“This half-and-half is for everyone. Take as much as you need, I can always buy more.”
When Rock Hudson admitted that he had AIDS in 1984, he made it unequivocally clear that his entire image was a lie. And that those who’d believed it — fallen for it, worshipped it, used it as a model against which all male prospects would be judged — had been duped.
Everyone is getting married except for you. You are the proverbial always-bridesmaid-never-bride. It just doesn’t happen for everyone, you know? Some people don’t ever find true love. (You, I mean, in particular. You won’t ever find true love.)
But, even though there’s no chance of your having a special day of your own, there is a foolproof way for you to upstage all your friends at their weddings: make the wedding cake.
None of us can identify with Tina Fey. We’re not Tina Fey, most of us aren’t even Liz Lemon. No one can possibly know what it takes to be Tina Fey, or what people want from Tina Fey every day, or what it’s like to be Tina Fey in any aspect of her life.
Here’s my philosophy: only freeboob for a reason — to create a certain silhouette, because straps would ruin the look, because you’re trying to get laid, etc. Never freeboob out of laziness — you can leave that to the 23-year-olds. When you try on clothes that might work without a bra, look in the mirror and think, “but would I feel better about this if I were Bianca Jagger?”
Oh, you’ve gone and done it again. You bought a way cute pair of shoes that make your feet look a half-size smaller … because they ARE a half-size smaller. But they’ll stretch when you wear them, right?
Vincent D’Onofrio was, for a lot of this time, sitting in a chair on the stage which is very tall because he is kind of a giant. He was wearing scruffy black jeans, old sneakers, and a black collared shirt, which, because of the way he was sitting, was popped open a little in the place that reveals a person’s bellybutton and my mind strayed a minute to wondering about if there is and if so how much lint might be in there, and maybe harvesting it, maybe, I was just sort of thinking that for a pleasant moment and tuning out just for a second when Vincent D’Onofrio stood up and planted himself on the stage two feet away and said, “So I was taught to lead with my dick.”
In the early ’40s, Laurence Olivier had everything going for him: he was widely regarded as one of the two best actors to ever grace the British stage, his film career had been set aflame by startling performances in Wuthering Heights and Rebecca, and his gorgeous wife, Vivien Leigh, had just pulled off Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind. He was also at the apex of his career as a stone-cold fox.
So much to learn from or, alternately, waste time on.
Do you ever find yourself somewhere strange on the internet, and you can’t remember what led you there until hours later you circle back to an article you’d opened what seems like days ago, and rereading the sentence you left off at makes the pieces fall sadly back together?
Some months after turning eighteen, by way of opportune timing and a dearth of homework, I became internet famous via a certain charming blog.
Embarrassing problem here — butt acne. What do I do about it?
With banana, oats, olive oil, and dark chocolate, these cookies have a wholesome-but-not thing going on. They’re chewy but crisp on the edges, not overly sweet, and extremely chocolate-y. I love how you really can just throw everything together, and then 10 minutes later your home smells divine for the rest of the night. Make them! Enjoy! And then please, have another.
Living alone is the reverse of mastery. It’s scuttling around in surrender while hoping you don’t stub your toe because living alone is also a series of indignities like bouncing around on one foot, writhing in pain. Living alone is an elaborately clumsy wisening up.
Red roses: “I’ve been thinking about you, and what I think is I want to put my thing in your things and then I want to turn you around and put my thing in your other things. But I want you to be OK about this, OK?”
Redford belongs to the class of actors I think of in my head as the silver foxes: indigenous to the ‘60s and ‘70s, they’ve ripened before our eyes. Most of them have semi- or totally retired, some have passed away; all live in my memory both as their original, gorgeous selves and their well-lined, refined later-in-life iterations.
We all know a couple who had a terrible relationship that eventually got better, but it’s almost certainly the same couple, and they just talk about it constantly to reassure themselves that it actually got better.