ain’t gonna happen. I’d like to be the picture of emotional health but I live in the real world part time and Dresden’s World the other part of the time.
The path of silence means I just keep ignoring her friend requests and chalk her persistence up to delusion. Or maybe she’ll stop. That would be cool.
The path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey” means I send her a carefully worded email about the fact that a) we were never friends and b) you were a stank ho. I’m paraphrasing, of course.
But more to the point, have you completely forgotten that entire 3 month period? At one point, my mother called her mother and they argued about it. Apparently, this child’s mother thought it was perfectly ok that her daughter was doing this. My hand to God, if I ever have a kid who bullies other kids, there will be hell to pay.
So I choose to send her a message about why I keep denying her friend requests. I’ll be gracious. For now.
“Dresden? Dresden Jones? OH MY GOD, we went to ELEMENTARY SCHOOL together! How ARE you?”
If you’re anything like me, you will, at first, have no earthly idea who this person is. Then slowly, the recognition will start to wash over you. And while this person is chattering on and on about her job, her kids and “Hey, do you still talk to what’s-her-face,” you’ll be having a swell of dark, terrible memories about the girl who pantsed you in front of the whole lunch room in 5th grade.
Of course, you have your super fantastic fantasy reaction:
“Hey. Allison. Yeah, I’m just gonna stop you there and go ahead and remind you that you’re the stank ho who ruined my life when I was 11 years old. You may be wondering, how can she remember something that happened so long ago? Well, Allison, I’ll tell ya; because just like every other fucking kid in the world, I walked into the cafeteria with the hope that I could get my goddamned pizza burger with a side of French fries and sit my fat ass down with the 3 friends I had, have a lovely fucking time and go back to my business. But no. You decided that it would be hilarious to expose my pink floral panties to the entire 5th and 6th grade classes. And why did you do this? Because you were—and likely still are—an awful fucking person. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to purchase some goddamned arugula and pablano peppers in peace and not have to take a fucking trip down memory lane with your dumb ass. Also, I hope that you have girl babies and I hope they have terrible acne and get harassed by a little bitch named Allison.”
Yes. That is a reaction you have. In your head.
In reality, you stand there with a tense half smile on your face, nodding and wrestling with yourself. “God, get over it, Dresden. She was a kid, you were a kid. Yeah but…look at her, she looks like she’s still a big bitch. Oh my God, I don’t care that you have kids and work at an insurance company. What I would like to know is, why are you talking to me?! We were never friends!!!!”
I’d like to thank Al Gore and Mark Zuckerberg for making this dilemma ten thousand times worse. Because now, not only do I risk running into these assholes at the gas station; I also have to worry about them friend requesting me.
This horrendous girl who called me every single day the summer between 5th and 6th grade to tell me how fat I was keeps. Friend. Requesting. Me. I have denied her friend requests several times but we happen to have 3 mutual Facebook friends. Every time I comment on a mutual friend’s Facebook page (which isnt often), she takes this as an invitation to try again.
There are 3 paths I can take: the path of forgiving and forgetting, the path of silence or the path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey”.
The path of forgiving and forgetting means I accept her friend request and smile through as she “likes” things that I post. I turn it all over to The Big Guy and quietly move on with my life. Let’s face it—that just ain’t gonna happen. I’d like to be the picture of emotional health but I live in the real world part time and Dresden’s World the other part of the time.
The path of silence means I just keep ignoring her friend requests and chalk her persistence up to delusion. Or maybe she’ll stop. That would be cool.
The path of “let me just lay this out for you, honey” means I send her a carefully worded email about the fact that a) we were never friends and b) you were a stank ho. I’m paraphrasing, of course.
But more to the point, have you completely forgotten that entire 3 month period? At one point, my mother called her mother and they argued about it. Apparently, this child’s mother thought it was perfectly ok that her daughter was doing this. My hand to God, if I ever have a kid who bullies other kids, there will be hell to pay.
So I choose to send her a message about why I keep denying her friend requests. I’ll be gracious. For now.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
When the zombie apocalypse happens, I hope I’m on your street.
This is how I hope it happens:
I’m taking a whimsical stroll in a part of town I never go walking in when suddenly; I happen to see a man eating a living human’s flesh like chicken.
“Holy shit!” I say. “What the hell….”
Chaos erupts. People are attacking from all sides, biting and groaning; their skin all gray and wrinkly; eyeballs milky white and void of intelligence. A woman runs screaming from her home as her undead husbands pursues, his mouth watering for her flesh (and not in a good way; that hasn’t happened in a long time, as the love died long ago). A toddler suddenly climbs off her tricycle, approaches her father and takes a large, juicy bite out of his hand. He screams and falls to the ground, twitching and gasping until, suddenly, he rises, all pale and drooly, and joins his daughter in her quest for the meat of the living.
I know what this is. It’s the motherfuckin’ zombie apocalypse.
I’ve been expecting this but what I had not planned on was this totally random stroll on a Sunday afternoon in this neighborhood I never, ever find myself in.
“Dresden!”
I hear my name shouted above the shrieks and bloody squishes and I turn to see you, so super hot, standing in the doorway of your home, waving me to safety.
I, of course, had no idea you even lived over here but I run through the sea of death-followed-by-reanimation straight into your front door. We quickly turn the locks and collapse against the door, breathless, terrified and a little bit turned on. Well. I mean, I might be….
“What the hell is happening?!” You ask me, your beautiful eyes wide with horror. You poor, muscular thing. You didn’t even have time to put a shirt on after your shower, did you? I get distracted by a little water on your chest but then snap back to reality.
“It’s the zombie apocalypse,” I say darkly.
Suddenly, there is slow and methodical pounding, accompanied by moaning at your front door.
“Don’t worry”, you say. “I have a basement that is made of steel and has steel enforced doors with super strong locks on them. There’s enough food to last 6 months, two separate bathrooms on opposite sides of very large basement, so, you know, do whatever you need to in there and I’ll never know, and a television that runs of batteries, which we have an endless supply of. Unfortunately for everyone else, there is only room enough for two people. I guess it’s you and me.”
We rush to the basement that seems to have been built for this exact situation, locking all doors. We try desperately to contact loved ones on our cell phones.
“My girlfriend…” you say with sadness. “She…she’s on vacation in Manhattan. Shopping trip. God, I hope she’s ok.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say and turn on the television. Katie Couric is reporting live from the top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan with the header “Crisis! The Zombie Apocalypse of 2011” scrolling across the screen. Remarkably, she is still smiling as she reports that 90% of Manhattan’s population has been eaten or zombified.
“It seems,” she shouts over the sounds of screaming, helicopters and blind, wild shooting, “that the undead had a particular lust for the flesh of tourists. I have just received confirmation that all those who were visiting Manhattan from other locations have been either killed or recruited into the massive, ever-growing zombie army.” The camera cuts to a group of female zombies wandering hungrily in front of H&M, amid discarded purchases.
“That’s my girlfriend!” You point at a zombie in skinny jeans, a threadbare blousy-blouse that accentuates her perfect undead breasts and ballet flats with cascading, gorgeous zombie hair.
No!” You shout as your girlfriend attacks and feasts upon the flesh of Al Roker, who obviously drew the short straw that day.
I approach you slowly and lay a gentle hand on your bare, well sculpted arm. “I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You retreat to the bathroom, slamming the door. I steel myself against the carnage unfolding in front of me and begin uncovering our resources.
You return from the bathroom, stone-faced and unfortunately having located a t-shirt. “We need to make a run for it. Head for the mall or something. Someplace safe.”
“Dude. This is the safest place on the planet. It’s a steel enforced basement. We need to stay put.”
We argue for a while and then I make us a nice dinner of roasted chicken breast, garlic whipped potatoes and a tomato salad. When night falls and we are both sleepy, it becomes painfully obvious that there is only one bed. Awkwardly, you stammer that you’ll sleep on the couch. But I awake to find myself in your arms. I scramble out of bed—what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?! You quickly explain that I was having a nightmare and you were simply trying to comfort me. I am suspicious but commence making us each a double espresso while you make me an omelet.
As the days go by, we become closer, sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings; having heated arguments over whether Goodfellas or The Departed was Scorsese’s best film; laughing as we watch Airplane! again; crying as we admit how much we both miss our families. I even listen as you tell me about your girlfriend—about the hopes and dreams you had for the two of you…the way she smiled…the fact that she listened to really horrible music but you loved her anyway. Eventually, you begin to do things like brush the hair out of my eyes. You don’t even have to ask how I want my coffee because you already know. Months have gone by and some days, we’re profoundly irritated with each other. You can be so stubborn and I’m rather bossy at times. You make me cry once or twice and beg for my forgiveness. You know that when I’m moody, it’s best to put on Heart’s Greatest Hits and let me sing for as long as I want to. I know you need your alone time, so I retreat to my bathroom, writing and listening to music (because there’s a couch in there) while you do your thing.
And then poof—we’re in love. It’s scary and exhilarating. There’s also the small matter of the fact that we may be the last two people alive. But we’re too happy to let that get us down. The television stations have been off for months but we check every morning anyway. One morning, a news anchor reports live from the ABC studios that the zombies have been eradicated! We rejoice, throwing our arms around each other. Soon, military personnel with heat seeking technology discover us in our amazing basement. Suddenly, as we’re being wheeled away on separate gurneys for thorough medical examinations, I begin to feel you slip away. Was our love real? Or was it just convenient? What happens now?
A doctor mentions to me that they’ve found a cure for the zombie affliction and some of those affected can be saved and returned to normal. It’s then that I hear you ask another doctor: “My girlfriend…she…was bitten at the start of all this….”
As they wheel me into my hospital room, I am enveloped by acceptance. I breathe deeply and tell myself that it took a goddamned zombie apocalypse for him to notice me; what did I expect? This was never real. This was never meant to last. I’ll go back to my life and he’ll go back to his. We’ll always have the basement.
I awake in the middle of the night to find you sitting next to my hospital bed, slumped over, and snoring softly. I say your name and you wake up.
“What…what are you doing here?” I whisper.
You look at me quizzically. “Where else would I be?”
And we live happily ever after, in a police state that’s been put in place under the theory that the zombie apocalypse was a terrorist attack facilitated by the media and “gotcha” journalism. But still…happy.
I’m taking a whimsical stroll in a part of town I never go walking in when suddenly; I happen to see a man eating a living human’s flesh like chicken.
“Holy shit!” I say. “What the hell….”
Chaos erupts. People are attacking from all sides, biting and groaning; their skin all gray and wrinkly; eyeballs milky white and void of intelligence. A woman runs screaming from her home as her undead husbands pursues, his mouth watering for her flesh (and not in a good way; that hasn’t happened in a long time, as the love died long ago). A toddler suddenly climbs off her tricycle, approaches her father and takes a large, juicy bite out of his hand. He screams and falls to the ground, twitching and gasping until, suddenly, he rises, all pale and drooly, and joins his daughter in her quest for the meat of the living.
I know what this is. It’s the motherfuckin’ zombie apocalypse.
I’ve been expecting this but what I had not planned on was this totally random stroll on a Sunday afternoon in this neighborhood I never, ever find myself in.
“Dresden!”
I hear my name shouted above the shrieks and bloody squishes and I turn to see you, so super hot, standing in the doorway of your home, waving me to safety.
I, of course, had no idea you even lived over here but I run through the sea of death-followed-by-reanimation straight into your front door. We quickly turn the locks and collapse against the door, breathless, terrified and a little bit turned on. Well. I mean, I might be….
“What the hell is happening?!” You ask me, your beautiful eyes wide with horror. You poor, muscular thing. You didn’t even have time to put a shirt on after your shower, did you? I get distracted by a little water on your chest but then snap back to reality.
“It’s the zombie apocalypse,” I say darkly.
Suddenly, there is slow and methodical pounding, accompanied by moaning at your front door.
“Don’t worry”, you say. “I have a basement that is made of steel and has steel enforced doors with super strong locks on them. There’s enough food to last 6 months, two separate bathrooms on opposite sides of very large basement, so, you know, do whatever you need to in there and I’ll never know, and a television that runs of batteries, which we have an endless supply of. Unfortunately for everyone else, there is only room enough for two people. I guess it’s you and me.”
We rush to the basement that seems to have been built for this exact situation, locking all doors. We try desperately to contact loved ones on our cell phones.
“My girlfriend…” you say with sadness. “She…she’s on vacation in Manhattan. Shopping trip. God, I hope she’s ok.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” I say and turn on the television. Katie Couric is reporting live from the top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan with the header “Crisis! The Zombie Apocalypse of 2011” scrolling across the screen. Remarkably, she is still smiling as she reports that 90% of Manhattan’s population has been eaten or zombified.
“It seems,” she shouts over the sounds of screaming, helicopters and blind, wild shooting, “that the undead had a particular lust for the flesh of tourists. I have just received confirmation that all those who were visiting Manhattan from other locations have been either killed or recruited into the massive, ever-growing zombie army.” The camera cuts to a group of female zombies wandering hungrily in front of H&M, amid discarded purchases.
“That’s my girlfriend!” You point at a zombie in skinny jeans, a threadbare blousy-blouse that accentuates her perfect undead breasts and ballet flats with cascading, gorgeous zombie hair.
No!” You shout as your girlfriend attacks and feasts upon the flesh of Al Roker, who obviously drew the short straw that day.
I approach you slowly and lay a gentle hand on your bare, well sculpted arm. “I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You retreat to the bathroom, slamming the door. I steel myself against the carnage unfolding in front of me and begin uncovering our resources.
You return from the bathroom, stone-faced and unfortunately having located a t-shirt. “We need to make a run for it. Head for the mall or something. Someplace safe.”
“Dude. This is the safest place on the planet. It’s a steel enforced basement. We need to stay put.”
We argue for a while and then I make us a nice dinner of roasted chicken breast, garlic whipped potatoes and a tomato salad. When night falls and we are both sleepy, it becomes painfully obvious that there is only one bed. Awkwardly, you stammer that you’ll sleep on the couch. But I awake to find myself in your arms. I scramble out of bed—what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?! You quickly explain that I was having a nightmare and you were simply trying to comfort me. I am suspicious but commence making us each a double espresso while you make me an omelet.
As the days go by, we become closer, sharing our innermost thoughts and feelings; having heated arguments over whether Goodfellas or The Departed was Scorsese’s best film; laughing as we watch Airplane! again; crying as we admit how much we both miss our families. I even listen as you tell me about your girlfriend—about the hopes and dreams you had for the two of you…the way she smiled…the fact that she listened to really horrible music but you loved her anyway. Eventually, you begin to do things like brush the hair out of my eyes. You don’t even have to ask how I want my coffee because you already know. Months have gone by and some days, we’re profoundly irritated with each other. You can be so stubborn and I’m rather bossy at times. You make me cry once or twice and beg for my forgiveness. You know that when I’m moody, it’s best to put on Heart’s Greatest Hits and let me sing for as long as I want to. I know you need your alone time, so I retreat to my bathroom, writing and listening to music (because there’s a couch in there) while you do your thing.
And then poof—we’re in love. It’s scary and exhilarating. There’s also the small matter of the fact that we may be the last two people alive. But we’re too happy to let that get us down. The television stations have been off for months but we check every morning anyway. One morning, a news anchor reports live from the ABC studios that the zombies have been eradicated! We rejoice, throwing our arms around each other. Soon, military personnel with heat seeking technology discover us in our amazing basement. Suddenly, as we’re being wheeled away on separate gurneys for thorough medical examinations, I begin to feel you slip away. Was our love real? Or was it just convenient? What happens now?
A doctor mentions to me that they’ve found a cure for the zombie affliction and some of those affected can be saved and returned to normal. It’s then that I hear you ask another doctor: “My girlfriend…she…was bitten at the start of all this….”
As they wheel me into my hospital room, I am enveloped by acceptance. I breathe deeply and tell myself that it took a goddamned zombie apocalypse for him to notice me; what did I expect? This was never real. This was never meant to last. I’ll go back to my life and he’ll go back to his. We’ll always have the basement.
I awake in the middle of the night to find you sitting next to my hospital bed, slumped over, and snoring softly. I say your name and you wake up.
“What…what are you doing here?” I whisper.
You look at me quizzically. “Where else would I be?”
And we live happily ever after, in a police state that’s been put in place under the theory that the zombie apocalypse was a terrorist attack facilitated by the media and “gotcha” journalism. But still…happy.
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