Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Friday Night Lights just received a much-deserving benediction at the Emmy Awards, despite the fact that those stuffed shirts can never undo the great injustice of snubbing Mrs. Connie Taylor, a.k.a. best person/mom/actress/my personal idol. But that was it, Hairpinners and lovers of gritty television realism: Coach has moved on to playing very serious policemen in E.T. rip-offs, Tim Riggins has become one of the X-Men, and Lyla Garrity is a Charlie’s Angel. Friday Night Lights is over.
But the time I did yoga with Matt Saracen, QB1 of my heart, will endure forever.
If you’ve never heard of Friday Night Lights, OK, fine, I understand that you’ve been in a space ship for the last 17 years hanging out with Wall-E or whatever, and now is the time for you to immediately right your wrongs.
If you have heard of it and persist in neglecting it despite the fact that it, like Bon Iver and Downton Abbey and Feist, is essentially a Hairpin pop cultural mascot, but you’re willing to give it a try, do so now. It’s on Netflix streaming, and I bet your boss will let you take the week off when you tell him it’s for a show about high school football THAT’S NOT REALLY ABOUT FOOTBALL! IT’S ABOUT RELATIONSHIPS! ALSO: RACE! BIRTH CONTROL! CLASS! Bosses totally love shows about class relations, trust!
And if you’re one of those people who wish that all of us would just shut up with our “Texas Forever”-ing and “Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can’t Lose”-ing and “Tim-Riggins-Take-Off-Your-Shirt”-ing, then close the browser, because I am about to make it smell like super fangirl up in this piece. READ MORE
Last year, I was d-e-p-r-e-s-s-e-d. I had just been dumped by my stoner boyfriend (and then rebounded with a dude who asked, in all sincerity, if puppies were born live or hatched out of eggs), my freelance work was drying up, and I thought all of my friends hated me and that my life was descending into a black hole of quicksand.
So at a fancy dinner party over the holidays, I met a cool girl. We’ll call her C.
C and I bonded over music and being vegetarian, and I secretly coveted the way she could get away with wearing thigh-high wooly socks with shorts, all the while shoving tiny pieces of cake into her mouth. She shared my disappointment over our lack of meaningful work, the demise of our dreams, the burdens of modern life. Maybe it was the wine, but I felt like she got me. She just looked at me with her big round eyes, empathizing. You know how you meet someone and you instantly feel comfortable enough to tell them all the weird shit that goes on in your head? I usually do this on first dates (which obviously never lead to second dates). READ MORE
I went to college in Malibu, and one of the greatest (weirdest?) things about it was seeing celebrities in the most banal circumstances: Tom Hanks in line in front of you for frozen yogurt, Martin Sheen coming out of the pharmacy as you’re heading in, Britney at the Starbucks.
I never knew quite what to do when this happened. Of course, I always wanted to stare, but also really wanted to be above that — you know, resist all the Hollywood hype and celebrity worship that surrounds these people. So I’d usually go out of my way to act cool and avoid eye contact, which is kind of ridiculous, because, who am I kidding? I totally read Us magazine every week.
The fight between these two opposing impulses (must avoid celebrity worship/must give in to their all-consuming life force) finally came to a climax for me one night during my junior year when I saw Harrison Ford. READ MORE
When I was 17 I knew exactly the tattoo I was going to get when I turned 18. It was the best tattoo: delicate yet totally punk rock. It was going to be a red-and-black (or blue-and-black, that was still up in the air) nautical star on the inside of my wrist, with tiny red stars and black music notes going around the rest of my wrist like a bracelet. It was going to be so hot, and I could cover it with a thick cuff. Oh man, this tattoo was going to make me so cool. And then Tom DeLonge of Blink-182 would finally want to make out with me. What do you mean, "What does the tattoo mean?" It means I like music and I think nautical stars look cool. Do tattoos have to mean more than that? Whatever, I was convinced this tattoo was going to make me the coolest. But first I had to go to lunch with my mom. READ MORE
Recently, my former adoptive mother tried to friend me on Facebook. I hadn’t spoken to her since I was a kid.
When my brother and I were taken out of our adoptive home of six years, I at 15 and he at 17, we were placed back into state custody. We were foster kids again, which hey, was fine because in the past we’d had some pretty good foster times with some pretty nice foster folk. We had to testify in court against our adoptive parents, though.
Among the most memorable things they had done:
1. Told my brother he wasn’t allowed to eat for three days, and that they’d be doing surprise checks at the school cafeteria.
2. Hit us with creative things (well maybe those things were not inherently creative, just creative as child-hitting tools?) such as blow-dryers.
3. Dug food out of the garbage disposal, because we had not been given permission to clear our plates, replaced the food on said plates, and made us eat it.
It wasn’t all bad, however. The man and woman who’d adopted us valued education and travel and hard work and sports. I got to hug Clyde Drexler once, at a Blazers Camp they’d sent me to when I was 10. READ MORE
This post originally appeared on August 10, 2011.
The year: 1996. I was 23, just on the upper cusp of that critical year that determined whether you could be Miss Pittsburgh or Ms. Pittsburgh.
I was writing for a local newsweekly, and, as a very non-beauty-pageanty type, thought it would be good fun to take part in and document the festivities. So I circled Ms. on the application, paid my $50, and began preparations.
You may wonder, why would a large-ish girl with a lumpy belly and crooked teeth sign up for a goddamn beauty pageant? I guess I was just curious. I mean, I'm not perfect by any means, but I'm still pretty darn cute. How would that play in Normal City? Would I get any love?
My goal was to stand up there proudly — tall, lumpy, weird as I am — and put my vision of beauty up against theirs. WHAT IS UP.
Also, I wanted a tiara. A real one, with some heft to it. Since I'm a pretty good singer, I figured the talent competition was my best chance. So my filmmaker friend and I put together the best damn video of someone in a nightgown rolling around a garbage dump and singing "Angel of the Morning" you ever saw. (More on this later.) READ MORE
Connecticut, Christmas morning, 2010
“I saved this for last,” my boyfriend says, proudly handing me a wrapped box the exact size of a ring box that he had been hiding behind him on the couch that is now strewn with opened gifts and discarded wrapping paper.
I can't believe he's doing this in front of my whole family, I think, nervously accepting it. I can't believe our proposal story is going to be this cheesy and, considering he’s Jewish and I’m half Jewish, so Christmasy.
I hear a sharp intake of breath from my mom that basically says … This is it. READ MORE
This post originally appeared on June 21, 2011.
I used to think the worst way someone could dump you was via text message, or with one of those QR codes for your phone that you scan and says “HEY THERE! LET’S SEE OTHER PEOPLE.”
Both of those are false! The worst way to get dumped is when your boyfriend suddenly gets to choose between starring on the WB next to Ashton Kutcher with a mic duct-taped to his chest hair, or being with you, and he chooses you, obviously. Just kidding, he chooses Ashton, or this wouldn’t be a really awesome story.
I dated Bro* off and on throughout high school and then college in Florida, because we went to the same college. Our love was totally destined for greatness, the same way all high school romances that you try to make happen in college are destined for greatness! Bro first broke up with me September of our freshman year, because, from what I could gather, he wanted to be a big man on campus. Three years later, right before our junior year ended, we decided to make things officially “on” again, sealed by a late night kiss in a sketchy Miami parking lot.
I moved to New York City that summer to do an intensive Latin program for 10 weeks, because I know a good time when I see one. He stayed in Florida to work for a public relations firm. As it turns out, long distance exacerbates things, and we fought a lot, usually about how he would take his female “friend” to the movies, just the two of them, on Saturday nights. I mean, really. Basically, I was up in the city conjugating, and he was down there doing conjug-something.
So, I had an inkling that things were amiss, but still, I was 21 and naïve and whatever. Finally, he called me one night as I was memorizing deponent verbs on index cards while my roommate watched America’s Next Top Model.
“I’m going to Los Angeles. I have an opportunity to be on reality TV,” he said over the phone. I blinked. In the background, Tyra was losing her shit at the fainting girl.
“Uh, what? What show?” I asked.
People drop things on the Internet and run all the time. So we have to ask. In this edition, Becca Laurie tells us more about some famous people who enjoy eating cupcakes.
@katespencer i worked at a bakery that a lot of celebs liked. i still remember who treated me well (and tipped more than a few pennies)— Becca Laurie (@imbeccable) August 12, 2014
Becca! So what happened here?
A decade ago, I applied for a bakery job on a whim. I had no experience, and I’d never been to this specific bakery before. I was out to dinner with friends, and we stopped in for dessert. I filled out an application and started training the next week.
The bakery was having a moment: It was featured on a TV show, and that meant a ton of tourists and a handful of celebrities. I worked there for two consecutive summers. By the end of the second year, the hype started to die down, and so did the frequency of famous customers. My memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be, but here’s who I remember: READ MORE
Happy Women’s Equality Day! The passage of the 19th Amendment on this day in 1920 granted women the right to vote, a seminal moment in the Women’s Rights Movement. Today is an opportunity to celebrate the women who continue to fight for equal rights and whose powerful voices have contributed to the ongoing dialogue of what equality between the sexes really means.
Now on Women’s Equality Day, we invite you to revisit these landmark works of feminist literature or discover them for the first time. These ebooks are available this week for $2.99, in hopes that you’ll find new inspiration in their words, and continue the ongoing battle for women’s equality.
Discover Great Books from Women Writers .
Sometimes I imagine a Catholic Church where pedophile priests were rightfully punished and defrocked, rather than slapped on the hand and relocated; a Catholic Church where billions of dollars in investments and property were reallocated to help the poor; a Catholic Church where ego was replaced by open and honest communication.
It’s even harder, sometimes, to imagine a Catholic Church that gives women the respect and leadership positions they deserve. Women’s ordination in the Catholic Church was one of the few feminist movements to emerge from the '70s that hit a complete and total stalemate. It is the most radical and ignored issue in the institution right now.
In the months leading up to Christmas in 1974, a progressive Catholic feminist named Mary Lynch sent out, instead of seasonal greetings, a note asking her acquaintances if they thought it was time that the Church allowed women to be priests. 31 of the women and one of the men responded yes.
The next year Lynch organized the first Women’s Ordination Conference in Detroit to examine the issue. She expected a few hundred participants at best and got more than 2,000.
In the process of writing my book If Nuns Ruled the World, I met Sister Maureen Fiedler, now the host of the public radio program Interfaith Voices. In 1979 she helped to organize the “Stand Up For Women” demonstration at Pope John Paul II’s first papal visit to the United States, in which 53 Catholic sisters wore blue armbands and refused to sit down while the pope spoke.
Wearing a brown suit and a jaunty checkered blouse, Sister Theresa Kane addressed the Pope. “I urge you, Your Holiness, to respond to the voices coming from the women of this country who are desirous of serving in and with the church as fully participating members,” Kane said.
35 years have passed and little has changed. READ MORE
This post originally appeared on June 20, 2011.
After watching the Anthony Weiner scandal unfold, I believe there are two major takeaways. First: No matter how mature we think we are, we are all 8-year-old boys at heart. I generally view myself as somewhat grown-up, but as the saga went on, I had to admit that I was as defenseless against a good dick joke as the next guy. That I attended a middle school called I. Weiner — named for a member of the Houston Jewish community — had done nothing to desensitize me. I work in a newsroom, so the congressman was a constant topic of conversation. “Who’s handling Weiner?” an editor would ask. “Are you doing Weiner?” Each time his name was mentioned, I would will myself to keep a straight face, clenching my jaw and trying to pretend I didn’t notice. “Hey, can we talk about Weiner when you get a sec?” It was impossible.
The other lesson: Online sharing can result in very embarrassing situations. I found this out for myself last Thursday night. No, I didn’t take any pictures — I’m the girl who changes clothes in a locker room facing the wall, sometimes putting my sports bra on before removing my regular one. Instead, a hashtag went around Twitter encouraging members to #describeyourpeniswithamovie. This immediately caught my attention, as there appeared to be no limit to the suddenly dirty-sounding films. Up in the Air! As Good as It Gets! Deep Impact! Precious (Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire)! It seemed like an equal-opportunity game, and I wanted to play too. Finally, after exploring some film databases for inspiration, I came up with A Prairie Home Companion, the story of one man, his land and his dear companion. READ MORE
This particular ex and I had what anyone would refer to as a tumultuous relationship. One time he described us as Sid and Nancy, which really is not something a couple should ever go for. We both drank, and we both drank a lot more during the time we were actually dating, during which he was partly living with me, partly leaving his suitcase on my floor and rampaging about town, passing out in other apartments, getting kicked out of cabs and losing his phone, wallet, laptop, brain cells. I was the “responsible” one in the relationship, which meant, generally but not always, that I got slightly less drunk than he did and followed him into and out of bars trying to get him to go home and/or pay attention to me. This is not a wise course for a relationship, nor particularly good for one's esteem. It took him going on a three-day drinking binge “for his birthday” for me to see that. I blocked him from my phone after that, and decided I’d forget about him completely.
It didn’t work. I dated some other guys, most of them nice and relatively normal, but nobody who seemed to give me that sick push-and-pull that apparently I desired. I told myself he was bad for me. Friends told me it’s not like he was that much fun in the first place. Friends were sort of right. But I am nothing if not stubborn. There’s something in me that wants to win, and in this case, winning meant not necessarily dating him again, but at least getting him to want me back. This happens sometimes.
I texted him on New Year’s Day, after having avoided a make-out with another man by crying, a method that worked rather well but made me think I really needed to confront this thing head-on. The ex texted me back, nearly immediately. We made extremely tentative plans to maybe meet up again. Perhaps we could be friends. READ MORE
One day in the early spring, my mother picked me and my friend Autumn up from school, and we went to run some errands. I was 11 years old, and my father had died just a few months earlier. While we were out, my mom asked if we minded stopping at the cemetery because she wanted to water some plants. I liked the cemetery. It was a peaceful place, and there was also something a bit morbid about it that fascinated me. So my mom turned her giant station wagon (complete with 1980s wood-paneled siding) into the cemetery, and got to work on the plants. Autumn and I wandered around reading people’s headstones and guessing what their deals had been when they were alive.
We got back in the car to leave, but my mom made an unexpected stop in the tiny parking lot near the cemetery’s exit. She’d remembered that she needed to get some important piece of paper from the main office, and so while she went in to grab it Autumn and I stood around, poking our feet into the newly thawed grass. A man came out from behind one of the other small buildings in the area and walked over to say hello.
He seemed quite old to me then, but in retrospect I think he was probably only in his 50s. He was stout and had a sizeable potbelly. He wore a button down work shirt, jeans, and work boots. He was chatting with us in a friendly manner when my mom came out from the office and sped over to make sure we weren’t being accosted by some creep. He recognized her because she’d had to deal with him to make arrangements for my father’s burial. I don’t remember his name, so I will call him George. I think he felt bad for me and my poor widowed mother because after we’d talked for a minute he offered to take us all on a tour of his crematorium, which he seemed to view as an act of great hospitality and kindness. My mother politely refused his offer, saying we had to be getting home for dinner, but I wanted to see it. READ MORE
I had a crush on Jason when I was in the seventh grade. He was a tall, blonde, barrel-chested eighth grader, and he seemed so manly to me with his penny loafers and Bugle Boy jeans. I, on the other hand, was overweight, wore thick, Coke-bottle glasses, and was extremely socially awkward.
Crushing on Jasons was kind of my thing back in junior high, which was convenient, because I never had to change the "I [heart] Jason" I had written on every available surface to some other name a week later. There was Jason the skater-punk, Jason the jock, Jason the other skater-punk who was friends with the first Jason, and Jason the Mormon. But the aforementioned tall, blonde Jason was different. He actually knew my name and would say hi to me in the hallway.
I'm not sure where I came up with the idea to send Jason flowers. I do remember running it past a friend of mine, who said, "WOW! That's such a great idea! He's going to fall in love with you, I just know it. How are you going to do it?"
This was where my adolescent brilliance truly kicked in. "I'm going to buy flowers and put an anonymous note on them, and then the classroom messenger will deliver them to his first period classroom." READ MORE