Christmas Letters, Maybe I'll Write One

To my knowledge, my mother (and father) has never sent a Christmas letter.

They could, if they wanted. It would look something like this:

Captain graduated from X University in the May. Emily visited from Pacific Northwest for the festivities and took all of us winetasting in Virginia before she left.

Charlotte and Emily are happily married to their husbands.

Okay, it would look nothing like that. I can’t even finish the mock letter because it so quickly has descended into “These are the accomplishments of my children! Graduating and married life!” As if Winifred would write, “Now I am waiting anxiously for my daughters to bear me a brood of grandchildren.” BLECH.

Plied with enough wine I could do better, if anyone wants my services. I’ll stray from domestic events and focus on the events in your career and community. I’ll include how patriotic you were when you didn’t vote for John McCain.

Winifred doesn’t write Christmas letters because she doesn’t need for her children to compete against the morons Winifred knows. (Which is my way of saying, we really enjoy the letters we receive from our family, which does not contain a single moron. I especially enjoy Aunt Ina’s letters.)

And because we do not write letters, we only receive the good letters, sparing the face-to-palm action caused by the parents of morons. Morons like Michelle Bachmann, Republican Representative of Minnesota.

Before I continue, now seems like a great time to urge, beg, plead, and bargain with Minnesotans to vote her out of office. I know that Minnesota is full of bright, friendly, charming, and intelligent people. I expect those people to eradicate her career. Now.

Bachmann’s letter from 2003 has surfaced. She doesn’t drone on about anti-Americans. Instead she extols the feminine virtues of her daughters and makes it her mission to find her son a subservient woman. (Lady would change her mind if she saw Audition, don’t you think?)*

In short, Winifred would never do the following:

• Refer to her teenager as an “fantasy treasure” for the opposite gender


• Refer to any of her children as “Utter Perfection”


• Disclose the size of our bodies or clothes (unsurprisingly, Bachmann applies this only to her daughter)


• Refer to her kid as a “magnet” or “magnate” (this is listed as [sic] but I suspect Bachmann knows what she’s doing—wouldn’t it be fabulous if her son owned women? Her daughters are property, collectible like Monopoly tiles, I wouldn’t put it past her) for the opposite gender


• Patronize any of us as “organized,” a desireable attribute for the woman who will run day run her husband’s life, those silly men can’t organize their way out of a paper bag! To be fair, Emily is the only one with the life skills for organization. Charlotte and I don’t stand a change against her refined and mature skills. Apparently his hasn’t devastated Charlotte’s aptitude for marriage, though it did set back my family one goat.


• Announce our inadequacies in landing a man. If Winifred did, it would be a long letter this year, detailing the failings of her last remaining unwed single daughter.


• Relate her children to the participant of a harem. Nay a Boleyn here!
  

Future wives of Bachmann’s children, beware! You will clean up behind the slob, be expected to dance, often and well, have dinner on the table when he comes home, financially support him through medical school, and support him emotionally. Snap, this is where Daniel Abraham got it from! Fox News and Michelle Bachmann! Future husbands, you know what your ladies are being groomed for.

And, because I wasn’t born to Bachmann’s family, we’d never be able to announce that The King had opened some Christian-themed loony center, and Winifred would never brag about her cleaning habits. Of course, not only will Winifred never do any of this out of principle (we’re private people, except you know, the one on the Internet), but she’s too busy reading a book. Bachmann could benefit from a reading list, no?

*Charlotte, that was kind of for you.

OVERHEARD IDIOCY

I like to think that I am, occasionally, a practical person. Or at least operating with some minor level of common sense when I'm not a raving lunatic, and I think the best way to prove this is that I've managed to get by financially in part to a long, seemingly neverending string of on-campus jobs while I've been a college student. Generally these positions pay more than minimum wage (except for that stint working in the dormitories, where I was paid $1 less than minimum wage because former Governor jerkface Ehrlich said it was okay*), are easy ("Babysit these PCs for a few hours and do your homework!"), and enhance my qualifications (I know so much about the network!)

*When I find the news article backing this up I will post it, because I know no one but Winifred will believe me. If I hadn't been so militantly drug free I'd never have been able to purchase my theoretical and hypothetical underage booze! Never mind that what I did need was impossible to obtain. I AM CLEARLY STILL VERY UPSET.

The unfortunate side effect is dealing with mundane student-based conversations, which brought this delicious nugget from a female student in here early twenties, to her mass communications professor:

"The good thing about Family Studies--and the only thing goin' on--is why it's beneficial for the man to work and the woman to stay home. But I mean, it's all common sense."

Did I say delicious? I think I actually gagged out every internal organ. Oops. The professor, which until now, was my least favorite person in the entire world (after Bush, Cheney, Joe Simpson, Joe Francis, and the New York Yankees), rose through the ranks to People I Can At Least Pretend to Tolerate when he said, "Really that's what they teach you at Towson?" Prof. I Can Now Pretend to Tolerate teaches at another state university, where he presumable strikes fear into those students in addition to providing nightmarish scenarios where I am this close to graduating.
She confirmed, yeah, and duh, "It's all common sense! Of course the mother has babies and stays home! And the husband, he works. Because it makes sense."
At this point I was gasping for air, trying to pick up my now completely unhinged jaw from the floor, and struggling to find the words that would swiftly eviscerate the student without causing myself more mental strife.
Prof. I Can Now Pretend to Tolerate looked at me, looked at her, looked at me, and then looked at her and said, "Really. They tell you that? Huh. Well." Then he rolled his eyes, held his breath, got up, and walked away while the student's friend--a male, also enrolled in this backwards gen ed.--argued, "No, no, it's theory. I mean, they don't say we should..."
Then I sputtered all over Facebook, wherein I repeated this to Biscuit, who suffered through a class (which, for the record, did not share these nuggets of "truth" and "common sense" but was regrettably filled with 18-year-olds who swore, "I want to be a Moooooomy!") I voted that the school give me the power to revoke her previously earned credits until she reconsiders the entire reason she's here (to get an education, like, oh my gawd, that wasn't common sense?) Biscuit suggested, "I petition to revoke her LIFE."
Harsh, but I feel a little better.
This is, of course not the objective of women's studies, or my university. This downside would heavily outweigh the ability to continue on with my day, were it not for my access to the internet, and this, this video from The Daily Show. This clip now has powers that are two-fold. Before it just made me feel better that anyone would show cognizance to China's past. Because my peers? They only know that China has some good food and some factories. Right on! It's hard being the only one you know In the Know. Now I have this image of a nine-year-old hiyaaah!-ing into the classroom in the middle of this girl's speech about "common sense" and family rearing.



Do you think reading any number of SAHD blogs would totally blow her mind?

THURSDAY ROUND-UP, YEHAW

This is post #51 and Winifred has still failed to login herself and share these things with the web. Just sayin'. It's been a gender discriminatory two weeks, and I've been an aggressive monger this week. So have the other Quimbys, and my inbox is bursting with material to share.

Let's start with my most recent e-mail from Winifred. She wants us to check out wowowow.com and read Marlo Thomas and Julia Reed's responses to yesterday's Question of the Day (Should Silda Spitzer Stand By Her Man?)

wowOwow is a "website created, run and written by Lesley Stahl, Peggy Noonan, Liz Smith, Joni Evans, Mary Wells, Sheila Nevins, Joan Juliet Buck, Whoopi Goldberg, Julia Reed, Joan Ganz Cooney, Judith Martin, Candice Bergen, Lily Tomlin, Jane Wagner, and Marlo Thomas." It launched last Saturday. I'm not so keen on Whoopi but I'll hold my breath that this doesn't go downhill. I'm all for women on the internet, and hey guess what! I'll get to that next.

Here's what Marlo has to say:

It is her decision whether she wants to stand by him in the long run — but for God’s sake — why must these women have to stand next to them when they confess their sins?

I really didn’t mean it to be funny. I think it’s painful to see these women, time and time again be dragged out to these press conferences to stand there by their man. I’d think more of Spitzer and any man who refused to make his wife stand there in humiliation with him.

and Julia:

I can’t imagine Silda staying with her husband after so public a humiliation, but she wouldn’t be the first woman to do it. Just last July, when Louisiana Senator, David Vitter, was caught in almost the same situation, his wife — another attractive, highly intelligent, auburn-haired lawyer — stood with him by the press conference podium in a photo that looks exactly like the one today on the front page of the New York Times. So far, Wendy Vitter is still standing by her man and he is still in the Senate, but either of these women are made of far sterner stuff than I…or they are nuts. I still remember the awful stone face of Lee Hart in the wake of Donna Rice, and Silda’s face was heart-breaking. She was just so obviously thrown. As Candice said, Bill Clinton’s philandering did not come out of left field like this. And whatever bizarre pact the Clintons may have, Hillary has her reasons for sticking it out. I would have a far more difficult time, especially since these guys are not just unfaithful, but so arrogant. Gary Hart went so far as to challenge the press to follow him, and then he led them right to the monkey business. Did Eliott Spitzer honestly think he would never be outed as client number nine?

Okay, I lied. I can't hold back from wowOwow. I just. Can't. Do. It. The website includes a piece titled, "PRINCESS DIANA! Remember Her?"Liz Smith alleges, claims, and shouts that America has forgotten Princess Diana and that her former lover, Dr. Hasnat Khan, has gone unheard in American media ("And nobody stateside seems to have printed what this man said.") REALLY? BECAUSE EVERYWHERE I TURN HIS CLAIMS ARE REPEATED. Smith doesn't expound on The Pill (hopes dashed) but how we've "forgotten" Diana in the Democratic nominee goings-on and Spitzer scandal. Smith, I've got a tip for you: Turn on E! Check Google headlines. I promise you'll change your mind. What's your point, anyway, Smith? You've only regurgitated what Khan has said. And Khan's testimony was more than a week ago. Okay. Done now, really.

ABOUT THOSE INTERNETS

This season's issue of Bitch arrived in the mail this week and its theme is "THE WIRED ISSUE" (just in time for me to exasperate over dumbed down websites 'run by women for women') and details "blog bandits" among other tech-related stuff. Charlotte gave me a subscription last year, and it has brought me endless joy because the thing about Bitch is that it tends to arrive when I've found I can take no more from the masses. I find solace knowing that other women are as fed up as I am.
Yet issue #39's "Wack Attack" by Jaclyn Friedman addresses an issue I can't (and luckily haven't had to) relate to (yet). Addressing "blogging while female," gender bias on the internet, and the overwhelming amount of power handed to men in control of the internet, Friedman includes several resources for avoiding and supporting one's words on the internets, so I've added them to The Gospel's links. (And, oh yeah, we're part of BlogHer.)
...So I want to like wowOwow but it looks like it just won't work for me. It's not you, it's me, and I'm sure Winifred will have more she wants to share in the future.

BACK TO GENDER BIAS AND SCANDAL

First: The Vatican has released new sins. I love to sin, so I love to know that my inability to recycle in the apartment (bad habits die hard, I guess) or accept my college's graduation pledge (it's just not your business, degree dispersers) can add more sinful delight to my daily life. That was tongue-in-cheek. Honest. A thorough discussion has been shared by e-mail by the family, but I think Charlotte summarizes everyone's feelings accurately. She wrote, last night:

I have been considering the "new sins." As it turns out, this is just one guy's opinion and not actual policy, but it was telling nonetheless. I am encouraged by the emphasis on the effects of one's actions on others, but why are these specific sins mentioned? It seems that those who bear social responsibility are still disproportionately female.

I also think that it is insane to single out drug use as a sin in general, much less as a mortal sin. Do caffeine and Ritalin count? Was Frank McCourt's father sinning by indulging in alcohol, or was his sin the neglect of his family? Is it a sin to have a mental illness? Why aren't owners of gambling establishments, pimps, or sellers of alcohol mentioned instead? Is this really about targeting pleasure yet again?

I liked this from the BBC: "Father Gerald O'Collins, former professor of moral theology at the Papal University in Rome, and teacher of many of the Catholic Church's current top Cardinals and Bishops, welcomed the new catalogue of modern sins. 'I think the major point is that priests who are hearing confessions are not sufficiently attuned to some of the real evils in our world,' he told the BBC News website. 'They need to be more aware today of the social face of sin - the inequalities at the social level. They think of sin too much on an individual level. I think priests who hear confession should have a deeper sense of the violence and injustice of such problems - and the fact that people collaborate simply by doing nothing. One of the original deadly sins is sloth - disengagement and not getting involved,' Father O'Collins said."

I particularly like that this priest focused on priests' responsibilities toward their parishioners, who should, as Deacon Manley says, be exercising their consciences rather than obeying a catalogue of mortal and venial sins. It is absolutely time for an honest examination of the intersection of individual freedom (and moral agency) and social responsibility. I take comfort in the idea that there are at least two priests who care about the divide between rich and poor. I do wonder what the definition of "poverty" is -- vis a vis, say, Mother Teresa and her views. Is it still okay for nuns and mothers to be poor? Will the Vatican share some of its "excessive wealth" to feed those who heed its warnings against "bioethical" sin? Or are they still receiving "graces" in return for their suffering?

AND FINALLY BACK TO SPITZER

Charlotte used to live in New York. In fact, I've told people that she's "from New York" even though she was raised in the same house that Emily and I were. She's more devastated than I am, and I'm embroiled in my own drama, preventing me from really getting involved.

I am so disgusted by Spitzer. I had been telling people how great he was for years. What a load of CRAP about testosterone. The problem here is not hormonal. It is entitlement to women as products -- as of today's tawdry revelations, we know that he saw them as products whose lives were of no import to him. Clearly the feds are lying about how they caught him, but he knew that there were incredibly powerful people after him -- including "Tammany" Joe Bruno and the entire Bush administration -- and he goes to the Mayflower?? Ugh. I would like to know when we can expect David Vitter's resignation as well.

Also -- Geraldine Ferraro cannot really be that clueless. Why is she making things worse??
Why, Geraldine, why?

Winifred is disappointed that he had to "import" women from DC. (If Winifred had to pick a home-away-from-North Dakota, she'd pick the District.) I've called her three times today about this post, and forgotten each time to ask what she thinks about Dragging These Women Through the Mud with him. So I'll go out on a limb and assume. (Deep breath.) It's not really our business, and while I think it's important to cover every corner of a story, I don't think it was in the best interest of my campus newspaper to report about Spitzer's clients, and I don't think it's anyone's business what these women look like, what they do, how old they are, and what their myspaces say. He did something illegal. They did too, but prostitution isn't really a woman's career goal and maybe it's better to help women then lambaste them for their choices. BUT MAYBE THAT'S JUST ME.

MY DRAMA
Is coming later. It's good. I promise. Charlotte said I had to share, and I typically do whatever she says.

You're Kidding Me, Right?

I want to preface the following dialogue by letting you know that I'm at work, in a computer lab, until 2:45ish, and that the vending machine, which is stocked with all kinds of goods (pizza flavored Combos, for one) and is not working. So I went to a building nearby, which houses the nearest vending machine, and it had nothing in it but "sweet n salty" Chex Mix. There's no salty in the Honey Nut Chex Mix and now my work area is covered in a fine-grain sweet powder. I demand satisfaction! (That's my mantra this week. It's been blurted from 711, to the MTA, to the photography lab. It's going nicely, thanks.) What I'm saying here, is that I'm cranky, rightfully so, so watch out, suckers.

In response to last night's post Winifred e-mailed (but refused to comment):

Good Morning!

Two things: I would like it to be known by the readers of this blog that while I was obsessed with the GMA Mac and Cheese Challenge, and outraged when my personal choice, Princess, did not win, I have not actually eaten one forkful of mac and cheese during this whole time of challenge. If I had someone in the home who would eat mac and cheese, I would like to try Princess's recipe.

Also, If I have time when I come home from work, [blah blah blah personal and unrelated information to this post.]

Love, MOM

I think demanding content is a little out of line from a woman who agreed to make posts here on her own. A woman who has an excruciatingly detailed how-to-post-on-Blogger manual taped to her cupboard. A woman with a lot to say. I'm the editor here! This is post #49, Winifred, and I demand satisfaction!
Winifred said she'd take me to Sofi's for late breakfast on Friday, so I'd better do what she says, or that $4 butterscotch crepe won't be mine. Alright, then. You win. This time.

In an e-mail sent last Friday and titled "NO, No, No!" Winifred wrote:

NO!!----The winning Mac and Cheese recipe on GMA should not be a recipe containing applewood smoked bacon! No bacon in a mac and cheese casserole! The winner should have been the woman named Princess!

Love, MOM

Charlotte (and Emily, I presume) thought from this title that Winifred was upset about Dubya (or the papacy). No, she's outraged that in an Emeril Lagasse-related challenge (which forces me to question her sanity and lucidity) Laura Macek won the challenge. Her win was determined by Viewers Like You Winifred for her "Best Mac 'n' Cheese Ever."
When I saw Winifred this weekend her major complaint--aside from the inclusion of pork--was that Macek didn't have a good story. It's just something she whipped up. Princess Thompson, who Winifred was gunnin' for, had some kind of family history with her recipe. If Macek had really thought this through, you would think she might have concocted some kind of story. Instead she let the recipe speak for itself, which worked for her (and I guess honesty is always important too).

This whole affair is gross to me. First, I don't like mac and cheese. Second, there's a lot of crap thrown into these dishes, and I dare say it's not mac and cheese, but a dairy-based pasta casserole. There! I SAID IT! One woman had muffins, but that's gross too. How about you leave my muffins alone with their fruit, unless it's chocolate, and move on.

Truth be told, Princess doesn't deserve to win anyway, Winifred. It's homemade mac and cheese, except she added some colby/jack--which are mild cheeses at best--to the basic Velveeta. Three cups of whole milk and butter and heavy cream are enough to give me a stomachache. Moreover, her recipe is titled "Smack Yo Mamma Mac and Cheese" which, offensive and vaguely disturbing (I'd like to see how Princess feels when her children smack her and yell, "MAKE ME SOME MAC AND CHEESE, WOMAN") lacks the punch she's promising. She's loaded all the mild a milquetoast eater can muster. Where's the "BAM!", Princess? The whole scenario has left me confused and considerably less hungry than when I started the godforsaken post ten minutes ago.

My friend K in Chicago makes Patti Labelle's Over-the-Rainbox Mac and Cheese. (K, is the name part of the reason? Be honest.) I think he owns her cookbook. It involved five kinds of cheese, which is up my alley, even in the mild, bland, cheeses. If there's anything I believe in cooking, it's mixing a variety of cheeses (instead of "one cup of cheddar" i'll take sharp cheddar, pepper jack, and something crazy, please; three ounces semi-sweet? how about two ounces and one ounce something more refined?). I learned this from Fitzwilliam. K is the kind of host who throws potluck parties, which is an impossible dream for me in Collegetown, and I've always resented his friends for 1) getting to go to a potluck party and 2) having a guarantee for his mac and cheese. I don't like it but he makes it sound so good.

I hate all of this mac and cheese talk. Hand me that box of Chic-fil-A nuggets, I'm hungry.

Lookin' for LOLKiddens on the Internets using the Googles

Henry was in Baltimore Tuesday night on another leg of his spoken-word tour. I live in Baltimore. I bought tickets. I went with a friend this time, sparing Winifred from his stories, and as Henry explained the process it took for him to visit Syria, he said, "...So I got on my Internets," and a small tremor of laughter traveled through the crowd. Well, I know it's not really said like that, he explained, delving into how Internet is a singular word, but Bush, well, Bush adds an "s" to the word and Henry thinks that's "just so cute" that as a tribute to Bush he has joined the fray and says "Internets," too. And whenever Henry said "Internets" he giggled, just the tiniest bit. Then, just for fun he said, "Googles" and whenever I hear "the 'net" or "Internet," I hear Henry Rollins giggling, "I got on my Internets and used the Googles."
Really, you've got to have a sense of humor, or the next 10 months will pass excruciatingly slow.
ANYWAY here is a semi-relevant e-mail. About words.

Hello Girls,

One would think that a presidential candidate who has a degree from Harvard, who is widely touted as being very intelligent, and has several debates already under his belt, would be able to properly enunciate the word, "Clinton". A five year old girl pronouncing "kiddens" is one thing, the deliberate enunciation of "Clinnon" is extremely irritating.

Love, MOM

I'm the one who wasn't about to say "kittens." I'm better now.

It's ON!

My Aunt, who the sisters, my roommate, and I, refer to as "Aunt Ina," is a warm, gentle woman who had been providing her co-workers with cookies. The moniker is occasionally confusing as The Real Ina may be on at any given time, and finding her on Food TV often results in Biscuit proclaiming excitedly, "Aunt Ina's On!" and though I know she means Garten I sometimes think about my Aunt, living in Middle America Where Cookies Are Not Appreciated.

I worked for Target one summer, stocking the shelves with toys and sports equipment during the day. This has been my only job that included a break room, but if one of the women I worked with had made a plate of cookies and left it out during the day, she would have returned the next morning and found it covered in thank you notes; cards from the store, cards from Hallmark, and scraps of napkins inscribed with sonnets would cover the plate. I know what you're thinking. You think that the 1,000+ Target employees weren't used to hospitality. HA! Once a week, and usually more, the management team shared goodies. Often the overnight team was plied with pizza and goodies, and more often than not, the overnight team made an effort to leave the morning employees more than stale remnants. We were spoiled with surprise presents in the form of liter bottles of soda, fresh veggies, and warm cookies. Still, we loved it, it made our day, and homemade cookies would have changed the efficiency of our perfect store tenfold.

These people are fools. Just look at what they did! In an e-mail she sent last week (personal details have been omitted):

Okay, I am giving up taking cookies to work. we brought in desserts today for Valentine's. I brought in a container of my delicious heart shaped sugar cookies with cinnamon hots on them. Other desserts included pumpkin cake, cherry pie, red jigglers, berry lemon bars, Rice Krispie treats, large decorated chocolate. chip cookie from the store and a package of fat sugar cookies from marsh that iced with red sprinkles. People raved about those cookies! "Oh, I love these cookies!" and "These are my favorite!" About 3 people asked who made the heart sugar cookies and I said "I did. Have one, I make good sugar cookies." I did not count them but I don't think any were eaten, if so, only a couple. Bought those too thick cookies from Marsh were a hit! All the desserts were left for tomorrow so I'll see if any disappear tomorrow. I would have brought them home because I have eaten all the ones I kept here, but who knows who touched them and how clean their hands were. I didn't want to bring them back in the home. I have made oatmeal cookies, oatmeal rolled cookies, p.b.cookies, and now sugar cookies, and have not been met with the reception I would like, so I am done baking cookies for that office. My p.b. cookies are also extremely tasty but it seems that people like store boughten ones or choc. chip. I do not usually share choc. chip as when I make them I make dough balls and freeze them and make only 4 at a time.

I've had her peanut butter cookies. They are amazing. I mean, the nerve of some people. This e-mail was preceded by others, all detailing the process and selection of which cookies to bring. Aunt Ina was also responsible for organizing this sordid holiday affair, and supplied party supplies out-of-pocket. I say, remove the pink napkins from the whole lot of 'em! She also put a lot of detail and thought into getting and arranging platters, which I think further proves her personality likeness to Garten. A woman who will arrange a meat tray is a woman who can plan. I am not a woman who can arrange a meat tray.

All of this talk about cookies makes me hungry. Winifred was here on Saturday because she missed me, I think? And she brought cookies, which are pictured above with a bottle of Bubble Up, which she shared. We don't have Bubble Up in Baltimore, and Aunt Ina sent a private reserve to her sister for Valentine's Day. I was hoping to expound on the weekend days ago but I think that will wait until tomorrow. Thankfully the oatmeal and fizz has gotten me this far!

Oh! Lest my real job stumble over here, I should add that there are often days where people crowd around the table and fill themselves on food. One day, a day I was called in, my friend and I brought lunch to find out that there was lunch downstairs! We waited for the crowds to go before us as we are terribly awkward and nervous people, and then our supervisor urged us to go now before it was too late. We ambled to the kitchen downstairs where a giant turkey and ham were joined by homemade mac and cheese, vegetables, cookies, fresh baked rolls, and fudge cake so obscenely large that only Ms. Trunchbull would dare conquer (though someone must have, it was almost all gone). We arrived maybe ten minutes after the lunch announcement and as we hemmed and hawed the office ladies hovered so they could reclaim their wares. Previously, one day in the summer, everyone gathered outside to eat fried chicken and picnic fare just because it was summer. I'll make sure Aunt Ina's lousy co-workers never darken my workplace doors.

I'm going to bed, disgusted. If I move to Middle America I'll think twice before sharing my Jell-O salad.

I’VE BEEN HAD

I’m a woman who loves a good list: making lists, reading lists, Top Tens, Best Ofs, Clipdowns, Countdowns, 50 Reasons Why, and a glossary overview of [property or principle] sets my heart aflutter. As such, I’m liable to tune in to Countdown with Keith Olberman on a Friday night whipping up the brownies and my nightly routine is not crawling under the covers with a book and a soothing stereo, but the remote and my buddies John and Steven.
John and Steven alleviate the nightmares Keith has implanted while angrily reciting the day’s news. I didn’t watch Keith last night because the local news is already too devastating (babies over bridges and homicidal teens) to know just what exactly Bush did today. I’ll catch up later tonight, and then I’ll come down from the anxiety with irrelevance.
The WGA strike has been devastating; before the writers stood up for themselves (FYI: I’m totally behind them, gooo writers!) I had set a schedule for myself at night revolving around a talking dead girl and Nate Fisher The Lawyer. This is monumental as I spent almost an entire academic year devoted to reality television in the interest of college journalism. I was once bereft without Stewart and Colbert but today I feel empty and used from their comedic tactics.
And here’s why: Colbert was engaged in a playful feud with late-night host Conan O’Brien. Colbert was promised that if #$%uckabee won the primaries he could serve as Vice President. Colbert believes he “made #$%uckabee,” while ‘O Brien claims that because Chuck Norris with his Walker Texas Ranger pull, thus making Colbert, so Stewart steps in and says no, He made O’Brien, and finally O’Brien says that’s it, we’re going to fight. Fisticuffs! This brings me much joy. So much joy that I stay awake to watch Late Night with Conan because the fisticuffs don’t come out on Comedy Central.
And then I realize I’ve been betraying The Good Word of Winifred because this is all over #$%uckabee! #$%uckabee interrupts the fight claming—wait, is there anything in your mouth right now? Juice? Animal cracker dust? Pasta maybe? Swallow.—that this great nation made him. Hold on while I find a barf bucket. Feeling nauseated I turn off the television and go to sleep, hoping the world will spin a little slower.
I was already feeling bad about my accidental betrayal, until I realized that today is Super Tuesday (Maryland votes next week, so while I was paying attention to politics it hadn’t quite clicked.) when I sat down in front of a bigscreen TV tuned to CNN’s all-day-all-night-all-the-time-with-Anderson-Cooper SUPER TUESDAY COVERAGE. Oh, God, I felt sick. Not only had I betrayed my beliefs in the name of humor, but I’ve been played. The fight was staged the night before Super Tuesday. For votes!
My head is so heavy, the pain so excruciating, that I need both hands to hold it up. Typing this, you may imagine, a grievous task. I’m in a sea of sadness. I am bereft. I am drowning in waves of doomful regret.

COMING SOON: It’s Fat Tuesday, Let the Sinning Begin!; Ash Wednesday; Reasons Why Ina Garten Reminds Me of My Aunt or Reasons Why Even Biscuit Calls Ina Garten “Aunt Ina.”

Too Young to Party: The Blog of an Over-enthuse Jaded Something Something

Hello Girls,

Dad and I are watching Two Weeks, wherein Sally Field is dying and her family has gathered around her. Neighbors and friends are bringing casseroles. At one point, one of the sons opens the refrigerator and says, "There is no food in this house that was invented after 1967." (There have been numerous casseroles involving cream of mushroom soup.) Despite the death theme of the movie, there are very funny portions!

[There is more but it's ommitted for relevance. I'm the editor and publisher I get to do that.]

Winifred's "vice," unabashed media anchor, are films and books wherein people are dying. Sally Field is also a big draw, living or dead: The Flying Nun, Brothers and Sisters, ER. She really brings the emotional pain with her viewing choices (still haven't forgiven you for Backstreet, Mom) and the irony, the irony is that she is watching this on her date night with The King after vowing to watch happy movies. Blood Diamond and The Last King of Scotland pushed her over the edge this summer and she dove headfirst into Cary Grant land. After she'd seen several romantic comedies I begged them to watch North by Northwest "because even if it's suspenseful and frustrating it has a good end!" (It bombed. Their interest in seeing it at The Charles this spring has waned. Baltimoreans, you can come with me instead.) Anyway, this woman. She hates blood lust but she loves the sadness. Bring it on, she subconsciously cheers as she settles into a TNT marathon of Beaches, Terms of Endearment and her all-time favorite Steel Magnolias. Even my cold heart can't handle that. Actually, I tried watching Beaches a few weeks ago and I couldn't do that because I knew how it was going to end, and despite 50 previous viewings, started to tear. I found comfort in Tim Gunn elsewhere. Yet...



This is Shanna. She won't wake up. Shanna, Shanna, wake up!
I am my mother's daughter (but with 50% more panache and a higher serving of flippancy!): I have this "problem" wherein I'll see any number of teen actresses on television and yell out the plot of a horribly depressing Lifetime movie the subject was in before hitting the bigtime. It's horrifying for anyone that is indirectly involved. Growing Pains on PAX? I'll conjure the scene where a skeletal Tracey Gold is giving a hoarse monologue on the family couch where she is almost-dying. (There is some respect here, given Tracy's personal history, and you know, eating disorders are not a laughing matter.) Sleepover airing on ABC Family while channel surfing? Not only will I repeat the entire plot of The Party Never Stops: Diary of a Teenage Binge Drinker (misleading: she's a college freshman, not a high school sophomore bummer) but I'll renact 56% of the movie, starting with one of the last scenes where Jesse Tanner desperately shakes the cold dead body of her freshman roommate, Shanna, and work my way back through the interesting parts of the middle. (I want to go on record that I did not make a character page for Jesse Tanner. But only because I don't have an IMDB account.) I gloss over some of the verbal content with the frat ladies and gentlemen, but only because I was so flabbergasted; I saw the last twenty minutes before I saw the beginning.
Except Winifred is more respectful. She thinks these movies are "touching portrayals" of people's lives. She won't play a role in a dramatic re-telling of Odd Girl Out and is probably ashamed at my lengthy diatribe sharing my intimate Lifetime secrets. (She has a point.)

There's a little of this plot ruinage in The Sisters. Emily loves a good one; Charlotte and Fitzwilliam suffering residual angst and suffering from She's Too Young. But the never rise their voices to falsetto. Yet they seem slightly less involved in the tears than Winifred. Charlotte will take a good noir any day but is less impressed with the Italian male weepies post WWII (I sobbed my way through the one about the suicidal man and his dog, leave me alone). Emily is neither embarassed or 'shamed. This is a part of life, a love for surface entertainment, and she does it with grace and poise. What, this is normal, she says, and then she flips to Martha for the monologue before making her own brown sugar from scratch. And there I am, playing the role of Shanna's dead body on my living room floor while her mixer whirs in my phone.

The thing about Winifred is that she doesn't cry. Death is a part of life. Beaches will easily ruin the rest of my sunny afternoon, but Winifred is probably in bed watching late night television right now still giggling about the mushroom soup based casseroles and their inevitable servingware of white ceramic bowls and colorful Tupperware.