Category Archives: Strangers outside of New York

The Bachelorette

Can Trump wait until The Bachelorette is over to make his life-ruining announcements?

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Blake was opening up to Becca just as Trump announced that he was selecting Ken Starr’s second in command as his choice to prevent women from making their own medical choices.

The Bachelorette was already ruined for me when I learned about the frontrunner’s racist, transphobic, and school shooting survivor-mocking social media history. (It’s, like, really bad.) Note that I intentionally used the passive voice because I’m not blaming any one person. There’s a collective responsibility on the part of ABC, Chris Harrison, and each contest to make sure that I can forget about the direction of this country for two hours a week. I watch this show to get away from this stuff, okay? So do better.

Now, Donald Trump has chosen to interrupt my supposed reprieve not once, but twice within a single month. First, he decided to meet with Kim Jong-Un just as Becca was composing a first-date love ballad with loose-cannon Chris and Richard Marx. #KimDon

This Monday, Trump ruined my life and my viewing experience by announcing his pick to wage war on my reproductive rights. (Sobering thought: All of our liberal dreams are now in the hands of Justice Roberts.) Here’s a link to donate to NARAL.

My one request is this: Mr. President, I know you’re out to get me personally, but can you just do so outside of the hours of 8:00-10:00 pm EST Mondays?

the Future is Female

#MeToo and My Trump-Related Panic Attack

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the Future is Female
My boyfriend got me this shirt on Etsy.

I just finished Hillary Clinton’s memoir, What Happened, and I would equate reading it to having a long panic attack. Do you ever have those moments where you suddenly remember that Donald Trump is president and want to kill yourself? That’s what this book is, wrapped up in a 500-page package. I’m not saying you shouldn’t read it. You should. I’m just saying, in the words of Scar (from The Lion King, duh, do you really need to ask?), “Be prepared.”

I do wonder how much different this book might have been if it were published a few months later in light of the #MeToo movement. For instance, would Clinton’s takedown of Matt Lauer be made stronger by the confirmation that he is a uniquely terrible predator, as opposed to merely a bad journalist? Might she have addressed her collaborations with Harvey Weinstein? (Probably not.)

I also wonder whether this movement would have had as much traction—or exist at all—if Hillary Clinton were our president today. Certainly the country’s overall tenor, and the fact that our commander in chief is also a high-profile predator, contributed to the rise of this movement. Am I saying that I prefer a Trump administration to a Clinton one? God, no. That’s like saying I haven’t awoken internally screaming every morning since November 9, 2016.

Still, I think about the time a college student from my neighborhood had his entire family die in an accident, and a former classmate posted on the obituary, “At least one good thing came from this: You know how much everyone cares about you.” I remember thinking what a weird and tone-deaf thing that was for someone to say. But let me try to follow suit by finding the positive in a sea of despair: At least Trump’s presidency has taught some of us (those italics are directed at you, Mitch “child rapists are better than Democrats, I guess” McConnell and Paul “this is what a jellyfish looks like and all the tax cuts” Ryan) how strong and resilient we can be in the face of true horror.

And Trump bragged about sexually assaulting women and then won the presidency three weeks later, so I doubt having an affair with a stripper or asking the FBI director for whom he voted are going to sway you, but to those who still support him, do better and also why?

What exactly is wrong with people that Roy Moore is a more appealing option than Doug Jones?

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Moore is a little younger in this picture than he is now, but still not of an age when it would have been appropriate to have sex with 14-year olds. Fun fact which apparently needs stating these days: It’s never okay to touch someone, no matter what his or her age, without consent!

In case you’ve been living under a rock, horror show of a dumpster-fire human Roy Moore, who is running for Jeff Sessions’s senate seat in Alabama and conflates homosexuality with bestiality, is also a child molester.

So, not only does Roy Moore say heinous things, but he also does heinous things!

Don’t worry, though. It’s okay because of Jesus. “Mary was a teenager and Joseph was an adult carpenter. They became parents of Jesus,” said Alabama State Auditor Jim Ziegler, defending Moore, I guess.

Now, I’m Jewish, so I could very well be mistaken, but isn’t that total bullshit? Isn’t Joseph not actually Jesus’s father, and didn’t they not have sex? Hence Mary being a virgin and all? I kind of thought that was a central theme of the bible. Either way, that defense is dumb. But please let me know either way, right or wrong.

Also, watch this clip of Trenton Garmon, Moore’s lawyer, just being randomly racist on MSNBC, I guess in effort to defend his client? Not sure even he knows what’s going on here.

Meanwhile, Doug Jones, who is finally leading Moore in the polls, but man did that take awhile, is an Alabama lawyer who prosecuted two Ku Klux Klan perpetrators of the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing that killed four African-American girls. To summarize, normal guy who locks up child-murderers vs. gay-bashing child molester who wears a cowboy hat.

(P.S. I won’t tell you what to do, but you have the option of donating to Doug Jones here. Or let a child molester/all-around garbage human be a senator. Again, the choice is try to prevent a judge who deemed marriage equality worse than slavery and likened it to the Holocaust, essentially, and support a prominent lawyer who prosecuted two Ku Klux Klan members for killing children, or be like, “Nah, that sounds fine to me.” Here’s that link again: https://secure.actblue.com/donate/p4b4jones

Lyft Strangers

Lyft, Uber, Trump, and how they all conspired to ruin my boots

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“Why aren’t you smiling?” my Lyft driver asked me.

“Because you’re ugly,” I said.

No, I didn’t really say that. That’s what my friend suggested I respond, though.

Really, I wasn’t smiling because he had made me walk two blocks in the rain, after I had input my exact address into the app. I was wearing new boots. Then he made me listen to Bollywood music and asked if I liked it.

I wish I could still use Uber. It wasn’t better, exactly, but the drivers were a little less chatty IMO. I like my space. (If you don’t know why I’m boycotting Uber, read this.)

My trip to the West Coast yielded some really fruitful encounters with Lyft drivers, including a Hispanic (relevant to the story) man who began the ride by denouncing Trump. I was on board, duh, until he suggested that Hispanic people don’t deserve what our fearless leader is doling out, but maybe Muslim people do. That’s where he lost me. By the time he was saying he couldn’t wait for Trump’s impeachment so we could have Pence, I was all the way on the other side of the map.

Yeah, I can’t wait for the giant party that will be Mike Pence’s reign.

Also, how about Bill O’Reilly? Just while we’re loosely connected to the topic of sexual harassment. My real question is why are we surprised? I was under the impression we knew he had been doing this for years. Maybe I was just confusing him with Rush Limbaugh. All these Republican propagandists are the same to me.

This is not a drinking game

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Since there are already a million drinking games about tonight’s FINAL presidential debate in place, I thought I’d do something a little different based on one of my personal vices: sugar. Lord knows there’s not enough wine to get through these final three weeks as it is, so why not treat yourself to some ice cream? I restrict my dessert intake because I have deep-seated body issues, so I plan on spicing up this debate by treating myself to some mint chocolate chip.*

One spoonful each time:

-Trump lurks behind Hillary like a serial killer (yes, I realize this is not a town hall, but it could still happen. I don’t put anything past that man.)

-The camera pans to Tiffany sitting in an isolated section away from the rest of her family

-Hillary mentions her close friendship with one of the Obamas (two spoonfuls if it’s Malia or Sasha; three spoonfuls if it’s Bo or Sunny)

-Trump uses his share of time to complain that he’s not getting his fair share of time

-Trump interrupts Hillary to complain that he’s not getting enough time

-Hillary mentions Russia or Putin

-Trump forgets which Clinton he’s running against

-Trump finds some more Clinton accusers to sit in Tiffany’s spot

-Trump brings up the emails

-Hillary aggressively takes notes while Trump speaks

-Trump discusses a topic completely unrelated to the question posed

-Hillary recycles “Trumped-up, trickle down economics”

Two spoonfuls whenever:

-Hillary introduces a new catchphrase that she’s been practicing in front of the mirror since the last debate

-You miss Anderson and Martha

-Trump fights with Chris Wallace (three spoonfuls if it’s a physical, rather than verbal, altercation)

-Trump mentions someone besides Sean Hannity to whom he told his secret about not supporting the war in Iraq

Finish the carton whenever:

-A Republican withdraws support from Trump

-You donate to Hillary’s campaign (if you donate to Trump’s campaign, you don’t deserve ice cream. Give it to someone who does.)

-You register a voter in a swing state

-Trump apologizes for sexual assault

-Trump apologizes for anything

-A new assault allegation comes to light

-You find yourself liking Chris as much as Anderson and Martha

-Anyone in the same room as you still pretends to be undecided

-Lester Holt finally remembered what he was going to say from a month ago

*Just kidding. I haven’t had ice cream in like a month. Do you really think I’m sacrificing all this hard-won gym work for Trump?

Brock Turner skipping on home after a brief trip to prison

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It seems like just yesterday that Brock Turner, general scum of the earth and poor excuse for a human being, received a gentle massage of the wrist for raping an unconscious woman outside a party at Stanford. Brock is a precocious rapist, having committed the assault at the youthful age of 20. On Friday, he will be released from prison after serving half of his six-month sentence.

I fondly remember my mom cooking me a special meal when I returned home from college on breaks. Brock’s family will surely welcome him home from prison with a festive celebration. I’m sure it will take some encouragement, but perhaps with the help of therapy from whatever psychologist is willing to treat violent sex offenders, Brock will get his appetite back and enjoy a nice ribeye steak with his dad. Be sure to hide those pretzels and chips, Dad! After all, Brock’s loss of appetite was the real tragedy in this whole ordeal.

It makes so much sense that Brock Turner’s father raised him

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By now, you’ve probably heard about scum-on-the-earth Stanford swimmer’s horrifying father’s plea for leniency for Brock Turner, a young man who underwent the trying ordeal of having raped a woman behind a dumpster after a frat party. (If you haven’t read it, here it is via The Guardian.) I kind of hate that I just called him a Stanford swimmer, because he’s a rapist first.

You may also know about the Turner Family Support Fund Facebook page, which solicited donations for the defense of their son against the violent rape he committed. Not being a parent myself, I can’t speak to what I would do in this situation. I guess you have to keep loving your child, even if that child is a rapist. But you don’t have to ask other people for money to support him. Nor do you have to feel sorry for him because he can’t enjoy a steak and only got “20 minutes of action” out of raping someone.

I wonder if the rapist’s father would feel better if it had taken longer to rape his victim. (Side note: I’m pretty sure he has no actual idea how long the rape lasted.)

How does his mother feel about all this? As noted above, I’m sure she has to keep loving him, but that doesn’t mean she has to be proud of him. I sincerely hope she’s not proud of him.

“I’ve been shattered by the party culture and risk taking behavior that I briefly experienced in my four months at school,” the rapist said in his blame-game statement. Really great use of the passive voice. Your high school English teacher must be proud. I guess it was the abstract “party culture” that violently raped a woman, and subsequently made you the victim of its evil pull.

“These things force me to never want to put myself in a position where I have to sacrifice everything.” First of all, that statement offends the victim. Secondly, it offends the English language, because what? I’m really sorry about the sacrifices you had to make in order to rape someone.

I can’t respond to this any better than the victim herself did. If you haven’t read her statement to Brock, please read it in full here.

In summary, The Onion said it best with this amazing video from 2011.

How not to make small talk with strangers: Weirdos Abroad part II

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On our second day in Iceland, my friend and I decided to visit the local hot springs. In the hot tub, a woman came and sat near us.

“You look really familiar,” she told me.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“America,” she said. Well, yeah. I got that.

We did the whole where-are-you-from, where-did-you-go-to-school, etc., and found no hidden connection. “Were you on the trip to see the Northern Lights last night?” my friend asked. Yeah. That was it. The connection was from being in Iceland.

The woman, whom I will call Susie (mainly because I can’t actually remember her name), started telling us about her PhD program. She was a TA, she said. That was the last normal thing one would tell a stranger during small talk that came out of her mouth.

Susie proceeded to tell us that she hated everyone in her program, because they all hook up with each other and she’s too professional to get involved in that kind of debauchery. She launched into a long story about a man in her program who routinely teaches class drunk. One time, she said, he arrived so drunk that he began throwing up and eventually passed out after writhing in a pool of his own vomit in front of his class. Despite her efforts to get him fired, she said, he still works there.

Susie also informed us that her students routinely bring guns to class.

“As you do,” I said.

When we left the hot springs, my friend turned to me. “I feel like we can safely talk about what just happened now,” she said.

“I was trying not to make eye contact with you,” I told her. “That just happened.”

The only thing worse than crying babies on planes

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I’ve been traveling a lot this month, and all these flights have reinforced a critical reality that I probably already knew: annoying people on planes are infinitely more annoying than annoying people elsewhere.

Yesterday, on my flight back from San Francisco, I boarded the plane and made my way to my aisle seat. There was a woman wearing pancake makeup sitting in the middle seat in my row, a fur stole hung over the back of her seat. Strangely, this didn’t immediately scream high maintenance to me.

As soon as I sat down, she remarked, “So I guess we’ll have to stand to let that person in,” gesturing to the window seat. I agreed with this hard-hitting analysis of our seating arrangement. “You know,” she continued, “I usually like the seat you’re in.”

“Oh,” I said.

“You want that seat?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She sighed dramatically. “I’m going to be bothering you a lot to go to the bathroom.”

I was so excited for the six-hour flight.

When the food cart came around, she asked for the flight attendant’s opinion on the quinoa wrap. She held up a credit card. “I can’t find my other one.”

“This is fine,” the flight attendant said.

“I don’t know where I put my other one,” she said, rummaging around in her purse. “I can’t find it. Oh, here it is. I guess you can use that one if it’s too late.”

When the drink cart came by, she asked for a “Cabernet wine.”

“And I need a headset, too. I’ve already missed half the movie. And these grapes are rotted.”

Three “Cabernet wines” later, she knocked an empty bottle onto my bag. “These trays are too small,” she whined. She apologized profusely. Just kidding, she didn’t.

After observing our delightful seatmate craning her neck and sighing dramatically several times trying to get the flight attendants’ attention, the woman in the window seat told her about the call button overhead. She was charmed and inspired. The flight attendants, I imagine, were not.

Silence is golden, but duct tape is silver: Weirdos Abroad part I

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Hello dear readers and welcome to a very special series I’m calling “Weirdos Abroad.” While traveling in Iceland recently, I was reminded that sometimes traveling Americans are even more annoying than those who are being obnoxious domestically. In each part of this series, I’ll examine an individual or individuals who made me embarrassed that I share their nationality.

We’ll start with a trip to the Blue Lagoon. The bus ride took around an hour, but it felt like five years due to two people sitting behind my friend and me. I’ll call them Bill and Sally. Bill and Sally are probably in their late fifties. They are not married to each other; Sally’s husband was not present, and Bill was Tindering the whole ride. How do I know this? Because they never stopped talking.

Bill had long sideburns and a soul patch, a look that was popular before my birth and attractive never. Throughout the ride, he frequently referenced his many dates and informed his traveling companion that she would be his wing man.

Sally is from the Midwest. If possible, she likes to talk even more than Bill. She narrated our whole trip.

“Look, it’s moss,” she exclaimed. “I wonder where it all comes from?”

“And now it’s raining,” she noted.

At this point I turned to my friend. “I will give them $10 to stop talking for five minutes.”

She didn’t think that would go over well.

“I think I’m going to bed early tonight,” Sally said at one point. I got it. Her vocal cords were probably raw.

“You can’t,” Bill wailed. “You’re going to be my wing man.”

“The only people who get my humor are children, old people, and East Coasters,” Bill said.

“I hate East Coasters,” Sally said.

My friend and I, born, raised, and currently residing on the East Coast, shared a look.

We were lucky enough to end up on the same bus as Bill and Sally on the way back. Before getting on the bus, Bill stopped a young Asian woman.

“Do. You. Speak. Eng-lish?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Where is this bus going?”

She looked at him, shrugged, and walked away.

Bill shook his head at Sally. “She didn’t understand me.”