Thank you for making me look so skinny. Your beautiful, mystical glass captures and contorts my image, turning me into mesmerizing vision of skinniness. Whenever I am feeling blue, or swollen from night of too many vodka sodas and Dominos, you’re there to look me in the belly and say,
“Tis not as bad as it seems.”
When I step off the scale, appalled at the number that glares below me, or desperately try to shove my lovely lady lumps into the highwaist jeans I purchased with little thought given to my love of fried chicken and brunch, I turn to you, and you sweetly whisper,
And when the rare day comes when you do not make me look so skinny, I appreciate your honesty, dear mirror. For I can trust that only you will let me know when I’ve indulged in too many cracklins at Heavy Woods or shoved too many Butter Lane cupcakes into my face. Mirror, you tell it to me true when it’s needed and tell me sweet lies the other days.
On Sunday I attended an intimate little show at a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend-of-a-bandmate’s INSANE LOFT APARTMENT in Bushwick. Honestly this place was what you imagined NYC apartments would be like before you moved here and realized you’d be sharing a cupboard with 6 rats and a Craigslist random who sends you livid emails chastising you for throwing away her 3-year-old oatmeal.
At this party one of the bandmates was telling us about a crazy person who had begun stalking him at the gospel church where he played on Sundays. Apparently this person prematurely fled the service that day and sent our new friend a text after saying, “Sorry I had to leave. I nearly died in a Pentecostal church once.”
Our friend then posed to the group, “How could you die in a Pentecostal church?”
To which Eliza and I blurted, “SO MANY WAYS.”
Starvation during a service where the HOLY SPIRIT kept things going far past supper time
Having a Bible thrown at your head
Choking on your tongue, what with all the speaking in tongues
In keeping with my theme of making shit up, today I invented snapbreaks.
A snapbreak is the thing of where you breakup with someone via Snapchat. I dreamed up this thing—and honestly I hope it is only a dream and not a thing that actual people do because come on, we are not savages—when I thought:
What is the 2013 equivalent of a breakup via post-it?
You’ll recall the 2003 Sex and the Cityepisode where the unsympathetic and put-upon Berger dumps Carrie by leaving her a post-it bearing the infuriating words, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
For Sex City fans, this episode always sends us into an Amy/Seth-style “REALLY?!” rant. And y’all, I think snapchats are the new post-it when it comes to shitty ways to breakup.
A snapbreak, like the post-it before it, is widely offensive, yet highly effective. It’s quick, mean, and to the point. You have a mere 1-10 seconds to process the reality that you are no longer booed-up before your snap disappears—much like your (probably terrible) relationship.
I mean what would you do if your boo-thing sent you one of these? I mean REALLY?!
Well probably just quickly move on and marry Mr. Big, right? I guess the good thing about snapbreaks is that they leave no evidence—no text messages to read through at night as you watch Blue Valentine and listen to Tegan & Sara. It’s a clean break. A snap, if you will.
Tomorrow I will attend the Veuve Cliquot Polo Classic, and I am about to get all Pretty Woman up in Liberty State Park. And much like my beloved prostitute protagonist, I too will need to play the part of someone who knows how to stomp a divot. So here are my tips and tricks for fitting in with people who have probably never accidentally eaten squirrel at a family reunion.
Fake a Charleston-style southern accent. It sounds like old money.
If anyone asks, “Hudson? Of the Hudson River Hudsons?” Say yes.
Do a millionaire laugh.
Don’t talk about money, but allude to being rich by mentioning things like summering or “the gardener” or “the club.”
Something something “East Egg.”
Overuse the word “tacky.”
AIR KISS EVERYONE.
Don’t throw up when rich old men say, “Oh the things I would do to you if I was young!” Instead say, “You are making me blush!” Or “You rascal!” Or “You are too much!”
Don’t acknowledge class in any way, shape, or form.
Do talk about plastic surgery, affairs, and alcoholism behind people’s backs. Basically, gossip real hard but under the guise of concern.
CHEEK KISS EVERYONE.
Act out of touch with poor people stuff, like shows on cable television. Additional poor people stuff: bottom shelf liquor, student loans.
And if all else fails, ask the nearest gentleman to fetch you another glass of champagne. Preface this with, “Be a darling, won’t you…”
New York City is home to a lot of poop. And a lot of people who fancy pooping in public. In my brief time here, I have been the victim of several shit-sightings. We’re talking folks mid-poop, in public, and often in a crowded space. Read on if you dare.
Vinyl, Chelsea - July 2010
Sarah Wright was visiting me while I interned here summer before my senior year of college. I insisted that we “brunch” because all the cool kids were doing it, so we went where my NFT app told me: Vinyl in Chelsea (which has subsequently closed, and frankly I think the following incident played a part in that).
We were happily enjoying a couple many mimosas at a prime window table, but as soon as our Monte Cristos arrived we saw a terrible thing. Directly across the street from us there was a homeless man squatting in full on poop position. We watched in terror as we both silently thought, “Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t…”
He did it. And he kept doing it.
This devolved into a 45-minute ordeal, where the man—pants off, wiener waving—rummaged through a trashcan to find something suitable to wipe with (he eventually settled on newspaper), wandered aimlessly around the trashcan, and maybe pooped once or twice more. Meanwhile a crowd had gathered in the restaurant to watch this spectacle. We were all particularly fascinated with how unphased all the passersby were. THERE IS A NAKED MAN WITH HIS NAKED PENIS POOPING NEXT TO YOU.
Eventually he was escorted away by the police, and brunch resumed. Though I’m not sure we were able to finish our Monte Cristos.
The L Train Stairway, Union Square - November 2012
One morning last fall, I was walking up the stairway off the L—the one where two sides of the stairs merge into one—with two thousand of my closest subway friends when it happened. As I ascended the stairs, I caught a glimpse of an all too familiar poop pose. I got dizzy as I flashed back to that afternoon in July, and again watched in horror as a man took his morning poo RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STAIRWELL.
From the looks of the newspaper he’d neatly spread out under his bottom, I assume this was a typical morning routine for him. We were intruding into his bathroom. And as with the incident at Vinyl, everyone was markedly unphased.
The L Train Platform, Lorimer Street - January 2013
This pee rather than poop sighting, but still warrants a story.
I was coming home at 2 AM from a very long babysitting gig, waiting on the L platform judging all the drunk hooligans that surrounded me. There is nothing, literally nothing, that will make you question your drinking habits more than a sober ride on the L train between the hours of 2-6 AM. SAVAGES.
Anyway, as I’m judging and waiting, I see one drunk young savage stumble to the platform wall where she clumsily proceeds to take off her pants—ALL THE WAY—and her panties—ALL THE WAY. My first thought was, “Oh great, she’s going to start having sex with that greasy boy she’s with.” But oh no. It was worse.
She pressed her BARE BOTTOM on the platform wall, which is scientifically proven to be filthiest place on earth and honestly I’m surprised her bum didn’t just rot off upon contact, and began to pee. But because of the alcohols, her aim was off, and everyone in a 6-foot radius was in danger of getting caught in the crossfire. When she was sufficiently relieved, she got dressed and resumed chatting with greasy boy, and by his nonchalant attitude, I can only assume this was just another Saturday night for the couple. Boozing and peeing. Boozing and peeing.
I should also note that at the time of the incident, the train was a mere TWO MINUTES away. Again, I say: SAVAGES.
Today I invented an acronym, kids. SDOA: Social Displays of Affection.
It’s the thing of where you have a boo (or would-be boo) and you openly boo-love all over the internets. We’ve got Vines; we’ve got tweets; we’ve got tagged FB pics; we’ve got so many instas you’d think all you ever do is brunch & boo.
SDOA is all about the @mentions—not DMs or FB chat or gchat. You wanna scream it from the platforms that you are in a boo-thing and probably eating a lot of good food and doing a lot of fun things and looking really friggin cute all the livelong day.
And before you ask, “relationship statuses” are not still a thing. Too vintage. So try-hard. SDOA is more like:
“Oh look at me being suuuuuuper casual with this bloody mary insta. Why did I tag, Brad? Umm because you can’t see because it’s a casual insta, but Brad & I are brunching and booing and drinking the shit out of these bloodys.”
And it’s all hearts and likes until the boo-thing is over. That’s when things get sad and awkward, and you’re like:
“Well great my Vine is now nothing but videos of my boo-no-more frolicking in the park and washing dishes and dancing at that cool party we went to and drinking bloodys at that spot we love. Guess I’d better find some cool stuff to Vine to fill this sad boo-shaped hole in my heart.”
And let’s ponder…
Are social displays of affection good? Bad? Annoying? Necessary to demonstrate your affection in our DIGITAL AGE?
Can you base an entire relationship on a shared love of bloody marys?
Do the lovers who brunch together stay together?
Should someone create a social platform where you can send all your old SDOAs to die when you’re no longer booed up?
BRB going to invent this now and become an internet millionaire.
Yesterday Sarah Head posed one of the most important questions I’ve heard in a long time:
“How many glasses of wine is appropriate to consume before a first date?”
After giving it some thought, I think I have the answer. Controlling for medication, tolerance, and general emotional stability, it really depends on where this date came from. Here’s my breakdown:
eHarmony, 0 glasses
The guy you’re going out with is likely 40, divorced, super-Christian, and a father of 3. He’s looking for wifey #2 (or #3—it’s the 90’s, Bill!), and if you show up feeling loose you might not be able to hide your terror when he mentions things like “joint custody,” “alimony,” and “Jesus.”
If you’re paying to be on Match, you’re serious. But not that serious. Chug a glass of Pinot Grig, search Twitter for something relevant to talk about, throw on some slutty heels, and go WERK that Match date, girl!
OKCupid, 2-4 glasses
You really have no idea what to expect with a NoWayStupid. And by “no idea,” I mean you can pretty much bet that he’ll be autistic and someone will make an outdated hipster joke and use the phrase “did you see that Buzzfeed post?” Yes, I did see that Buzzfeed post, 173 million people saw it today, and now that you mention it, I wasn’t so amused.
But because you had the foresight to dip into mama’s sippin sauce, you’ll laugh and make him feel relevant and probably end up agreeing to another date before cleverly escaping into a bodega to buy yogurts.
Post-One Night Stand Date, 1 glass
You were probably wasted when you met this guy because that’s how one night stands work. And if the best indicator of future behavior is past behavior, then all signs point to y’all will be getting wastey tonight. So no need to over indulge beforehand. You’ll be doing tequila shots at a nice mexican-fusion spot and tumbling into back into bed soon enough.
Real Life Date Where You Met a Boy IRL and He Asked You to Share a Meal with Him IRL, 2 glasses
I’m not sure this is even really a thing. Maybe in the “Midwest”? I don’t know. But if this happens to you, first make sure he’s not a serial killer or has a secret family in Florida or has plans to lock you in a basement for all eternity. GOOGLE THAT ISH. If he checks out, then have a couple glasses because this means you’re going on a real date, which is like discovering a unicorn, and you will need some liquid courage to avoid screwing this up. You will probably marry this man.