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DEN OF (EMOTIONALLY-STUNTED) THIEVES

DEN OF (EMOTIONALLY-STUNTED) THIEVES

For a certain period of time, this was the motto I chose to live my life by: In the grand scheme of things, this moment will not matter in the slightest.  Such a mindset was very helpful during years when I was almost chronically making all sorts of silly choices, like skipping Philosophy class because it started way too early (11:15AM) or lying to a boyfriend about where I’d spent the previous evening.  But even as those words swirled through my mind back then – even as I conditioned myself to believe that none of my actions could possibly really matter – a part of me was always very much aware that my rehearsed mantra was just a verbal defense mechanism meant to absolve me of the guilt I should have allowed myself to internalize. Had I felt those waves of shame, perhaps I would have made different – wiser – choices.

It was probably during the first semester of my senior year in college when that plastic bubble formed entirely out of Goldschlager and delusion finally burst. I was applying to graduate school and I couldn’t help but recognize that my cumulative GPA was lower than it should have been because of all the classes I’d skipped as a freshman back when I’d convinced myself that nothing could possibly matter in the long-run.  Though I was a Film major, it was the F that I ended up earning in Math during my first months of college when I was seventeen that ultimately prevented me from getting into NYU and I finally understood that some of the past actions I’d waved away so flippantly did impact the grand scheme of my life in the most miserable of ways.  The time had come; I had to do the adult thing and burn those ingrained words in some kind of cosmic mental bonfire.  And as the ashes of my prior mistakes wafted high into the nighttime sky, I chose a brand new motto for the next stage of my days: It’s all about the adventure.  Okay, so perhaps that one wasn’t the most mature of mottos either, but in my defense, I was twenty-one and living in Manhattan and officially single for the first time in four years and I needed the confidence to walk down those crowded streets and spend my nights ignoring the fact that I knew better.  That motto comforted me as I engaged in questionable dalliances with tattooed guys who rode motorcycles around Union Square while I hung off the back (always wearing a helmet; I was foolish but never stupid) and those words also helped me come to the moronic decision to defer graduate school so I could immerse myself in whatever I’d convinced myself was The Real World where I lasted for less than six months before crawling back to a campus because, adventure-seeking aside, I’ve just always done better in an environment where there’s a meal plan.

And then came a New Year’s Eve I spent in New Hampshire skiing with some friends.  Right at midnight, my best friend and I went outside and stood on the icy porch of the grand house we’d all rented and we screamed into a sky that was filled with vast darkness and zillions of silvery stars our most significant resolutions. Since I’d finally mastered the art of not swallowing gum, my main resolution and my brand new motto was to simply make better choices. I haven’t always honored that motto of mine, but at least I never let myself get away with the moments when I go backsliding in the way I would if my “grand scheme of things” mentality was still ruling my brain.  

The decision to continue to try to make better choices has sometimes been harder to stick to than I initially expected, but it’s allowed me to figure out some extremely important life lessons:

1.    Time itself is infinite.  Your own time, however, will always be fleeting.  Use your time carefully.  Tell the people you love how dear they are to you, even if you’re afraid.  Allow yourself to be vulnerable today because it’s always possible that you won’t have a tomorrow.
2.    Do not skimp on any of the following:  thread count of sheets (the low-count ones will literally cause chaffing); garbage bags (the cheap ones will break while you’re wearing something white that can only be dry cleaned); or face-cleansing instruments (for fuck’s sake, only trust the Clarisonic).  But if you choose to spend more than ten bucks on any sort of shampoo or conditioner, you’re a fool.
3.    If someone is truly batshit crazy, do not try to explain anything in a logical manner because batshit crazy people are allergic to logic.  And if you attempt to properly analyze a batshit crazy person for her own good to determine what exactly it was that so horribly damaged her in her formative years, maybe keep your eventual diagnosis to yourself because batshit crazy people who unironically say sentences like, “There’s no shame in my game,” after behaving shamefully view the truth with about as much joy as Superman views kryptonite or Warren Beatty views the PricewaterhouseCoopers employee who handed him the wrong envelope. 
4.    The next important piece of advice comes from Oprah who got it from Maya Angelou. Oprah and I have a great many things in common.  We both like to read and we both enjoy sitting in the woods and shrieking, “I love chips!” until every bird in the vicinity heads anywhere else, even if it’s not south.  But mostly what Oprah and I share is this belief coined by Angelou:  “When someone shows you who they are, believe them.”  Had I tattooed those words across my soul, I probably could have saved myself from some seriously shitty days so heed that advice, my friends. Then come join me in the forest where we can debate the merits of Ruffles vs. Pringles.
5.    Last but not least, part of making better choices is staying out of other peoples’ choices.  Since you cannot fix a relationship you’re not a part of, you should therefore maybe keep your mouth firmly clamped shut at certain moments.  To be clear, I’m not saying that anyone should ignore abuse they witness or stay mute during a conversation someone in the relationship beckons you into, but if you’re a raving lunatic like Kristen has proven herself to be – one who believes the root of all problems in all of her relationships are due to someone else’s infidelity instead of her own questionable sanity – maybe it would be best to not be the one to decide that the only thing Katie and Tom ever really fight about is that time he cheated on her two years ago.  It might also be best not to confront the groom-to-be while he’s dressed in drag and his wig sits askew on his head and he’s filled with more alcohol than oxygen and he’s spent the last several years just being a shell of a person because he’s slowly come to the realization that he’s stuck with this miserable girl and her psychopathic friends for the rest of his life.  I’m not saying Schwartz’s cheating wasn’t traumatic for Katie, but their problem – and their problem is clearly a very layered problem – is not one Kristen of all people can fix.  Stay out of romantic strife that’s not your own or you will be punished by spending your glory years living down the hall from a grown toddler still wearing a tiara on Celebrity Rehab because that’s the reality television equivalent of karma.

TRAVELING WITH DUMMIES

TRAVELING WITH DUMMIES

There's nothing that can fuck up a vacation more than a lack of compatibility amongst the people you're traveling with. You know what I mean. Like, sometimes you want to be at the bar until four in the morning because you've been talking to that scruffy guy who looks vaguely homeless but you know he's not because you caught a glimpse of his Prada boots and you've found out he's seen Springsteen play almost as many times as you have and he's been touching you lightly on the lower back for the last forty minutes in a way that doesn't make you want to shimmy out of your skin just so you can wash it in bleach and then the friend you're with announces that it's time for you to accompany her back to the hotel. (I'm just spitballing here, not recounting an actual experience with a friend who is now dead to me and one of the hottest men I've ever seen in real life. Also, hey Jason!) What I mean is that people who go on trips together have to be on the same page when it comes to how late they want to stay out and what it is they plan to do during the day and how you calling the entire closet while you’re still on the plane is totally fair. There must be some mutual respect that naturally exists or the vacation will turn into a miserable nightmare where you might consider doing something rash like flinging a friend off a cruise ship during a squall. (Again, that's just me writing fiction. I never once considered shoving a friend over a railing into the rough surf. Also, hey Jessica!)

 

So with the understanding that exists inside the mind of a rational adult that one should only vacation with people you're quite certain are not walking demonic entities, I can't really feel all that badly for any of the bullshit our Vanderpumpers find themselves in during their trip to New Orleans to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of two people who cannot stand the sight of one another. Look, it's bad enough when the bride and the groom stare daggers at each other over a breakfast of tequila and scrambled hatred, but the others along for whatever is the opposite of a hero's journey are also filled with barely disguised animosity. Think about it. On this one trip alone, the following enemies are expected to dine together...in public...on camera...in a place where there are knives:

Ariana and Kristen:  Though she’s pretending to be sort of lucid these days, let us not forget that Kristen spent an entire season imagining out loud how awesome it would be if Ariana got run over by a Mack truck. 

SUCH A DRAG

SUCH A DRAG

Much like any other person who went away to college and spent thousands upon thousands of dollars to sleep in cramped rooms with strangers, exist for months at a time on starch and seasoning packets alone, and broaden my burgeoning intellect, I learned many important life lessons during those four formative years:

 

·      When you live in a dorm, make sure you shower in flip-flops. There is perhaps no fungus on the planet with as much chutzpah as the fungus that lives between the tiles in a communal bathroom and since you will need your extra money to buy chicken wings and ramen, you really don’t want to have to waste your precious funds on spray cans of Tinactin.

·      No matter how beautifully your Big Sister decorated the bottle of cheap champagne she bought you with puffy paint and your sorority letters, that bottle of cheap champagne should still be viewed for exactly what it is:  a liquid demonic entity.  And should you guzzle it, you will be lying facedown in the bushes outside of Sig Ep in no time and it’s a pretty good bet that people have peed in those bushes, so not only will you lose your dignity, but your cheeks will be pressed against remnants of urine.  Instead, thank your Big Sister for the lovely bottle, swear that you will keep it atop your armoire forever, take a few sips of the fruity potent evil, and then spill out the rest when nobody is looking.  Your liver will thank you.

·      When Night You decides it makes total sense to set the alarm for 3:45AM so Morning You can get up and do some last minute studying, recognize immediately that Morning You has absolutely no intention of doing anything besides turning off that alarm and slipping back into a sleep that will then be riddled with hyper-colorful anxiety dreams about trying desperately to locate the room where the exam you haven’t adequately prepared for is being given.  (Seriously – I still have this dream and it’s always about my Evolution & Extinction class and it’s frankly insulting that my psyche has not evolved enough at this point for this particular dream to be fucking extinct.)

·      Don’t even bother learning the pretend astrological sign that correlates to your pretend date of birth on your pretend ID.  No bouncer will ask you that question as long as you’re wearing something low-cut.

·      Go to your professors’ office hours.  Not only is it far more difficult for them to fail you if they have some sort of connection with you, but some professors are worldly and fascinating and often quite funny and getting to know them will actually benefit you as a person – and I swear I’m not just saying that because my father was a professor and I’m a Freudian wet dream come true.

·      Get rid of that long-distance relationship as quickly as you can.  I loved my faraway boyfriend with my entire heart and I’ll easily acknowledge that my devotion to him probably kept me somewhat grounded, but you’ll have your entire life to be grounded.  Cut that guy loose and go dive into that sort of “good trouble” a certain Senator often advocates.  Your “good trouble” will probably not include a sit-in, but my guess is you’ll be lying down for part of it.

·      Make your peace now with the fact that for events like Halloween and Greek Week and some drunken random Tuesday, guys you know will show up at your door and ask to borrow bras and heels because someone once apparently told every single boy as he shot out of the womb that dressing like a girl is hilarious and all kinds of subversive.  Allow whatever guy who stands before your full-length mirror while trying to create the illusion of cleavage to enjoy himself, but for the love of all that is holy, do not lend him your good bras because he will stretch them out with the circumference of his back.  Also do not even bother to explain that dressing like a woman is not actually all that funny.  You’re up against a little thing here called patriarchy here, and to even try to understand why having tits is hysterical is a massive waste of time.  So just shove the guy into a bustier, tell him to curl his toes so he will walk better in heels, and then send him out the door and wave goodbye to that bustier because you’ll never want to put that thing next to your skin again.

 

College ended a long time ago, though much of it seems like yesterday, and it’s hard sometimes to fully remember all of the ridiculousness that bracketed the years I spent at an institution of higher learning.  But all of those lessons came rushing right back when I saw the preview for this week’s Vanderpump Rules episode, the one that included Schwartz dressing up like a woman for his bachelor party.  Listen, should Schwartz have some sort of sexual fetish bubbling up inside of him that causes him to feel turned on and blissfully tweaked and alive whenever he slides a thong between his ass cheeks, I have no problem with that.  Should Schwartz have a desire to dress in women’s clothing just so someone in his apartment looks stylish for more than a nanosecond, I don’t have a problem with that either.  What I do have a problem with is the juvenile notion still floating about a grown man’s head that a guy dressing up as a girl is just so sidesplittingly funny and, try as I might to be tolerant of their rampant stupidity, these Vanderpumpers are really starting to get on my nerves.

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER NINE -- HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOO!

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER NINE -- HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOO!

As soon as the ball drops, the resolutions begin. Bursting like fireworks, they appear list-style in my mind: BE NICER TO MY MOTHER; SCOOT MY ASS LOWER TO THE GROUND WHEN I'M DOING SQUATS; DESTROY THOSE WHO FUCK WITH ME IN WAYS THAT ARE BOTH INVENTIVE AND PERMANENT. It's just the standard list, but it makes me realize I'm about to embark on a very busy year, what with the knowledge that there's more than one person I need to destroy. But rather than feel anxious, I am instead comforted by a wave of unifying humanity. I know I am not alone in making grand plans. I'm quite certain the cast of Vanderpump Rules just made some important resolutions, too. 

I think it all went down like this: One by one, our Vanderpumpers gathered together in the last moments of 2016 in a spiritual temple Jax built with his own hands out of empty boxes of steroids. This behemoth was bound together with his melted down breast tissue and even though the temple still leaned alarmingly to the left since Jax can't do anything right including building religious monuments, everyone who entered the 8th Wonder of the World still knew immediately that they were in a very special place. As The Chosen Ones, they began by singing songs about how much more satisfying it is to live life while being followed by cameras, their lilting voices rising melodically into the darkening sky. James used his cheap little keyboard to keep the rhythm going and Lala only slipped out of the temple once to properly suck the dome of the Range Rover rep who selected her to again be the recipient of one of the hundreds of free trucks the company gives away annually. Since everyone in the temple hates her, nobody even noticed she was gone. 

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER EIGHT -- HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW?

THE VANDERPUMP RULES SAGA: CHAPTER EIGHT -- HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW?

On the night of Stassi's birth, all of the angels in the heavens gathered together every bit of sweetness and light they could find in the universe to form one perfect little girl – but then she left and we got Stassi. And tonight Stassi is multitasking like a champ, proving herself able to simultaneously pack a suitcase while plotting the destruction of whichever person’s name she picked out of a hat this week. Listen, I get why she hates Lala.  They have zero history together, Lala has been nasty to Katie, and – while all of these people are somewhat shady – Lala’s shadiness is so massive that you can’t actually make out colors when you’re in her presence.  (I feel terrible saying such mean things about Lala, but I think we’ll work it out after she offers to finger me.) Still, while I understand Stassi’s raging animosity in that scenario, I can’t quite get behind her burgeoning hatred towards Scheana.  Her immaturity has finally done the impossible:  it’s made me like Scheana – and now I’m concerned about what could happen next.  Allow me just to say this: if something transpires on this episode that causes me to type the sentence, “James is terribly misunderstood and he’s the finest artist of this or any other time,” I will have to stop recapping this show altogether because I will have blown up my television set. 

THE LONG DESPERATE CRAWL TO THE FINISH LINE

THE LONG DESPERATE CRAWL TO THE FINISH LINE

Full disclosure:  I hate recapping Reunion episodes of The Real Housewives of Fucking Wherever. Since that horrible day when some malevolent entity who works in the Programming department at Bravo decided there should be three Reunion installments, the entire process has become borderline interminable.  Besides, we know going in that the only thing that will transpire over three long hours of television will be three more long hours of the same exact misery that’s gone down all season long – and there still won’t be a proper resolution to any of it.   

As far as I’m concerned, there are only a couple of things this Reunion needs to cover in depth.  I could give a shit about seeing a segment about Heather moving from one ginormous house into an even more ginormous house and I also have zero interest in watching Meghan profess to the masses that her husband doesn’t hate her or the fetus growing inside of her.  And while I am amenable to a few onscreen moments of Tamra explaining exactly how she got herself that ass (I ate a lot of Halloween candy this year; I might need to listen to a woman tout the joys of consuming only massive amounts of protein and splurging every now and then on an unbuttered sweet potato), I don’t need a lot of other areas to be revisited.  In my opinion, only three things really need to be discussed by these enemies as they recline on tufted sofas with their iPhones shoved underneath a pillow just in case they have to whip it out real quick to ruin another woman’s life: 

RAMONA SMELLS LIKE GRAPEFRUIT & SHE WANTS SOME FUCKING EGGS

RAMONA SMELLS LIKE GRAPEFRUIT & SHE WANTS SOME FUCKING EGGS

Quick disclaimer: I haven't slept in about sixty hours. My sweet puppy got spayed yesterday morning because one experience of caring for a 6.4-pound Maltipoo in heat was more than enough for me to deal with in an entire lifetime. Those were some rough days, some peculiar days. I strapped extra-small diapers to the dog for six weeks straight. I learned how to pop her tail through the hole in the back so she would be more comfortable. I apologized every time I did it and told her how exciting it was that she was becoming a woman. Her response was to remove the diaper herself in the middle of the night and then place it on my pillow. Tallulah? She's sweet – but she's also as crafty as they come. Anyway, I was anxious about such a tiny thing having surgery so I was up all night on Monday and that waking misery continued straight through Tuesday night as my dog and her plastic-coned head struggled to get comfy without any success. This morning, I forgot to put a mug under my Keurig and coffee spilled freely across the countertop. Yesterday afternoon, I tripped up my steps. What I'm trying to say is that since walking up my own staircase feels incredibly complicated right now, there's also a chance that this recap might be all over the place. Should I, however, begin a paragraph by talking about how the Countess is just terribly misunderstood, please send help. 

Where last we left our Housewives, Jules was realizing once again that her husband is terrible, Dorinda was stirring some shit to earn a better spot on the Reunion couch, Ramona was sexually harassing one of the yacht’s crew members, Carole was counting backwards from seven trillion just so she could make it through the party, Luann was proclaiming to the moon and the stars that nothing could ruin her night, and Sonja was finally admitting to herself that it felt all kinds of yucky to watch her friend get engaged to a man with whom she too was once quite close.  Oh, and Bethenny?  She was lounging on the beach while holding text messages that are apparently so damning, Luann might end up hurling herself off that boat and swimming to shore while ruing the day she ever met Tom – but anyone who thinks Luann will actually admit her life is not perfect or that she’d believe some woman over her possibly-wealthy fiancé has not been paying attention to who Luann has clearly shown us she is over the last several seasons.

 

MRS. ROPER IS MAD AS HELL & SHE'S NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE

MRS. ROPER IS MAD AS HELL & SHE'S NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE

The thought came to me while I scrolled through my Twitter feed and saw all of the unironic cry-face emojis reacting to Theresa Giudice’s reunion with her square-shaped husband after spending some time in jail:  I’d make a really terrible Real Housewife.

To be fair, I did not watch Theresa’s triumphant return home because I’ve sworn off the Jersey ladies in much the same way I’ve also sworn off carbs.  As I see it, the only real difference between the two – both of which are terrible for you and leave you feeling sluggish – is that I still crave one of those things desperately, though I can promise and swear that the thing I miss did not create an offspring I’m fairly certain is from another species entirely.  What I’m trying to say (besides that I think little Milania will one day help to usher in the apocalypse) is that my reaction to hearing about this woman coming home was different than I think it was supposed to be.  I did not cheer her homecoming.  I did not pour myself a celebratory glass of Fabellini. I did not tear up and I did not tune in. 

I’m sure Theresa would say I don’t like her because I’m jealous.  Calling someone who hates you “jealous” is a very Housewives thing to do.  Over in New York City, Luann is all but making commemorative tees that proclaim how jealous everyone on the planet is of her joy and she will shoot those shirts from a cannon while she performs one of her hit songs at her upcoming wedding. It appears that you cannot be a Bravo Housewife and not wholeheartedly believe the root of someone’s discontent with you is always predicated by a hungry green-eyed monster.  It also appears you cannot earn a paycheck from the network without having to continually associate with the very people you can no longer stomach and you must do it while wearing a rather hideous jewel-toned cocktail dress.

Being on a reality show means you have to get dressed up and go hang out with people who plot against you like you’re all still in the eighth grade. You have to attend theme parties.  My standard answer to a probing question I don’t much feel like answering Yeah, I’m not talking about that – probably wouldn’t go over all that well at one of those parties and definitely would not fly at the Reunion. However, using the answer I employed the other day when speaking about someone I know well – She’s behaving this way because she’s an asshole – might very well get me a raise on one of these shows.  That line would probably be used in the coming attractions for the season, but it would be misleading because I’d never actually get into it with the asshole.  Assholes, you see, very rarely realize they’re assholes, even when provided with a color-coded flowchart that maps their asshole behavioral history. Not being on a reality show means I get to ignore assholes most of the time.  But if I were an OC Housewife, I’d have to endure that never-ending conversation (yet again) as the asshole before me mimes the crucifixion (yet again) while both of us wear the closest approximations of polyester chic we were able to locate so we can fit right in at the seventies party neither of us particularly wanted to attend in the first place.  It all just seems exhausting.

Speaking of total assholes who exhaust me, I look at Vicki Gunvalson and I cannot believe she has been on this show for eleven seasons and has seemingly learned so little about herself and rational human behavior in the process.  It also stuns me that she hasn’t started to dress differently or mastered a new way to shriek so every Schnauzer in the neighborhood will not begin to howl whenever she gets angry.  And it’s most difficult to believe that after going through a divorce and watching her friendships implode into a smoldering pit of ruins, she still doesn’t long for just the tiniest bit of privacy.

Vicki is the perfect Real Housewife because she never learns a blessed thing.

MIRRORS, GLASS, & ESCORTS

MIRRORS, GLASS, & ESCORTS

My sister watches Days of Our Lives.  I feel like I need to be clear here:  she didn’t just start watching Days of Our Lives and she didn’t used to watch Days of Our Lives.  No, she has consistently watched Days of Our Lives since high school and she is in her forties now and I don’t believe she’s missed even one single day of the show.  Her commitment could be seen as impressive were it not so terrifying.

I used to watch that show, too.  I was such a fan while I was in college that I would organize my class schedule so as not to miss a minute of the dastardly goings-on in Salem, which were often far more interesting than the generic chaos happening on campus on a random Thursday.  That said, even as a Film major who learned early the concept of willfully suspending disbelief, I had a limit when it came to the patently ridiculous and it was the storyline that centered on Stefano living in the depths of Marlena’s closet and sneaking into her bedroom to open her soul every night that finally pushed me over the proverbial ledge. I’d already accepted demonic possessions and new actors appearing as longstanding characters out of nowhere and pregnancy scares and swamp girls turning into princesses; I had to draw the fucking line somewhere.  

The show is moronic, I told my sister over the phone as gently as I could.  I’m breaking up with it and, if you have any dignity, you will cut it out of your life as well.

I was, after all, only trying to be supportive of a family member.

Leigh did not break up with Marlena or John or Patch or Sammy.  She stuck with them and I was able to make a tremendous amount of fun of her for years and years about the bullshit programming she embraced as entertainment.  Me?  I got into different shows like Lost and Breaking Bad and The Wire and Dexter – you know, quality programming.  I would talk about those shows with friends and acquaintances and new men I met at bars.  (Nothing makes a man more excited than a girl in a tank top talking about Dexter.  Actually, if my cleavage could project Caddyshack on a nearby wall, that might beat the Dexter thing, but I’ve yet to figure out the technology behind that little skill.)  But privately?  Well, that was a different story because I also found myself falling into a ditch where only reality shows played on a loop and, even though I probably could have crawled out of that ditch without too much trouble, I chose to stay there and I installed a DVR.  I began watching The Real Housewives of Fucking Everywhere and Survivor and Vanderpump Rules and one season of America’s Next Top Model, though I completely blame a friend for pulling me into that one.  I tuned in to the first few seasons of American Idol – and I even voted once, which is on my Top 10 list of Biggest Personal Humiliations.  (It ranks higher than the time my left boob popped out of my bikini top on a date and sat there bobbing on the surface of the water for at least five minutes before I realized what was happening.)  And I became (oh God, the shame) a fan of Big Brother and watched every episode of that show – and lest you not realize how humungous (and tragic) a revelation I am making here, please know that show airs three times a week during the summer.