The Ultimate High Five


Guys, CBS’s once-great sitcom, How I Met Your Mother, is over. And I, who have been begging for the formerly hilarious, more recently hokey and lazy show to end, am devastated. I’m an easy crier, but I think I bruised something watching that episode. My heart.

The episode starts out with Ted being the absolute fucking worst, as is his wont, by making someone else’s wedding reception all about him. Ted is leaving tomorrow for Chicago, even though tonight is Barney and Robin’s wedding reception. Jesus. I have clutched many a friend’s hand over the year, fearfully asking, “What if I’m Ted?!”Now? I’m good.Ok Im Ok

Then Ted is annoyed by an older woman at a bus station. Go-ud, lady! Can’t you see Ted is trying to feel feelings about a moment he’s artificially infused with drama? Then there is romance (interspersed throughout many, many other scenes).

I knew I was going to need a bigger wine glass was when Robin, now divorced from Barney, reveals that she has to step away from the gang. The fissure is what makes this show great. Rarely does a group of friends have as dramatic a dynamic as these five, but the love they share is very relatable. And the idea that we can’t stay young and close forever is an omnipresent reality for those of us who were young and foolish at the same time as Robin, Barney, Lily, Marshall, and even fucking Ted. It’s the real thing from a show that gave up trying to give us a funny, honest reflection of reality a long time ago.Close

I realized there was no glass of wine big enough for this evening when Barney holds his daughter and tells her he’s fallen in love with her. Ugh, the same clichés I’ve been bitching about for two seasons had now turned on me like Wormtail’s artificial hand, ready to snatch the very breath from my lungs.

I cried so hard I choked on a carrot.

It only got uglier. “Even when she got sick…” referencing the mother (Tracy)’s tragic demise that leaves Ted, now somehow slightly less annoying, widowed and raising his two patient children.  I’m re-tearing realizing Ted, who wanted a wife so badly, really only had one for a few, very short cool

People will hate it, but Ted and Robin should end up together. The show should end with that stupid blue French horn. The show was a journey about love, a love so great that it survives two terrible seasons of a sitcom and comes out on the other end somehow still believable. I give it four and a half out of five Roseanne finales.

I hope all of you who loved, and maybe hated, How I Met Your Mother enjoy the rest of your evenings. Do not watch anything else serious on television. Someone in this studio apartment just told Once Upon a Time that she didn’t have room for it in her heart for it tonight.

Good luck gang.Kk

Facing the Wall

Writer’s block is a crazy thing. One day, you’re just typing away about Lindsay Lohan’s great ideas and life choices and the next you’re writing “um” four hundred times on a screen and then using keystrokes to edit the fonts. Every time you (I, specifically) sit down in front of a computer, all that comes out of your (my)fingers and brain are the most inane thoughts, as opposed to the standard earth-shaking brilliance this blog has remained unknown for.

I was talking to the Lascivious Lemur at work, whose sole goal for this blog and all things internet-related is to be featured in them, and he said, “If you have writer’s block, why not write about it?” And, unlike the time he thought Adamantium was a real element, the Lemur was right. I find whenever I’m having trouble writing or finding a character or making good improv, the rest of my life isn’t doing so hot either. Not when I am angry or really sad. Those emotions are artistic gold; I would give anything for the kind of mood that induces crying on the subway. Not righteous indignation, like the kind that my frenemy, the sexually magnetic walking malapropism, Rick Santorum, can inspire; nor shame nor anger. No, writer’s block comes when I feel numb.


Thanks bro!

Life is so stressful. Mine certainly less so than people who face real strife like poverty, war, and disease. Still, it’s easy to get caught up in the day-to-day stresses like where I will be in five years and if I’m doing everything I can to get there and if I’m going to meet someone who will love me and am I’m working hard enough to have a career and will a career make me happy and wishes come true not free and really should only Faulkner be able to write in stream of consciousness and why am I like, the only person who really doesn’t like David Sedaris’ writing and is Jenny McCarthy secretly ashamed of what she’s done but lacking the character to be honest about it and am I hungry and is Benedict Cumberbatch handsome or just charming. And after all that neurosis, it’s easy to be afraid of doing or saying or writing something dumb. And once you start being afraid of sucking, it’s easier to do and say nothing than to risk it. ugh

According to Anais Nin (and many, many inspirational Pinterest boards), “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Bullshit. Opening up is always the most painful part. And there is no guarantee that opening up will lead to something beautiful. Often, making yourself vulnerable only leads to a disaster. But even disaster is better than being too afraid to let anything happen at all.

Why A New Episode of Once STILL Hasn’t Aired……

You guys probably did not know this, but the Oscars were on last night. I say you did not know because to the untrained eye, it may have looked a little bit like a live airing of A Midsummer Night’s Dream starring Ellen DeGeneres as the handsome Lysander, Brad Pitt as a coquettish Hermia, Angelina Jolie as a lovesick and surprisingly likable Demetrius, and John Travolta as a reluctant but obvious Bottom. But no, it was the Oscars.

I had a lot of feelings. I now know that celebrities are not just like me, since they all rushed to ebulliently be in that selfie; I do not like having to do that shit at brunch and I sure as hell would not like doing it in a fancy dress. Also, Jared Leto, I saw you get creepy on Jennifer Lawrence’s thigh. Jared, you are hot but you are old. That was not appropriate.

The Oscars this year was not only like a Shakespearean comedy, but one of the better dressed ceremonies I’ve seen of late (Whoopie, this does not include you; sorry friend). Lupita Nyong’o was so beautiful and so perfectly dressed, she took my breath away, which may also explain the phrasing in Pink’s performance. Pink, the improbable artist who rose out of the pop muck of the 90′s (not you, Britney), looked like if a ruby slipper came to life and was more elegant than one could have imagined. But the loveliest look of the night was Liza Minnelli, who is easily the most captivating person in any room at any time. I loved her blue streak and her blue dress. I might get one of each.

Even with an evening so full of Liza, it was around the moment that that Spike Jonze accepted his Best Director award that I realized, I don’t care as much about the Oscars as I once did. In a world where so many people have to fight for so little, it’s increasingly frustrating to enviously watch a room full of insanely rich people and their seat fillers laud each other for how “brave” they’ve been in making movies that are too expensive for many people to see, despite how important their creators think them. Art shouldn’t be a luxury but the lavish production costs and exorbitant salaries of the people in that very room contribute to why it has very much become one.

Except that then, Idina Menzel and Derek McLane created live-action Frozen in a way I could have never even dared to hope for. It. Was. Magic.

It’s a Party

Guys, though my frail human form has been hobbled by an illness I fondly refer to as Head Cold: The Reckoning, it was a mere week ago I found myself in a Body Pump class. Body Pump is an awesome weightlifting class designed by human muscle Les Mills where people scream out things like “Plyometrics!” and “JUST EIGHT MORE!!!!”.  It’s way fun all on its own, but on this particular Saturday class, one of my fellow pumpers brought in something a little extra whimsical: rape culture.

My fun friend brought society’s ice cream cake to the aerobic party in a simple way. His t-shirt, well worn, clearly much beloved, read, “I Traded My Girlfriend for a Coors Light. It Was The Best Deal I Ever Made.” Whoop! What’s great about that shirt, aside from how sweet a worn in tee looks on anyone, is that it reminded me, as well as all the other women in the class, and in the gym, and all the other places where I hope this guy shares his hilarity and indelible taste for puns, that we ladies are the lesser item in a barter consisting of a beer which costs a max of four dollars in a New York City bar all the way down to perhaps thirty cents if we’re talking about a beer that’s been pumped from a keg. It’s also so fun because one could assume given even a moment’s thought (FYI, during the squats track in a Body Pump class, one takes all available mental vacations) that a traded girlfriend would be expected to perform sexual favors. So, this guy, like a travelling minstrel from the days of Arthur’s court, told a tale, sponsored by a major corporation, of human sex trafficking for the sweet, delicious taste of the Rockies at a robust 4.2% ABV. I won’t lie and say it didn’t add a little something extra special to my Saturday morning.

Though I was too shy to talk to the human embodiment of a party after my class, he gave me a lot of food for thought. He was not only a hoot but also helpful because in America in 2014, women can do anything men can do. We are CEOs, doctors, lawyers, teachers, vets, Vets, directors, parents, partners, comedians, and grifters. Sometimes we’re so busy doing all of these things that we forget that a significant percentage of the population still sees us as just orifices only just slightly below the delicious mouth of a freshly cracked Coors Light.

Where in the World is My Prince…..

Man. It has been a rough day. And now the internet has dealt me my deathblow. sad panda

I know right now he’s seeing someone, but throughout all his girlfriends, I always believed somewhere in my heart that we would have a beautiful family together some day. But now I’ve learned that my dream man, my soul mate, the person many have admired but only I would be special enough to win is never going to help me build the life I’ve always wanted; will never be able to fully complete that life. ick

Jon Gosselin has had a vasectomy. Go ahead, cheer and make jokes. Laughter is the only barrier between us and utter despair. We will never push our children on a swing set while surrounded by all of his many children. We will never wear sweet Ed Hardy gear and pretend to look annoyed at the paparazzi that we secretly called. We will never go on a reality show together to try to “make it work”.

I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee……



I was far too busy last night to watch the Golden Globes, but I am a lemming who will always click on an article asking whether or not a celebrity was drunk while presenting an award as surely as my spirit animal will follow its brethren off a cliff. So I did watch a clip of Diane Keaton accepting the Cecile B. DeMille award for a certain director.

Let me start this off by saying that I have never seen a Woody Allen film. At first, I just wasn’t that interested; too young. Then I sort of thought I wanted to wait till a really special movie came along, something that spoke to me. And now…any time I tell someone that I’ve never seen the world through the lens of the word’s most famous neurotic I got shock and horror. “Not even Annie Hall?!!???!” My former potential friend gasps as he/she clutches his/her pearls and averts his/her eyes.

And I’m ok with that. I was twelve when Woody Allen married his much younger former stepdaughter; old enough to assess how fucking disgusting that is at the disgust level only a tween can feel. Like disgusting. While they’re still married and only they know their love blah, blah, I can never see a picture of him without getting a little creeped out and the idea of sitting through a couple of hours of his view of women and the world gives me honest heebie jeebies.

I only recently learned that he allegedly also abused his seven year-old daughter and was caught MORE THAN ONCE. He was found innocent in a court of law, but imagining how difficult it is for a victim to come forward, let alone a child, I am inclined to side with said victim.

All that said, Mia Farrow, you need to reflect.

Did Ms. Farrow, as she watched Diane Keaton laud the man who made her famous despite the fact that he definitely did something wrong and maybe something really, really wrong, feel a twinge of familiarity? Because she continues to stand by Roman Polanski, despite the fact that he raped a thirteen year old girl. Like Keaton and Allen, Farrow and Polanski enjoyed cinematic greatness together. Like Keaton and Allen, Farrow has been complicit in a powerful Hollywood figure’s ability to be bigger than the law and justice as recently as a 2005 law suit brought against  Condé Nast for an article published in Vanity Fair, which had to be attended remotely by Mr. Polanski himself for fear of being extradited to the United States to face punishment for his famous child rape.

Sex crimes are not morally relative.  You don’t get to be mad at the guy who did it in your house while giving the guy who made you famous a pass. The victim you know is not more important than the one you don’t. Obviously, Mia Farrow is a huge fan of the site and will no doubt read this and reflect and change her whole life. I’m not suggesting for one moment she shouldn’t be apoplectic with rage at the man who victimized one or more of her children, but that perhaps that outrage is worth extending beyond your own four walls.

My Review of the Golden Globes

Y’all, I did not watch the Golden Globes tonight. I want so much to give a quarter of a fuck about them, especially because of the insane love I feel for Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, and for the insane love I feel for shading celebrity dress choices (but not bodies), but I just do not. For one thing, these Law and Order: SVU episodes aren’t going to re-watch themselves. Plus, I’ve seen like, two of the nominated movies and probably .015% of the nominated television shows so I can’t enjoy the sole joy of watching an awards show, which is to nod smugly as various movies and television programs I know are announced as if I somehow made them myself. Also, since anything besides Frozen  was nominated for any awards this whole production is a bull(?)shit sham and I won’t be a party to it.

I also did not watch the Golden Globes tonight because I was busy experiencing a major life milestone. In the interest of a little backstory, picture it: New York City, 2008, the Upper West Side….

A broke actor/server server/actor, I relied on my roommate Gigi to cut my hair for me; her qualifications being skill and patience. However, Gigi was working a similar gig with different hours, so I decided to take matters into my own hands, despite the fact that I possess neither skill nor patience. I cut my bangs so short and jagged that I couldn’t even pin them back. In a headband, I looked like a troll doll going through something. A drunk five-year old with one side of a pair of safety scissors could have done a better job. Since then, I have not been allowed to use simple tools to remove any of my hair.

Brenda Walsh and me: living parallel lives

Brenda Walsh and me: living parallel lives

But tonight, a mere six years later, I successful cut my own bangs. I sent a selfie to Gigi to make sure I had permission. Hey! 24 year old me, it really does get better.

Like a fine wine

Like a fine wine

Also, Sunday night treat. Lascivious Lemur, you will love it.

Also, fair disclaimer, I am not Shannen Doherty, only a respectful and not at all dangerous fan.

Baby, It’s Medium Outside

Holy shit. It is balmy outside. I am sweating. After two days of single-digit temperatures, it is a glorious 30 degrees in New York City and I am alive! The insides of my windows don’t even have ice on them. I’m only wearing one pair of pants! My shirt is cut lower than a turtleneck. I haven’t found my face covered in the involuntary tears of a person whose eyes have given up on trying to be warm and are hemorrhaging sadness even once today. As we head into a small reprieve of what will surely be one of the worst winters to date, let us not forget that what was once horrible can be upgraded to positively mediocre. And we will worship at the altar of that mediocrity.


Today on the elevator in my office building, I heard a fucking idiot say, “Supposed to be 55 and rainy this weekend. That’s just nature’s way of rebalancing itself,” and the obviously junior coworker he was with titter nervously. As I bit down on my spontaneously bleeding inner cheeks so as not to scream, “No, you asshole, we have taken away nature’s ability to rebalance itself. Nature is fucking just trying to take the edge off of all the shit we cram into it by taking a little upper.” Tomorrow, someone will say or do something much more terrible, and that moron’s ignorant comment that turned the effects of global warming into an adorable thing nature was “trying” will seem like a balmy 30 degree evening in Brooklyn. As we head out into the world with a bunch of people too stupid to pull their head’s out of their asses, let us not forget that mediocre is far short of good.



I Feel The Same Way As You Feel About Botox. Painful And Unnecessary.

Gang? Hey guys, everybody grab a piece of floor or sit backwards in a chair in a cool way; it’s time to rap. How was everyone’s day? Good? Good, me too. I bought new bras (Semi-Annual Sale! Run don’t walk!) so everything is good here.

I just wanted to check in and make sure we’re all on the same page about how we feel about Sarah Jessica Parker’s comment that there could possibly be a third Sex and the City movie. Did someone ask for this? Don’t hide in the back if you did. It’s ok. Someone let Russell Crowe be in Les Miserables; some people like Kelly better than Brenda. Sometimes people are wrong, but no one is mad, ok? So you can tell us if you said you wanted it.belding bro

Ok, so no one is going to speak up. That’s fine. Maybe no one did ask for this. I certainly didn’t. What the fuck could another Sex and the City movie do other than reinforce how vapid and unsubstantial the characters have become? How much harder can I wish every cast member of The Golden Girls was still alive and making magic together while watching four shadows of the legacy they left behind? Is there something getting privileged white women down in New York City in a way with which we are as yet unfamiliar? Is there a story about this not sufficiently being told but The Real Housewives of New York?

I have seen Sarah Jessica Parker play everything from the hot witch sister of Bette Midler to the hot social climber who stole Bette Midler’s husband but I have never seen her play any character other than Carrie Bradshaw. Maybe she could just keep doing that in other movies that aren’t Sex in the City and just leave the charred ashes of a once great show long ago destroyed by the flames of hubris to slowly recede into the sea?

Or maybe they’ll go back to Dubai or explore a whole other culture’s most superficial stereotypes! Life is crazy and even empty stories have more chapters!

Panda Gets Her Groove Back

Probably no one has called this to your attention today but it was cold in New York. I live in a moderately shitty old brownstone and when I rolled over this morning at 3:30am, my windows were covered in frost. On the inside. Of my apartment. Which was not even that cold.


That’s just a fun fact. Here are some others:

  • Sasheer Zamata is joining the cast of Saturday Night Live which is awesome. She is a smart performer with razor sharp wit who works to make the other people onstage with her look good. SNL is extremely lucky to have her. There are a million videos of hers flying around the internet but this is one of my favorites:
  • Knowing what frog gigging is apparently makes me a bit of an anomaly in New York City. I have never gone frog gigging and don’t think I’d have the stomach for it, but it’s basically when you go hunting for frogs but instead of reeling them in on a fishing line or shooting them with a tiny harpoon, you stab them through the head with a stick. I’ll just be over here tuning my banjo if you guys want to invite me to do something cool.
  • Evander Holyfield is a homophobe who uses the Bible to back up the idea that being gay is icky. Since I also know that Mike Tyson bit off Evander’s ear at a boxing match that I inexplicably watched live at a family beach trip (where we did go crabbing, but DID NOT GIG), so I now know two things about Evander Holyfield.
  • Books have trailers now. Like movie trailers in that they are videos but made specifically to promote the written word. What the fuck? What happened to just posting the first chapter of the next Sweet Valley High book at the back of the most recently published one?
  • There is a thing called The Selfie Olympics. It is the single greatest offering the internet has made in 2014, including new cats, mostly because like all good things (exfoliating and hair styling) the rules stipulate they must happen in a bathroom.


Guys, my point is that all I did today was read work emails, go to the basement of my building to get teriyaki, come home, and watch episodes of SVU that I have seen countless times. Imagine all the things I (or anyone) could learn with a tiny bit of effort.