Monthly Archives: August 2015

Stepford American Girl has arrived
People says: “Larkin, whose story is set in 1954, is a strawberry blonde who loves to draw – and yes, she comes with plenty of era-appropriate outfits, including a poodle skirt.” I just threw up in my mouth.

The latest American Girl is here, and her name is Maryellen Larkin, and I can’t. First of all, she is nine years old and wearing pearls. Secondly, her crocheted cardigan matches her crocheted handbag. Again, she’s nine.

I’m glad that they’re throwing the “Be Forever” collection a bone, because I do miss the early (better) days of American Girl. But you know what the world doesn’t need? A doll training for her M.R.S. That’s all I see in this chick.  I’m sure her mother Mrs. Biff Larkin is teaching her how to make a nice meatloaf to please her man, so she’ll be all set to wife it up when she turns nineteen. And she’ll learn how to set that table righty-oh in finishing school.

Did I mention the pearls?

Monday morning on the F train


I frequently see people sleeping on the subway. It’s not as often that I see someone spread out across almost an entire bench having the nap of her life at 9 a.m. on a Monday. I got in this car because I thought I spotted empty seats this morning and was excited. I was wrong.


In case you can’t read what her tattoo says, it reads “Fuck me hard.” I’m really glad she has that tattoo because otherwise someone might be tempted to fuck her gently.

The five most annoying kinds of people on the subway

Ranked from least to most offensive.

5. People selling overpriced candy bars. If it were just kids I’d semi-understand, but when grown ass dude are trying to get me to pay $5 for Welch’s fruit snacks I’m entitled to a little fury. The vending machine at work already rips me off.

4. People eating Cheetos/other gross foods. IMO if you absolutely must eat food during your 45-minute commute, it should be a clean, neat, odorless food. Carrot sticks. Celery. A banana. If I can smell your food it’s the wrong kind. If it’s staining your fingers a color that does not occur in nature, nope.

3. Mariachi bands. The Bachelor franchise treats them like they’re the mother of all romance. I hear them coming and want to switch subway cars.

2. People selling Jesus. Sample speech: “I was in a bad place, and then I found Jesus. You can do. Give me money.”

1. Showtimers. Nothing sends chills down my spine like the announcement “It’s showtime!” as two teenagers demand that everyone clears the aisle to show us their latest routine, which inevitably involves glorified pushups from the handlebars, hat-throwing, somersaults to the sound of pulsating music for which I am way too old. A third teenager stands to the side politely catcalling his friend: “That’s right. Way to go. All right.”

Honorable mentions go to:

-That guy who was sitting on the subway car floor with an entire amp/bass setup who played heavy metal from one stop to the next. Then he went around asking for money. When he got to me, he asked me to be his girlfriend. When I declined, he asked for my phone number. When I declined, he asked if he could walk me home. As much as I wanted him to know where I live, our romance was not to be. That could have been my future husband and I totally missed my chance.

-That guy selling copies of his self-published memoir. Point for creativity, Dude.

Good thing I wasn’t popular in middle school

According to a New York Times article about a new study published in Child Development, the kids who were cool in middle school are now losers in their early twenties. I realize we’re talking about people four years younger than I am, but it does lead me to wonder/fantasize: Is the reverse true? I was a certified loser in middle school, so does this mean I’m totally killing it now?

Pretty sure no. But to be fair, there’s probably a separate category for ladies who went to all-girls Quaker schools like I did.

I miss old school American Girl


I found this on ebay, where Felicity is being sold for $350. I guess whoever owned her never played with dolls, and thus has no soul, but this made me realize that if I weren’t so attached to inanimate objects I could be rich.

Felicity was my spirit American Girl. Yours was probably Samantha, and you’re wrong. Felicity basically could have prevented the Revolutionary War if her parents weren’t so mad at her for like stealing her own guitar. Samantha was an heiress at the age of nine, and her big accomplishment was befriending an orphan, I guess to show how generous of spirit she was to hang out with people who weren’t rich like her.

But Samantha is still better than those “girls of today” they have now. The whole point of American Girls was that they taught us about history and girl power. They’ve retired most of the originals (i.e. best ones), including Felicity and Addy, who were both pretty badass. My grandpa gave me Felicity for Chanukkah when I was seven, and then my other grandparents gave me Addy, so the competition for my love worked out pretty well for me.

Fun fact: when I was eight, I was the flower girl in my aunt’s wedding and wore Felicity’s Christmas dress (specially made in the same fabric as the bridesmaids’ dresses). I was so cool.

Also, I wrote to Pleasant Company and asked them to create a Jewish American Girl. They didn’t, but they did introduce a Chanukkah set, which was a blue and white outfit (because Israel) and a mini menorah and fake gelt. I guess they have a Jewish American Girl now, but it took them fifteen years after that letter, so maybe I don’t deserve congratulations for effecting change.

In summary, the world was a much better place when Pleasant Company was in charge. Also, the dolls only cost $80 then, and I get that that’s super expensive for a doll, but now they cost like $100,000, and okay inflation, but still.

Shout-out to Betches Love This, who recently ranked the American Girl dolls by betchiness and inspired this post. (I still disagree with their rankings, though.)

I have a lot of feelings

The PATH has a very specific odor. Last year, I had a boyfriend who lived in New Jersey, so I spent a fair amount of time smelling that smell, which is not terrible; it just kind of exists.

When I passed the entrance at 14th Street recently, I smelled that smell, and I thought about him. For a couple minutes, I cried. (If you don’t live in New York, you should know that it’s not that unusual to see people walking along a busy street with tears streaming down their faces, so nobody really looked up. This is a city where a clown dressed in drag riding a bicycle with plastic flowers on the handlebars once told me I was pretty, and it totally made my day because who doesn’t like to hear that they’re pretty? And my friend from out of town was like, “What was that?” And I was like, “You think it’s weird that he said I was pretty? Do you not think I’m pretty?”)

Anyway, I wondered what he was doing, and if he ever thinks about me. (The ex-boyfriend, not the clown. The clown probably doesn’t think about me.) Usually I don’t miss him, but sometimes I do. Now that it’s summer, when things were good and right, I think about him a little more.