Tuesday, March 31, 2009


Last night Jeff and I crashed a party at the United Nations! Well, we were on the list thanks to my dad, but we acted like crashers. At the door I had no idea what the event was and just stammered something about Rosario Dawson, who was an honoree for her work with Voto Latino (I am such a starfucker. The event was, as it turned out, a dinner for the Epic Awards, held by the White House Project). We quickly stashed our coats and hit the bar!

We had never been inside the UN and it was ... weird. It looks like a high school, and not like a recently-renovated Stuyvesant kind of high school, like a trapped-in-time, awkward, outmoded Hunter kind of high school (I went there, so I know). It’s hardly the grand place you might expect the leaders of the world to use as a headquarters (and it’s nothing like the situation room from Dr. Strangelove—or the McDonald’s dollar menu commercials—like I imagined).

Here’s another weird thing: The portraits of the Secretaries-General (that hang on the wall of the first floor) aren’t paintings; they’re carpets. In frames. WTF? Apparently Jeff’s favorite Secretary General (come on, you know you have one!) is Dag Hammarskjöld, so we took a discreet iPhone photo with “the Hammar” (I just made that up, but I really hope that was his nickname. It shouldn’t go to waste.)

The actual dinner was pretty cool. Lily Ledbetter (of Obama’s recent Lily Ledbetter Equal Pay Act!) was there, as was gun-loving junior senator Kirsten Gillibrand (they smartly introduced Gillibrand and Lebetter together so no one would hiss). Ledbetter was not the most thrilling public speaker, but she had a cute Southern accent, so it evened out. Soledad O’Brien was also there ... her name makes me think of Sabor de Soledad from 30 Rock... mmmmmmmm fried cheese snacks. The name means “Taste of Loneliness.” If only they were real.

What was I saying? Rosario Dawson was there. Geena Davis introduced her! Geena Davis is tall. A lot of the other speakers made reference to her brief role as a TV president in Commander in Chief. They were trying to use it as an example of female empowerment, but seriously, that show was on for like three seconds. It’s like trying to hold up David Alan Grier’s Chocolate News as a giant step for black people. Mmmmm ... I love chocolate. Sorry, I’m distracted. I missed Gossip Girl last night and so I can’t read any of the recaps. And I didn’t wash my hair this morning and I think I may smell of the taxi we took home last night.

Also, I had to sign a contract that I wouldn’t blog during office hours (not just me ... everyone had to), so apologies in advance for the lack of posting during the day.

Friday, March 27, 2009

ShamWow man's act is a sham? Wow.

Oh noes! The ShamWow man (also known for his fine work in the Slap Chop infomercials) has been arrested for beating up a prostitute! (In his defense, she apparently tried to bite off his tongue.)

This is just like that episode of Growing Pains when Ben goes to get an autograph from his favorite rock star (played by Brad Pitt) and he turns out to be a huge dickhead and Ben learns the lesson that the higher up on a pedestal you put someone, the longer they have to fall.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

All in A Day's Sloth

I'm home sick today, and it took me until 4pm to even blog, which says something about my productivity.

Mostly I've just been watching TV and being mad that there's no new iTunes download available for my season pass to Real Housewives of New York City Season 2. I made myself a delicious PB&J for lunchfeast (I woke up around noon) and read Lost theories on the internet for a stupefying amount of time. Right now I'm considering taking a shower while I wait for the "No-Knead" bread I made from a recent NY Times recipe to rise. I know many of you are envious, but remember: it takes a lot of work to achieve this standard of living.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Some Things Are Inborn

Since I've been posting a lot about my willingness to eat anything regardless of how long it has been on the floor, I thought these photos (unearthed as I searched for unibrow pics to accompany my essay) were, um, interesting:

I am seen here as a baby actually trying to eat my own foot (click to enlarge. UPDATE: Do not enlarge. I am not, I repeat not wearing a diaper and the first pic is VERY unladylike). To my credit, I had the good sense to spit it out.

NYT: Fuck-It Buckets on the Rise

This "recession trend" article in today's Times tries to be very serious and journalistic about the fact that people are, perhaps, eating more candy than they used to, because sugar is a cheap and widely available drug.

I'm kind of dubious about this "trend" (although I do appreciate the shout-out to my favorite candy of all time in the headline); eating a lot of candy is not exactly new to Americans. And these people would surely still be spending their money on cocaine, not Necco wafers, if they still had jobs. And also, seriously, WHO EATS NECCO WAFERS? They are a candy FAIL. But I digress.

The main reason that this article leaves me cold is that it can all be boiled down to a quote from "You Can't Kill the Rooster," an essay by David Sedaris that can be found in Me Talk Pretty One Day, published in 2000. Sedaris's brother, Paul (aka "The Rooster") tries to cheer up their depressed father by bringing over what he calls a "Fuck-It Bucket." "Motherfucker," The Rooster advises, "When shit brings you down, just say 'Fuck it!' and eat yourself some motherfucking candy."

Monday, March 23, 2009

Injuries Sustained In Pursuit of Food: Vol. 1

I wasn't going to blog about this, as it is embarassing, but Jeff said I must, so here I am.

Last week, on Tuesday, a man came to restock my office's vending machine at the same time that I happened to be in the kitchen heating up soup. I have always wanted to witness a refill—candy is my weakness, and I am wont to stand before a vending machine with the same dreamy smile Audrey Hepburn sports as she gazes at diamonds in the window of Tiffany's.

Anyway, it was everything I dreamed and more: glistening red-orange bags of Doritos stretching back for a foot or more; bags of M&Ms stacked at jaunty angles. I was so entranced by the abundance of snacks that I neglected to see a large crate on the floor, which I promptly tripped over. I have a large bruise on my shin from the impact. Ironically, the crate was filled with candy.

Somewhat related:
Yesterday Jeff and I were cleaning the bedroom when he spied a strange object on the floor.
"What is that?" he asked. I picked it up.
"Popcorn!" I declared triumphantly, just as Jeff yelled "DO NOT put that in your mouth!"
"I wasn't going to," I said.
"I saw you," Jeff said. "You had the impulse. You had to think about it."
He was totally right, of course. I will eat anything. What is wrong with me?

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Lifestyles of the Rich and Recession-Proof

One of the bright sides to the recession, for me, is the occasional news story that pops up about a very rich person spending exhorbitant amounts of money. These stories are always a sort of public flogging, attempting to make the rich person seem callous and out of touch, but they just make me jealous, setting in motion an elaborate fantasy in which I imagine how I would spend my money if I were to become digustingly wealthy.

I think I would make a very good rich person. I don't like to work and I like to buy things (you'd think that this would be a given for everyone, but amazingly it is not). Most importantly, I have already developed a sparkling personality and would not be in danger of being ruined by money. Someone bequeath me their fortune!

Anyway, today NY Mag's Daily Intel is all over this woman, Marie Douglas-David, who is going through a divorce and who is claiming that she needs at least $53,826 a week to live on. As this sum is more than I make in a year, I was intrigued as to how I might—if the bequeathing thing works out—blow my entire salary in seven days.

A lot of Ms. Douglas-David's expenses are property maintenance-related, and there's a lot of beauty, clothing, personal training, and fine dining costs which are to be expected of someone who married a sexagenarian for a $43 million-dollar payout (which, by the way, she's arguing is not enough). The thing that stuck out the most to me was her phone bill (see below, and BTW this is just part A of a very long document). This woman pays $481 a week for a cell phone.

Seriously, that's $1,924 a month. What kind of plan does she have? An iPhone is, what, maybe a few hundred, tops? Does she get a gold-plated, diamond-studded model every week and then throw it away? Does she call 800 numbers and then just leave the thing open all day? Does ET actually live in her closet and does he phone home? Seriously, I can spend money like nobody's business, but this is ridiculous.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Kenley Has, Officially, Lost Her F**king Tulle

My feather-loving nemesis and everyone's favorite tugboat captain's delusional daughter, Kenley Collins (of Project Runway Season 5 and if you had to ask, then get thee to my previous posts!), has gone and gotten herself arrested for beating up her ex-fiance (side note: WTF?) with items including a laptop and an apple.

UPDATE: And a cat. An real, live cat!

Who says there's no good news out there?

When Like Goes Bad

Facebook recently added a feature that allows users to "like" various things posted by other users. This is taking communication even further out of the equation: You no longer have to make a comment about a photo or status update ... you can just give it a lazy thumbs-up.

They don't let you "dislike" anything, but some intrepid Facebookers have figured out how to use like as a weapon.

Say it with me now: Ouch.

Harem: The Forbidden Pant

So, I know all of my posts lately have been random rants about fashion and guerilla-style train crazies (and, really, those rants are the very essence of this blog) but it's hard to focus on anything else when I am constantly bombarded with emails like this one:

You'll have to enlarge it, but here's what it says: "Dear Una, how about some turn-of-the-century see-through bloomers to smarten up your summer style?" LOL. JK, it says "Meet this year's runway darling, the harem." (Which is just a fashion translation of the first sentence, btw.)

(I am banging my head against my desk right now, back in a moment.)

Ok: Harem pants. You know, I'm not mad. Because I see what you're doing, fashion. You think we won't notice that harem pants are just the next step in the romper/jumpsuit evolution, worn by people smart enough not to wear a garment that defies urination and yet who would like to look like asshats anyway.

Let's review:

What are harem pants?
Harem pants are a blight on humanity full style pant (Ed note: droopy drawer-style pant, also known as the "drop-crotch" [really]) from the Middle East that are gathered at both the waist and ankle with ballooning legs. In the late 1980's the rapper MC Hammer introduced a modified version of the harem pant called Parachute pants.

So, to recap, harem pants create the illusion of giant legs and a knee-height crotch, and have MC Hammer's seal of approval.

Who wears harem pants?
To wit:



Female college athletes circa 1908

Also, if this picture is any indication, men suffering from elephantitis of the testes.

Aren't harem pants just expensive bloomers?
Great question! Let's investigate:

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Granted, Exhibit B features a crotch hole for 19th-century bathroom needs, but barring that things are looking pretty similar.

Have you, Una, ever owned harem pants?
Well, gentle reader, it depends on the definition. For Christmas in the early 1990s, my mother gifted me with a fleece onesie pajama that we called, affectionately "The Sack." (image, I kid you not, from the Plow & Hearth catalogue)

From the waist down, it featured ballooning legs and tapered elastic ankles that restricted my movement so that I had to pivot from side to side in order to walk. The crotch was so low to the ground that I could have birthed a child in that thing without anyone knowing. The only difference I can see between The Sack and a harem pant is that I would wear The Sack in public.

Before I rest my case, consider that the word "harem" comes from the Arabic word ḥaram, which means 'forbidden place.' Consider yourselves warned.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Crazy Train

I had a really hard week this week at work, and by this afternoon my shoulder blades were pretty much in a permanent clench. Imagine my joy then, when, on the subway ride home, I stood next to a man who began—out of the blue—to make squawking birdlike noises and then proceeded to yell "MY VAGINA IS ON FIRE!" over and over.

You can tell I'm a New Yorker because the thing that bothers me most about this man is not his nonsensical screaming but the fact that he chose to conceal his freak show until halfway through the ride (by my earlier definition, you might say he was a Slow Burner). I know not to sit next to the obvious nuts ("the Bullseyes"), whose crazy is physically manifest in rolling eyes, lolling tongues, and hats made out of spatulas. But this dude was just standing by the doors in a brown trench coat, looking for all the world like an average guy, albeit one who—we would soon learn—had phantom, flaming labia.

Here's what I want to know: What sets them off? At one point does the dormant crazy decide to well up and exit through the mouth and limbs? And WHY, LORD, are they always sitting right next to me?

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Stop Trying to Make Jumpsuits Happen! They Are Not Going to Happen!

If I see one more magazine touting jumpsuits as a “must-have” for summer, I am seriously going to shit in my rompers. LOL, just kidding I don’t wear rompers because rompers are for toddlers and—in select cases—ironic underwear, and jumpsuits are just rompers with more fabric.

Lucky! Glamour! Style.com! Do we really have to go over this again?

Full disclosure: I had a jumpsuit once. It was purple corduroy with short sleeves and a zipper up the front. I remember I wore it at our house in Texas ... in 1986. I rocked that shit outright, but I didn’t try to dress it up like formal wear (ahem ... attention Cameron Diaz. I didn’t know Forever 21 made gas station attendant uniforms) and ... oh, what else? Oh, yes, I WAS 6. Seriously, jumpsuits make me so angry. They are a scourge on humanity, right up there with peep-toe booties.

I know I've made this point before, but there is something seriously wrong with your outfit if you must get completely naked in order to go to the bathroom.

Now stop it, fashion. STOP IT RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I'd prefer skorts at this point, I really would.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Face in Hole

Um, speaking of trolls, I discovered a fabulous website today—Face In Hole. It sounds suspect, but in fact it is the electronic equivalent of one of those carnival boards with the cutouts that you stick your mug into to become an old-timey bicyclist or strong man.

And check this out:

Create your own FACEinHOLE

Oh YEAH. (It's been a slow week.)

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Paging Mayor McCheese!

So I am late to the game on this, but apparently on Tuesday a woman called 911 THREE TIMES because McDonald's had run out of chicken McNuggets. A few things:

A) Is it wrong that I kind of understand this?
B) How does McDonalds run out of McNuggets?
C) No, seriously. If we can't count on McDonalds to have McNuggets, then the economic crisis is SO VERY MUCH WORSE than everyone thinks it is.
D) While searching for an image to accompany this story, I rediscovered the McNuggets figurines that I had as a child. Amazing! I had completely forgotten/blocked that out.
E) McNuggets figurines are still not as embarrassing as Troll dolls.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Unleashing My Inner Wayne

I'm not feeling very articulate today, so allow me to use sign language.


Monday, March 2, 2009

I Love You Because

I know, I know. I haven't blogged in over a week. I'm sorry. I had a lot of work to do and nothing that interesting to say. I'm not proud of it, but it happens sometimes. 

Probably the most exciting thing that happened to me last week was Jeff discovering my super-secret time-saving method of shuffling to the bedroom from the bathroom with my pants around my ankles. 

Let me explain.

If I'm about to go to bed and have to pee, I know I'm going to take my pants off anyway, so—being the lazy person I am—I figure, why pull the pants up only to pull them down again? So I scamper the 4 feet or so into the bedroom in a somewhat compromised state. Amazingly, Jeff has never seen this, and when he caught me on Saturday he burst out laughing.

"Do you love me anyway?" I asked, lurching towards him, my ankles chained together by rumpled denim.

Jeff looked at me, smiling. "I love you because," he said.

What can I say? Romance caught me with my pants down.

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