Heat like this comes in waves.
The people on the streets look wrung out. Strangers snarl at each other on public transportation. Islands of garbage rot in the sun. It’s really best to stay at home and lose your pants.
I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
I think it’s high time that we stopped using the word “pussy” as a pejorative.
We use it to describe someone who’s cowardly or weak. I’m not an athlete or anything, but I’m pretty sure there’s nothing more hardcore than being able to push a seven-pound, 20-inch human being out of your soft parts. And that’s if the baby’s average-sized. Some people squeeze 10-pound infants out. Even crazier: They go on to have sex and get pregnant again.
How is this not as respected as completing the Ironman triathlon? I think it’s just as insane, err, arduous and incredible and I-don’t-ever-wanna-do-that-please-don’t-make-me-do-that.
I wrote down all my reasons for not blogging. Paragraphs of them. The reasons had reasons I couldn’t go into. But good news: I was going to blog again. I missed it, I said. This happened a few times. Don’t tell me how many. I think it was three? Let’s say it was three.
But I didn’t miss blogging enough. Or maybe I’m a tease. Someone even suggested I’m over it, but I haven’t found my next adventure. I’m refusing to break up with this blog until something cuter that doesn’t know all my stories comes along.
Alas, no inclusion of “waiting on line,” instead of “waiting in line,” but I say a lot of this.
If you’re still into “Shit ___________ Say,” check out my contribution, Shit Shiksas Say. It’s a joint project with a TV writer friend from L.A.
Can you tell which tweets are from a Jewish guy and which are from an actual shiksa?
I know it’s all over now, but in case you’re wondering… I still don’t like Christmas. I want to foreclose on gingerbread houses and silence the godawful music. (By the way, this song is about date rape, not holiday spirit.) I want to boycott shops with gaudy decorations. And yeah, I sort of want to tell kids the truth about Santa. Gently!
Instead, I spent most of December thinking about my second annual I-don’t-care-about-Christmas advent calendar. Here’s what I did:
I have a few terrible stories about renting in NYC.
Or the time a different pervy super tried to walk in on me in the shower and then implied that I had an incestuous relationship with my dad.
But Kelly, my friend/mentor/blog Samaritan, has the best horror stories. I mean that in general. If horror stories were apartments, she’d have a whole building somewhere in Brooklyn. And if apartment horror stories were contests, which Curbed has gone ahead and done, she’d be story number three.
The scary news is that I haven’t really left my apartment in three days, due to bad weather and lots of work. It snowed slushy, nasty snow-like precipitation on Saturday. I loved it, because it made me feel better about skipping Halloween parties. Now it’s just cold. Well, it looks cold from inside, and my heater’s on.
The nostalgic news is that this was my best Halloween costume ever. My step-grandmother sewed it out of a highly synthetic material that gives me the itchies just thinking about it. You can tell what I was, right?