Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Berlin Photo Dump

My Berlin photos can be viewed here and here.

Jeff's are here.

The Long Way Home

Here’s a weird feeling: Waking up at 3:45am on a Sunday in Berlin and realizing that it’s not even 10pm on Saturday night back in New York.

Here’s a weirder feeling: Landing in Amsterdam at 7:30 am on a Sunday (or 1:30 am in new York) and wandering around aimlessly in the rain while prostitutes wave at you from dark windows at the same time that church bells are ringing.

(See my pics—all 6 of them!—here)

We boarded a flight bound for Detroit (yup, two hours past our final destination—gotta love free-quent flier miles) at 3 pm Netherlands time (9 am New York time) and settled in for a nine-hour ride. No sooner did the plane start to move that a toddler began to scream and wail at such a volume that the only reasonable explanation was that someone had set him on fire. When the screams continued for an additional 45 minutes, I had to accept that this was, sadly, not the case.

Speaking of which ....

Open letter to children on planes:

Dear Small Ones,

You may not be aware of this, but as cute and precocious as you may be on land, no one is excited to see you on their aircraft. There’s a stereotype associated with children traveling on planes. Stereotype means a belief that a lot of people hold about a certain group of people or type of person, like how all grown-ups think the Teletubbies are gay. That is an example of an unfair stereotype because everyone knows that while Tinky-Winky is out and proud, Po is solidly bisexual. Anyway, the stereotype about children on airplanes is that you make everyone else’s flight unpleasant by crying, screaming, kicking seats, running down the aisles, or vomiting. This stereotype is associated with all types of traveling children, but airplanes are a special case because there is no way out for the rest of us. The only possible method of escape would be to open the emergency exit, in which case we would have to take the entire plane down with us. And while that might satisfy our revenge fantasies in regards to you personally, it seems untoward to cause death and dismemberment to innocent bystanders onboard.

My plea to you is to stop playing into this stereotype. Don’t you want to be different? When you’re thirteen you will probably dye your hair funny colors and write lots of angry diary entries about how no one understands the unique and delicate being that you are. Why not start breaking the mold now? Why cry at a pitch that only dogs can hear when you could be quietly coloring? Why kick the seat when you could take a nap? If you’re not sleepy, why not ask mommy for a Benadryl? They are soooooo fun!

Another thing: please, if you hear another child crying, do not join in. That child is destined for a life of being silently loathed by fellow passengers. You don’t want to associate yourself with him. Just order another apple juice and revel in your superiority. I think you’ll find it’s much a more satisfying activity.

Smell you later,


It took a lot for me to write that letter, because normally I love babies. And infants I can generally forgive (although seriously, parents, shove something in its mouth. A nipple, a binkie, a sock, anything). But toddlers like the one on our flight are little minions of Satan. I know I’m a curmudgeon, but it takes two to make me want to kick a small child.

Our flight from Detroit to Laguardia also had a crying baby on board, but luckily for me I was too distracted by the gentleman seated to my right to notice. This young man appeared to have a nasty cold, but had neglected to bring tissues. He decided that instead of breathing through his mouth, he would prefer to take long, hearty sniffs every few seconds, just to hear the melodious sound of snot being sucked back into his nasal cavity. I thought he was sleeping with eyes open for awhile, but then he began reading a book. Before you judge me for hating him, please note that he was wearing a tight camouflage thermal shirt and tennis shoes without socks. Right?

We finally deplaned back in New York at 9:15 pm (3:15 am Berlin time) and waited dutifully for our luggage. An hour later, we learned that our bags had urgent business in Detroit and had missed our flight (they were last seen in the Tequileria sucking down frozen daquiris). We filled out forms to have them delivered the next day (don’t worry, K, your books made it home), waited in line for a cab, and finally stepped through our front door a mere 25 hours after we had left Kerry’s.

And that, lieblings, is the end of our European adventure .... until next time.

Pandemic-monium: A Note on Swine Flu

One of the other things I learned on German television last week, apart from the fact that German animals beginning with the letter S are extremely difficult to identify, was that the world was under attack by something called Swine Flu!

Now, I am generally a pretty scared citizen. I dread those biannual reports that inevitably pop up in the Science Times about how some meteor will maybe hit the Earth in thirty years and wipe out humanity. I am freaked out about global warming, and the fact that there is a fault line under New York that has been dormant for centuries but that could cause a massive earthquake and make all of our buildings fall down. Ever since I saw Boyz N The Hood in 1992 I have been afraid of drive-by shootings...even in Park Slope.

But somehow this Swine Flu thing strikes me as overkill. Maybe it’s the fact that every scientist they interview on TV is visibly excited about the possibility of a pandemic—and why shouldn’t they be? Their whole job is to be the first to correctly ID a virus as the next Black Plague, and so they get pretty slap-happy when people start dying. I remember when the dreaded Avian flu struck, and how that was probably going to wipe out the human race, but didn’t.

I’m not saying that the people shouldn’t be made aware of a virus that seems potentially threatening. I just think that in our current age of too much information, everything gets blown out of proportion to an astonishing degree. At the same time, in 2009 shouldn't we have a germ barrier more advanced than those little paper masks everyone is wearing? Doesn't my dentist wear that when he cleans my teeth? I know they make for creepy photos, but really now.

Despite my incredulity, rest assured that I am taking steps to be safe. Airborne dissolved in champagne is surprisingly delicious!

Note to Jeff: If I do die of Swine Flu, please log into my account and delete this post. Thanks, honey!

The Only Thing Missing Is The Real Housefraus of Berlin

There is much to write about our last day in Deutschland—I could go on about the colorful streets of Prenzlauerberg, our brunch by the Landwehrkanal, or our final open container beerfest on the cobblestone streets. Instead, I am going to tell you about German television.

Around 11 pm we got home from gorging on Tibetan food and lay on Kerry's bed. Kerry turned on her TV and I bore witness to one of the best viewing experiences of my life. The channels included:

-A lottery show in which callers had to guess animals beginning with the letter 'S'. In the sixty minutes we flipped back and forth to it, literally no one had guessed correctly. "If not enough people call in, sometimes she takes her top off," Kerry said of the comely host.

-Rock of Love 2 with German subtitles.

-An America's Funniest Home Videos-style show in which an oiled woman in a bathing suit fell off of the hood of a car and an overweight woman face-planted on a see-saw.

-According to Jim dubbed in German. Europeans have such funny taste.

-A free porn channel in which a woman in a business suit did an extraordinarily un-sexy dance and proceeded to disrobe.

That hour of TV, along with the existence of Germany's Next Top Model, makes me think I might really feel at home in Berlin.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Dispatch from Berlin: Parts 2, 3, and 4

Since last night was a somewhat betrunken post about douchebags and Germany's Next Top Model, I feel I must recap some of the actual, you know, culture and stuff I've consumed over the past few days.

Jeff and I headed out on our own in the morning so that Kerry could work on a paper. It was rainy, so we decided to hit some of the museums on Museum Insel, or "Museum Island." Germany doesn't have one "It" museum -- something you absolutely have to visit, like the Louvre or the Uffizi or the Met. Instead, it has a bunch of different museums, the sum of which is greater than its parts. Unfortunately each part costs about 5 Euro, so we chose just one place to visit -- the Deutsches Historisches Museum. It's called the German History Museum and it did not disappoint. The entire history of the country was condensed into one exhibit which takes about twenty minutes to see if, like me, you don't look at anything for more than 1.5 seconds. It's kind of like art aerobics: I never stop moving. It's not great for comprehension tests, but it works for me.

After the museum, we walked down Unter den Linden, a central street in Berlin's Mitte district. The skies had cleared, and we met up with Kerry for a trip to KaDeWe, which is sort of the Harrod's of Berlin. Kerry directed us straight up to the top floor, which was filled with every kind of food and drink you could imagine. Seemingly endless glass display cases housed hundreds of varieties of everything from chocolate to cheese to meats. We contemplated the pig esophagi (really) and fig-flavored vodkas over Milchkaffee and then went over to H&M to get Jeff a hoodie (the weather had turned chilly and he had left his jacket at home). Germany doesn't sell any men's clothes that aren't at least 50% fey, so Jeff ended up with a hoodie with little bits of flair on the shoulders. I immediately christened him "Euro Jeff." (To say it like a German, pronounce it oy-ro.)

We took a tour through a cute neighborhood called Schöneberg and then feasted on Turkish food at a place called Hasir. Our second night ended with a bottle of wine and, much to Jeff's dismay, season 4 of The L Word.

Kerry worked all day, so Jeff and I explored more of the city, bringing our horrible broken German along with us (I actually ordered a sandwich without using the word for 'sandwich'... skills!). We walked along the Landwehrkanal, back up to Unter den Linden, and into Berlin's old Jewish quarter which now resembles a much more laid-back SoHo. We investigated more of the Tiergarten, drank half-liters of beer, and then hopped the subway to the East Side Gallery, which is what's left of the Berlin Wall. We were surprised to find that it was being repainted white so that the "original artists" could re-do the graffiti they did back in 1989. Or something. Anyway, the scaffolding and whitewashing made the whole experience pretty underwhelming.

After picking up Kerry back at the apartment, we had a quick Vietnamese meal and then hurried home to catch "Germany's Next Top Model." Jeff, who was half in the bag by that point, opted to go and take some night photos of the city.

Kerry picked up some rolls so that we could experience a "German breakfast." Basically, the gist is to take a roll and put stuff on it. Cheese, jelly, butter, mayonnaise ... pretty much anything that you can put on a roll is fair game. Germany is yet another country that eats a lot of bread, cheese, and meat (not to mention all of that beer) and yet is not plagued by obesity like the U.S. I pondered this conundrum as I demolished what was essentially a cheese-and-cream-cheese sandwich.

We hopped on the U-Bahn to Alexanderplatz, where we caught the S-Bahn to Potsdam. Potsdam is home to Sans Souci, the palace of Frederick the Great, then-king of Prussia (as opposed to the now-king of Prussia which is no one, as Prussia no longer exists). The Germans think of Sans Souci as a rival of Versailles, and I think it's even lovelier. The grounds are vast and lush and everything is covered in gold leaf and I had an extended fantasy about being a princess flouncing about in a poufy gown and gnawing on turkey legs. But that's neither here nor there.

After spending a few hours exploring, we ventured out into Potsdam proper for Kaffee und Kuchen, or "coffee and cake." It turns out that I cannot pronounce the word Kuchen without sounding like I am coughing up a hairball, but the custom itself is fabulous. We sat in an open-air Austrian café and I had waffles with ice cream and strawberries and got drunk on too much sun. When Jeff pointed out that I had the dreaded "sunglasses tan," we got back on the train and rode back home, exhausted and full.

Jeff and I just got back from hanging out with real Germans (Kerry's friends). I think we did a good job of representing the mute sector of the American population. The only words I really know are "please," "thank you," "breakfast," and "super," but I managed to make those into at least four completely unintelligible sentences. I made Kerry teach me the German words to 99 Luftballons also but "You and I in a little toy shop" is a tough way to begin an exchange with a stranger. So I stuck to my super breakfast story. Remind me to tell it to you one of these days.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Sprechen Sie Douche?

Last night, drunk, Jeff and I determined the name of my book: Sprechen Sie Douche?: A Taxonomy of Douchebags.

I am watching Germany's Next Top Model right now, and it is awesome. They made the models put on giant prosthetic noses and puss-filled zits and then dress up like Sophia Loren!

I have actually spent most of my time outside, though. Yesterday and today we walked a ton. And drank a ton. I am not really fit to blog right now. But ich liebe dich! More soon....


Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Dispatch from Berlin: Part 1

Hallo from scenic Berlin! We have only been here for twenty-eight hours, and already I've had more beers than I can count (in metric, at least). It's almost one a.m. here and I am too tired to upload photos, but hopefully I will post some tomorrow.

Jeff and Kerry are here with me to help me recount some of our greatest hits of the first day and a half.

First off, Kerry had a copy of German In Touch waiting for me in our room, which shows Pamela Anderson's misshapen nipple on the cover. Is Europe great, or what?

Our first afternoon was spent along the Landwehrkanal, which runs through Kreuzberg, Kerry's neighborhood. I accidentally used a men's bathroom and Jeff intentionally used a shrub as a mensroom. There is no open container law in Germany, hence all of the peeing.

After several liters of beer, we climbed up to Kerry's roof deck, which she had never before visited, and looked out over a beautiful view of the skyline. Then we took a walk to the Oberbaumbrücke, a fancy castle-looking bridge ("It's Romanesque." —Jeff) that leads to the former East. When we finally got home, we instantly fell asleep.

This morning we visited a Turkish market near Kerry's apartment and then took a double-decker bus to Anhalter Bahnhof, the facade of a former train station. Then we walked to Potsdamer Platz, home to the Sony Center and "The Topography of Terror," a super depressing outdoor exhibit on the Gestapo. The fun continued with a tour of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (yes, the official name), followed by snacks at Brandenburger Tor (Brandenburg Gate).

We took a quick detour through Tiergarten, sort of like Berlin's Central Park, and then walked to the Siegessäule (the Victory Column), which costs only 2.50 Euro to climb 285 stairs (that works out to less than 1 cent per stair -- what a bargain!). The view from the top was great, but even better was the jumping photo that Jeff took of me and Kerry at the base of the column.

It was 6 or so by that point, which is like tea time in Germany but for beer instead of tea. We hit a Biergarten by the Spree River for refreshments.

As the sun began to set, we lined up outside the Reichstag, which is the German Parliament building and also home to a big glass dome that offers 360-degree views of the city. By that time we were pretty tired, so we hopped on the S-Bahn to Alexanderplatz, where we caught the U-Bahn to Moritzplatz. We had dinner at Max und Moritz, a very traditional Berliner restaurant. I had delicious goulash and Jeff had something roughly translated as "the Widow's Slaughter Platter," which involved three kinds of pork, sauerkraut, and potato.

We finally came home and Skyped with our friend Arcelie, her husband Evan, and their 11-day old baby. Then (now) I blogged (am blogging) but I had to (have to) stop because I needed to (need to) sleep right away (right now).

Gute Nacht!
LG (Liebe Grüße, which Kerry says means XO) Una (and Jeff and Kerry)

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Deutschland, Ho!

Jeff and I are off to Germany for a week! My friend Kerry, with whom we are staying in return for carting some of her heavy PhD books back to the States, has a computer, so hopefully I'll be able to blog from there.

I have been to Germany once, in 2000, to visit my college BFF Charlie, who was on a semester abroad in Regensburg. As soon as I landed, he and my friend Greg ordered me ein Maß (a liter of beer) and some kind of wurst with sauerkraut, and for the rest of the trip I was pretty much buzzed the whole time. Since Charlie is gay, we spent most of our days (when we weren't drinking, that is) visiting his sexy boyfriend Wolfgang or dancing at the Sudhaus, a local gay club (I actually wore that Betsey Johnson pink miniskirt there...nothing like a foreign gay bar to release your inner stripper). We took a day trip to Berlin, but mostly to try to find all the places that Lola ran in Run, Lola, Run (I don't think we found any). Then we went to a movie theater and watched Magnolia with German subtitles. (They served beer at the movie theater, naturally.) So I think it's safe to say that there's plenty of Berlin left for me to discover.

On our return trip, we have a six or seven-hour layover in Amsterdam, another city that I visited during that trip with Charlie, and also another city that I thoroughly neglected to properly explore due to my intense desire to get fucked up. Charlie and I spent roughly 24 hours in Amsterdam. We took the train, and on the way there came up with the brilliant idea that we would not book a room at a hotel or hostel and instead would stay up all night. Perhaps if cocaine had been our drug that plan would have worked, but as it was we walked from the train station into the nearest coffee shop (for the uninitiated, "coffee shop" is code in Amsterdam for places that sell marijuana and marijuana-laced baked goods) and proceeded to smoke a few joints. Walking through the red light district, Charlie became entranced by window signs advertising magic mushrooms, bought a bag, and spent the rest of the trip feeling as if, in his words, he was "being pulled into the center of the universe." I declined the mushrooms, as I had gone into a state of panic-induced sobriety. Charlie was my guide and translator, and I had become the only person in our party not hallucinating. I self-medicated with more pot, naturally.

At 4 am that morning, we found ourselves being forced out of a local club, as it was closing time. I had been sleeping on a banquette (so much for staying up; I am not physically capable of pulling all-nighters) and was fantasizing about hostel beds and a shower in much the same way that cartoon castaways dream about food and rescue. Charlie and I agreed that we were stupid and drunk and that we needed a place to sleep, but after an hour of wandering we couldn't find any vacancies. We settled on a bench by one of the canals and took turns dozing off until a policeman kicked us out an hour or so later. It was 6 am by that time, so we decided to walk around an wait until something opened.

During breakfast at a diner, I attempted to wash my face in the bathroom and banged my head so hard on the faucet that I drew blood. Charlie, feeling renewed after coffee and eggs, decided that before we board our return train we needed to buy a brick of hash for his friend Ben. Perhaps dizzy from my concussion, I agreed. Charlie procured the contraband and we bought a jar of Nutella from a grocery store. Back in the coffee shop, I allowed Charlie to go into the bathroom with the hash and the Nutella with the aim of burying the former inside the latter. He emerged twenty minutes later looking like he had just crawled his way out of a sewage pipe: his arms were covered to the elbows in brown goo. I realized then that I should never have let him eat that last mushroom.

At the train station, I unscrewed the jar of Nutella to find the brick of hash nestled an inch or so deep, fully visible.
"What were you doing in there?" I demanded. Charlie shrugged.

I refused to smuggle drugs across international borders and that was the end of that.*

And that, children, is how I spent my time in Europe back in the year 2000. Wish me luck that this will be a slightly more lucid trip.

*Ask me again when you're older.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Three Days of Stuff, Because I Am Lazy

Hi everybody! I'm 29 years and three days old now, and clearly I have night-blogging avoidance. Let me remedy.

Here are some things I have wanted to blog about since Monday:

My friend had a baby last week, and he is truly, objectively gorgeous. His name is Kingston. This is him:

Ahhhhh, the cuteness! I visited her last night and got to hold him. He is teensy. My uterus has been jonesing for a baby lately (my clock has been ticking since age four, when I would pretend to breastfeed my dolls), but luckily for Jeff, holding Kingston has tided me over for a bit.

Seriously, what? Since when are pirates bigger than terrorists? What's next, saloon brawls? Anyway, after seeing this headline, a friend wrote me, "They don't look like they could defend a pool table at the VFW hall..." HA.

(But also, awwww. Look at them!)

CNN, I just can't seem to quit you. I don't even read the links anymore, I just get angry. Right now what's pissing me off are headlines like these:
-Echevarría: Obama should ask Castro regime for concessions
-Brown: Obama breaks promise on posting legislation
You know, it's not even that I necessarily disagree with their views, but I am kind of sick of anchors and commentators telling Obama what he needs to do via the idiot Web. I learned a valuable lesson in the asphalt "playground" of P.S. 282, and it was this: IF YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY, SAY IT TO MY FACE. Are you president, Roland Martin? Oh, really? Then maybe you should shut the fuck up and stop making me stabby at work! Do NOT get me started on Ruben Navarette, Jr., because it will not be pleasant.

Dork alert! Now, in addition to your porn star name (I have the best one, Brassy St. Marks) you can have a psuedonym for reporting on NPR in somber tones. It goes like this: Take the first letter of your middle name and insert it anywhere you'd like into your first name, then add the name of the smallest foreign town you've visited. Voila!
This is NPR, National Public Radio. I'm Suna Moydans, thanks for listening.

Monday, April 13, 2009


It's my birthday, yall! Wooooo! And I'm at home for lunch so I'm not breaking my no day-blogging clause.

One way that I know I'm getting older (aside from the fact that Naturalizer footwear looks increasingly comfortable) is that I don't want to make a huge deal of my birthday anymore. I don't want to shove thirty of my closest acquaintances into a bar on a Saturday night or force an unlucky waiter to contend with eight loud, drunken women. It's not that I don't like a good party, but this year I just felt like keeping things low-key.

To that end, my present to myself (and to you) is the second edition of Go Fug Myself.

The scene: a rural home outside of Austin Texas
The year: 1985
The look: Punky Brewster after a few years spent in a dumpster

I look like one of the Manson children. Or at the very least, one of the Zappas. But check out how serious I am about the sidewalk chalk drawing. The others seem to be waiting with bated breath for my critique. What's that on my right nipple area, you ask? A puffy sticker. Oh, yeah.

Now, on to 1990/91 in the parking lot of my grandfather's old age home.

UNA: You wish you looked like me.
ZOE: Can it, bitch.
UNA: You wish you had high-waisted, acid-washed denim Capri pants.
ZOE: Actually I’m pretty sure I’m better off pantsless.
UNA: My two-piece looks like the Carvel ice cream logo. I RULE.
ZOE: You have one eyebrow and no belly-button. How does that work?
UNA: At least I’m not wearing bunny sneakers, halfpint.
ZOE: Um, I believe you belong in guest parking, hag. Read the sign.

Finally, I will share with you a particularly unforunate look from college.

I remember buying that skirt. It was Betsey Johnson, on sale for $20 at a vintage clothing store. I was in love with Betsey Johnson at the time, mostly because she was the only real designer whose clothes I'd even worn. I convinced myself that there would come a day when it would make sense to wear the skirt. That day came when I got sloshed on cheap vodka and decided to hit a kegger.

Even wearing that I never got laid until junior year, which says something. Also, note to former waify self: STOP DOING THE CHARLIE'S ANGELS POSE. You could not kick anyone's ass. I could snap your arm in half. Eat a sandwich.

(Also: close your mouth.)

I don't want to end by being a bitch to myself, as this is my birthday. So I'll end on a positive note:

Oh, strawberry two-piece with sensible sandals. I want to go to there. (P.S. Nice short shorts, Dad).

Also, check out the top photo on this post: My shirt matches my cake. I think it goes without saying that my skills are of the mad variety.

Have a blessed Una Birthday 2009. It is customary to have a celebratory cocktail at 11:52 am to celebrate the exact moment of my birth.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Why is This Blog Different From All Other Blogs?

Well look at me, neglecting my blog for a whole week. It was a very busy week though. I'm both Jewish and Catholic, so I had two nights of Passover (okay, on the first night I just helped my mom make gefilte fish and then I watched ANTM while eating leavened pizza crust and drinking non-kosher wine, but Tyra is kind of a God figure, and she most certainly inflicts plagues upon those models--they have had to pose both with pests and drenched in blood) and then Good Friday, which I celebrated by leaving work early to vacuum and work on my glutes. So you understand.

I'm actually on my way out yet again, first to watch my mom's fat cat get groomed (the cat is so fat that she cannot reach her back and thus has developed gray dreadlocks, and ordinarily I wouldn't want to watch them get shaved off but my mom found the groomer on Craigslist and is afraid that she might be psychotic. God help us if she is a psycho, because I have absolutely no upper body strength and the cat will be no help at all unless I use her as a projectile)and then to go to yet another seder. What can I say? I'm a busy girl.

More (with fewer parenthetical run-on sentences, I promise) tomorrow.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Fun with Crosswords VICTORY OVER CROSSWORD!!!!

Today, friends, is a glorious day. In one (two-plus hour) sitting, I completed the New York Times Sunday Magazine crossword puzzle all by myself—with no cheating—for the first time in my life.

I have finished the Sunday puzzle before, but usually over a span of many days, with help from Jeff (see Fun With Crosswords Parts One, II, Trois, and 4) or with the aid of "research" on the Internet. I started doing the weekend magazine crossword when I was an adolescent, begging my parents to let me fill in the easy clues before they touched it. After awhile I would manage a dozen or so clues on my own before I gave up (largely celebrity names, big surprise), but over the years I've slowly but steadily improved. And today—picture a single, silent tear rolling down by beaming cheek—today I fucking owned Will Shortz. Take that, sucka!

Photographic Proof (I am holding it far away on purpose so that you cannot ruin my victory with unhelpful comments that 'este' is not a word and so forth):

Yes, it is almost 4:30 and I am still in my bathrobe, but pay no attention to that. The important thing to remember here is that I RULE.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Honorable Mention

By the way, my sister's friend Kate has a great blog of lists called Honorable Mention which features contributions from both Zoe and my dad. And, now, from me.

Thursday Roundup

It sucks not being able to blog more regularly. Like today when I read about the casual embrace between Michelle Obama and Queen Elizabeth that the media desperately tried to turn into a story and I wanted—nay, needed—to share my tiny voice on the vast Internet with the reminder that George H.W. Bush THREW UP on the Japanese Prime Minister and his idiot son George W., apart from not being able to string a sentence together for eight full years, groped the German Chancellor, causing her to jump away, horrified.

A casual arm around the Queen’s shoulder after she has put her arm around your waist is NOT THE SAME THING. Sweet jeebus, people.

Or the fact that CNN has had up ALL DAY “breaking news” about how someone called Mr. Poopy Pants is terrorizing airline passenegers, but when you click on the link it’s just about how flying sucks (duhvsies) and how this one time? On a website? Someone called an elderly passenger who soiled himself “Mr. Poopy Pants.” There’s also a link titled “Top Republican Rips Reporter’s Hair,” which sounds awesome until you click and realize that he’s ripping it as in criticizing it, not ripping it out of her scalp with his bare hands (the Republican in question is John Boehner, by the way—how they let a boner joke get away is beyond me. I mean, they’re not above using poop to drum up traffic. Obviously).

Also, today I found a gray hair AND found myself thinking that this season’s Naturalizer shoes looked really comfortable and oh God please pass me a tequila shot and some 4-inch heels because I am OLD.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Self Portraits

My husband is stapling shut the mouth of a mannequin head. Should I be worried? It's part of a self-portrait project in which he has to take a "self-portrait" without him in it. Does this mean I emasculate him?

Me and Jeff:

If I had to do a self-portrait without me in it I think it would be a pile of Tootsie Rolls and tabloid magazines. What does that say?
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