Friday, October 24, 2014
<3 <3 <3 <3 Haley buys the best gifts. <3 <3 <3 <3
What a week! What a week. What a week. What a week. Let's see: we marched onward with the Halloween Advent Calendar, where we tried on some fancy Halloween costumes, saw some ghosts, made the Beyoncé jack-o-lantern of Williamsburg's dreams, celebrated our inner teen witch, visited a cemetery in every borough of New York, BROUGHT BACK ESTATE JEWELRY, wrote letters to Wednesday Addams, and ran into our old friends, the yogurt ghosts. We also chatted with Sylvia Plath and Katy Perry, saw Dear White People, checked in with Baba Yaga, profiled Cameron Diaz.
The Week With Your Editors: Haley moderated a panel for Rookie Yearbook Three (which you should buy!) (and can you nab me one too??? I keep forgetting) and looked fly as hell doing so. I really did buy some sweaters from Ann Taylor Loft, and I'm very excited about them.
Here are some ladies we think are ace: ghost whisperer Jenna Wortham wrote about Ubering while black, Anupa Mistry asked maybe the most important question of our time, which is "Why aren't there more movies like Love & Basketball?", and Mallory Ortberg collected some of the mom-est moments of all time, all of which are perfect, but particularly and terrifingly the comment by Jaya's mom, new Hairpin commenter. Do me a favor: call your mom this weekend and tell her I said hi. See you on Monday.
At Halloween, I bought a bunch of decorative gourds and tiny little pumpkins. These things are practically indestructible so I have had them strewn about my kitchen and dining room ever since. One of them started looking a tiny bit suspicious, so I checked them all.
One on my wooden dining room table that looked perfect from the top was totally stuck on with gross pumpkin mold and goo and stuff. So far I've thrown away the rest of the pumpkins and gently scraped off of the worst of the gunk, but there's still some gross stuff on there and a dark stain underneath. It is solid wood so I can sand it off if I have to but I'd rather not resort to that. Help?
Help is on the way! (And hiya, by the way. Long time no clean!) READ MORE
In a recent Salon interview, Bob Odenkirk warns aspiring writers to “get out of comedy, because it’s about to collapse.” Sketch comedy, he says, is having its time in the sun now — what with YouTube, Comedy Central’s burgeoning lineup and the legions of theater sketch teams popping up all over — but the market is becoming saturated. What’s next then? He suggests that once the market tires of short sketches, it may turn to more long-form, dramatic material. “I do think that after sketch comes story,” he speculates.
And when you look at the TV landscape, that makes sense. (Plus, Odenkirk’s been ahead of the game for years. Why wouldn’t you listen to him now?) Louie and Girls, two shows that are nominally considered comedies but regularly flirt with drama within their svelte 30-minute timeframes, are setting the tone for many of the new comedies cropping up everywhere. Some of that influence manifests itself in different ways, whether it’s other series copping their surface premise (Maron), their intimate, semi-vérité style (Broad City, Looking) or their personal, insular subject matter (Transparent, Hello Ladies).
But regardless of exactly how each show borrows, the bottom line is that all these series are following Louie and Girls’ lead by digging beneath the obvious elements of comedy to explore the uncomfortable or painful issues that lie beneath any good punchline. In short, they’re acting more like dramas. So that begs the question: are we entering some new era dominated by that nebulous thing known as the “comedy-drama”? READ MORE
Me: Hi, you guys! Thank you so much for coming today! I just got some really great advice from Taylor Swift and Langston Hughes about being 22, but my 23rd birthday is on Saturday, and... I don't know, I just really hate birthdays. So I figured I'd talk to you two, since all of our birthdays are so close together! #TeamScorpio! #TeamSexy! #TeamJealousObsessiveSuspiciousManipulativeAndUnyielding!!!! But anyway, birthdays: I just don't like the attention; I feel like it's undeserved. Am I being crazy?
Katy Perry, bouncily: I heard you're feeling nothing's going right.
Me: It's not that nothing is going right, I just feel silly for making a big deal out of my birthday. People should celebrate things that they do, not just things that happen to them.
Katy Perry, alluringly: Why don't you let me stop by? I hope you got a healthy appetite.
Me: I do. The only gifts I asked for were "various cakes." READ MORE
The sexy Halloween costume is tyranny; it is irony without attendance. Sexy Halloween costume, I decry you. This Halloween, I humbly submit that we take our costume cues from a simpler, less brazenly sexy time: Arden Holt’s Fancy Dresses Described; or, What to Wear at Fancy Balls, already through five editions in 1887. This volume has suggestions for everybody: “brunes,” fair women, history enthusiasts, elderly ladies, and even gentlemen. Here are some selections of fancy dresses:
The first ghost story I ever heard was from my mother. She described how once, while sleeping in an upstairs bedroom in her sister’s house, she woke to the feeling of twin icicles curling around her ankles. They were hands, but she didn’t see a body, exactly. More like an abstract interpretation of a body, female, crouched at the foot of the bed. It yanked once, hard, and she opened her pink teenaged mouth and screamed, causing it to let go and vanish. The details shift uneasily when she retells this story—sometimes there is a horrible, unseasonal rainstorm beating the roof, sometimes she is 15, or 17. But these two details remain the same: The bed belonged a dead woman and she never went into that portion of the house again.
There's a lot of paranormal activity in my family. Whether it is more than most other families is hard to say, but we seem to have more than most. During holidays and family events, after the adults wander into the kitchen to drink coffee or head off to bed, us cousins gather in some remote part of the house and talk about the things that go bump in the night. These are our heirlooms, a series of signals and omens that help us make sense of each other and our shared family history, which is by turns strange, mysterious and murky. These stories open up a portal to the parts of life that don’t seem to make much sense but as still just as real as the rest of it. Over the years, I've come to realize that sometimes a ghost isn't always a ghost. Sometimes, telling a ghost story is a way to talk about something else present in the air, taking up space beside you. It can also be a manifestation of intuition, or something you’ve known in your bones but haven’t yet been able to accept. But sometimes a ghost is exactly what it is—a seriously fucking scary spirit. READ MORE
At three in the afternoon when my daughter was about four weeks old, I hit a wall. With my fist, though not very hard, because I was trying to be as quiet as possible. Another day that week, I went into the bathroom, all the lights turned off, and screamed into a towel. Again, I didn't want to make very much noise, because my four-week-old daughter was "sleeping."
There are lots of tiny and useless nuggets of wisdom parents-to-be are given. My favorite is: "Sleep when your baby sleeps." But in the early days, she was never clearly sleeping, and any moment of silence from her corridor meant that we would panic, absolutely sure that she hadn't SIDsed out on us. It was unclear what exactly she was doing for those twenty hours a day when she was supposedly asleep. She was noisy. So noisy. At night, she lay in her bassinet beside our bed, squawking and snorting like a young dinosaur. So I never slept. After ten or maybe fewer minutes of "rest" of my own, I'd sit up and peek over at her. If her eyes were closed when I looked, her preternatural senses alerted her that I was near and they'd fly open to make contact with mine. I'd try to feed her, change her diaper, reswaddle her. But by then she was fully awake. I'd walk her little burritoed body around, pacing, watching my husband not sleep, or sometimes, he'd do the walking while I sat there, miserable and terrified.
That's another great bit of advice: Parents should "take turns" or "do shifts." But every situation we encountered seemed like an emergency. She'd be crying in the bassinet next to us; she'd just lay there, wide awake, watching us; she'd need a diaper change. We'd get out the supplies, lay her on a tarp on the bed, get a thousand wipes, clean her up, put on a new diaper, swaddle her, then pick her up, only to hear the undeniable sounds of her having another bowel movement. I, the mother, who is expected to be gifted with a sense of what my baby needed, had no idea: Was she hungry? Tired? Too wet? Sick? Too dry? I was stuck in a constant and mindless cycle of trying literally anything to get her to sleep. READ MORE
Bless Nicole Cliffe for bringing this to my attention:
The year I was a freshman cheerleader I was reading 1984. I was fourteen years old then and failing algebra and the fact that I was failing it worried me as I would worry now if the Mafia were after me, or if I had shot somebody and the police were coming to get me. But I did not have an awful lot of time to brood about this. It was basketball season then, and there was a game nearly every night. In Mississippi the schools are far apart, and sometimes we would have to drive two hundred miles to get to Panola Academy, Sharkey-Issaquena, funny how those old names come back to me; we'd leave sometimes before school was out, not get home till twelve or one in the morning. I was not an energetic teenager, and this was hard on me.
That's Donna Tartt, in the April 1994 issue of Harpers' Magazine, writing about her time as a cheerleader for her high school basketball team. The whole thing is, predictably, perfect, but there was something about this section that I really can't stop thinking about: READ MORE
All of us need to check in with ourselves about our Yonce-worship practices occasionally. Have you sung Bey’s praises lately? Have you updated your personal altar with a fresh candle or worked on your Everything Beyonce Pinterest page? Have you seen this brilliant gourd-based tribute to Her Greatness and thought, “If only I had an MFA and an extra set of thumbs?”
We’re here to help. As great minds in Williamsburg put their skills to work, we in Chicago have been busy brewing up the perfect how-to.
When I was 12 I cast a spell on my mom so she’d let me to go my friend Seth’s Bar Mitzvah. It was from The Good Spell Book, which I found in the sale bin at Barnes & Noble, and even though a few pages had been ripped out it still had instructions on how to bend someone to your will. I sat on the floor of my uncle’s old bedroom in my grandparents’ house, with a pink ribbon and a candle and some sort of scented oil and made my Intentions clear to whoever was listening. A few weeks later, she relented and said she’d send me on a bus back early from our beach vacation to go to the Bar Mitzvah, but by that point I felt too guilty about everything I had done to take her up on it. READ MORE