The Blonde Gets It… In The End

As it goes with most things noir… The blonde always gets it in the end.

Here’s Will Bunch’s column from last month about Reality Winner, questioning why she’s getting the longest sentence for a leaker in history — after releasing some of the truth about Russian hacking that the current scuzzy administration didn’t want you to see.

I am still dealing with the bits and pieces of the CA wildfires, but let’s just hope these disgusting dye jobs get it in the ultimate end…

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Stay rad and hold on tight, Lovelies! xoxo – gg

 

 

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On Being the Mother Who Always Gets Caught: Epic Mom-Fails, Saves, and Bonus Moms

I don’t know about you. You’re probably better than I am.

I am the mother who always gets caught. It’s practically a law of physics. If I go off-script even a little, say I break the rules, trying to stand up for my kids to mean teachers (who later turned out to be shady) or go the extra mile to be “the fun/cool mom”—it’s an utter catastrophe.

Even the times when I finally buckle and say,  “Sure thing, kiddo! Let’s stay all four days of the school campout” when other parents just stay one, and although I try to stick to the script—singing merrily ’round the campfire, chopping organic veggies with all the other proper, chipper married parents—something always happens.

Suddenly, a terrified shriek disturbs the cathedral hush of the woods… and my perfect, beautiful child is standing before us all now with a broken tooth. Her wrist has its own new elbow. She has just gone head-over-heels-over-razor-scooter and is bleeding profusely about the mouth. Of course, we are in the wilderness where you can actually see the stars in an overhead blanket of velvety indigo. Fortunately,  in our motley crew of parents, there are two dentists and a doctor who all swoop in to pronounce that the front tooth can be saved and that her wrist isn’t broken. Ice packs and Ibuprofen are quickly administered.

We pass a sleepless night in our $40 tent from Target. At dawn, we race back to town to the pediatric ER where it turns out her wrist is broken. (In all fairness to Louis, the parent/ doctor, he’s a pulmonologist, not an ortho.) The on-call dentist saves the tooth, after which my darling girl rests a day and then we go back up to the campout to get her cast graffiti-ed. I never want either of my kids to suffer. It kills me. I’m sick of platitudes about how it builds character. Shut up about that already. The girls already have a surplus of character—they are both wickedly charming and resourceful.

***

My worst epic mom-fail happened when I decided, as a single mother who hadn’t had sex in over a year, to try to pull off a quick shag between basketball practice and dinner. (I know we all think mothers don’t or shouldn’t do it, but I was dying.) I raced home from work, the person I’d been flirting with for several months was waiting on my doorstep like a perfectly wrapped man-present. No commitments, no needs, he was just right there. I was WAY off-script and DTF. (People think I don’t know that acronym, but I do) We swiftly took to the sheets.

Little did I know that this week, the basketball coach decided to end practice early to let the girls rest up before the big game, which is how my poor, long-suffering daughter ended up bounding into my big game. But that’s not the worst of it…

As she bounded in… I screamed, “Noooooooooooo!!!”

At that moment, the guy on top of me leaped out of bed and headed, naked, for the window (Where was he planning on going? We lived on a high floor, was he jumping? That’s not okay.) He was so frantic, he accidentally tripped on the drapes, pulling the curtains, rods, and everything down and out of the plaster. So not only, was he in the buff in front of my horrified teenage daughter. Our neighbors and the entire city got a look-see of this wildly cringe-worthy moment.

Never trying that again.

***

My one win in all the years… I was on a conference call and after years of biblical wrath from me about mom-having-to-do-conference-calls-from-home-so-you-must-be-seriously-on-death’s-door-if-you-plan-to-interrupt-and-so-on, I’m listening to the creative team making their very best effort to sell a great, but impossible idea, when my youngest scampers in, eyes like meatballs, clutching her throat with a yellow post-it that said, “TIDDLYWINK!” She was choking on an effing Tiddlywink game chip! Why was it in her mouth to begin with? She was thirteen. That’s not how you tiddle.

I hung up the phone, whipped my daughter around and gave her the Heimlich maneuver. The chip went down instead of flying out, but she could breathe. And so again, we were off to the pediatric ER with our very calm neighbor Dean (because I was not so calm) where the Tiddly-chip was deemed non-toxic and you can probably guess the rest. Just one good moment. Phew…

***

Last thing, a hearty thanks and a happiest Mother’s Day to all the bonus moms who helped this hapless mom along the way—Joy, Claire, Maia, Jacqueline, Helene, Diana, Susan, Kirston, Teodora, Camille, Holly, Alisa, Mo, Serena, Adam Z and Charles, I’m not worthy… clearly.

Stay rad and have a meaningful day – xoxo – gg

 

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And the Award for Most Likely Monster Goes to…

Harvey Weinstein… OR failed Propecia spokesmodel and great Trumpkin himself… OR the above very dedicated plainclothes New York cop?

Usually, it’s the mother who gets it in the end (see below my cat-canary get up from ages ago… har-dee-har)

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But this year… my money’s on number two, Lovelies! That guy is going down.

Happy Halloween! I’d say have a raucous one except that the world already feels a little too much that way and college essays are due tomorrow… so I’ll most likely be doing some histrionic handwringing a la our faves here… (yes, we’re looting the Trocaire box for the six-to-eight children)

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In the meantime, stay rad, stay safe and I have so much to tell you very soon!

xoxo – GG

You Know You’ve Made It When…

You suddenly find yourself on the Darkweb. Indeed, if people in North-South-Western Siberia are pirating your hard-won, pithy zingers, at least you know your work is probably never going away.

Someone at your reading asks how you’re dealing with becoming more well known… right after the security guard just told you the event was sold out and you wouldn’t be allowed in.

You realize you don’t want a robot vacuum cleaner that auto-maps your now slightly larger apartment only to hock said map to creepy Black Mirror-style advertisers who then want to help furnish your spartan living room via sponsored content that you yourself are paid to write.

You end up on a literary panel with a group of transracial pharmaceutical fracking advocates and are left to wonder if that means they dig for Prozac while being of indeterminate ethnic heritage, but you don’t want to trigger anyone by asking, so you end up being the quietest girl at the conference.

You now have an assistant who does things like re-label the microwave buttons after that unfortunate salmon incident:

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I’ll be back in two weeks after I’ve finished final edits on my next book. This one’s not so much a tell-all as it is a thank you note. In the meantime, in the midst of the ongoing onslaught of existential tragedy, maybe we should all re-read Anne Lamott’s three essential prayers: Help, Thanks, Wow. Seems to say it all these days.  xoxo – GG

PS for locals – This is never the way to jump a turnstile:

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Dear God, Please Spare Mar-a-Lago…

Please have Irma, Jose or Katia (praise DACA) AVOID exactly these coordinates (whatever they may be) and SKIP harming anything (like a sand trap or a certain Cheeto-hued ladies’ golf enthusiast) therein…

Seriously, all thoughts to people in the middle of climate chaos. Oy vey… Be safe.

Hello, Lovelies!

Lordy, what a frightful week and it’s only Wednesday! Since God usually does the OPPOSITE of what I want, I thought I’d offer up a Rosary to the forces of the universe. I am swamped with the widows and orphans of my latest mess, but thought I would still forward something hilarious before people on the East coast fall prey to day drinking:

 

To my dear editor, I promise not to argue anymore about the title. I was just trying to keep the book from sounding like a Lifetime movie of the week and getting shelved in the medical oddities section of the store. I take your point and I consider myself lucky!

I’ll send up a smoke signal when I’m circling the runway.

For now… XOXO – GG

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PS – And to all you festive Wiccans out there… I think the candles and whatnot might be working 🙂

We Are Never Meeting in Real Life

by the amazing Kate Curtis

Hello Lovelies,

How the hell are you? I’m trying to stay chipper in the home stretch of the edit and am employing all means necessary to stay focused. Meanwhile, I look like the Unabomber and have been asked for cover art examples… Yay, cover art! I think I want something equal parts cartoonishly self-deprecating and slightly evil for this collection since it’s mostly about falling on my face. I sent my editor this cover from Andrew Sean Greer’s LESS (a charmer of a book) but then also Samantha Irby’s wickedly funny We are Never Meeting in Real Life. Am open to suggestions…

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In the mean time, can you believe that shit-for-brains, megalomaniacal hairball is telling people in Texas to have a great time all while making it clear he hasn’t a clue how pickup trucks actually work? I swear that guy is going to have a serious class warfare reckoning when people invade his hotels like the army of the dead, flooding in with their Whitewalker toenails demanding hot showers and pedicures.

On another track, RIP Walter Becker…  I’ve always had a Grand Canyon-sized soft spot for Steely Dan (when I wasn’t freestyling to Kenny).

We’re having a sneak peek of autumn here… it’s the best. I just saw a woman in a quilted jacket, which means fashion week is nearly upon us. Yay, statement coats!

Okay, back to work… and many thanks to Craig Stacey for his totally poignant thoughts on loss and Dostoyevsky. SO exactly what I needed for structuring that troublesome chapter. What a gift.

Stay rad lovelies –  XOXO – GG

 

Homesick For Another World?

Hello Lovelies,

Here we are again… weathering still another week of not-so-subtle brutalities of the world. I don’t know about you, but I have yet to bleach the image of Steve Bannon as some kind of auto erotic yogi from my mind’s eye.

Since last we spoke, the nation has no doubt unclenched its universal anus over the scary healthcare repeal, the Mooch has come and gone faster than New York Fashion Week and with a far less pleasant finale. Who in his right mind blow-dials The New Yorker? The whole script strains credulity and possesses all the trappings of a melanin-deprived telenovela.

Of course, telenovelas and soaps are governed by the three T’s: trauma, talk, and tears. Something big happens to a character. She or he texts/calls a frienemy to recount it. The two make a rendezvous to review the particulars again upon which tears ensue. Then, the director shouts “Cut! Everybody safely back to one,” and they go again. The one rule of the telenovela writer is to TELL, don’t bother to show, primarily because telling is fast (and cheap) to crank out on a daily basis. And yet, the above bottle does not seem quite big enough for even the fate-and-fury writers of the current Whitehouse.

Yes, all the telling and retelling inoculates us from trauma, which gives some solace, because no one in a telenovela is ever permitted to be content for more than oh say… 3-5 minutes. If you meet your soulmate in a soap script, he’ll be in a serious accident and not recognize you the very next day. As soon as he recovers his memory and haltingly utters your name from the hospital bed, his identical long-lost cousin will arrive on the scene to set him up as the Patsy in a hideous crime, only to have another guy who has secretly adored you for forever but whom you’ve kept in the friend zone, selflessly sleuths his way into getting your amnesiac soul mate exonerated, just as you then instantly become the target of Russian oligarch money launderers.

Things repeat until you hit a critical mass of tens of millions of viewers all mesmerized by a narrative wrap-up that somehow satisfies their deep collective longing all while morphing into a new set of miseries. Sometimes the tears get extra-physical and you even have Joan Collins and Linda Evans fight-clubbing it out in a lily pond… that was something to put the kids down early for.

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But doesn’t all of it make you homesick for another world? (not the soap opera itself) but an actual other world? Hello, Brian Greene? Where is string theory when we need it?

I’ve been trying ever so hard to see the world through book-colored glasses since I am unable to run away to France with its nation of cheese geniuses and handsome statesmen who appreciate older blonde ladies. With this in mind, I’ve been reading Ottessa Moshfegh’s collection of stories with the same marvelous title.

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These existential vignettes are like going to that dirty old dive bar out on the far edge of town, the one you never stopped loving. Maybe you found your name scrawled in a bathroom stall there with some pithy, nasty hyperbole that did you proud. Maybe it’s the kind that serves up a sweet-bitter cocktail with just enough orange oil in between laugh-out-loud rants. Moshfegh’s voice is a dark, funny razor cutting away at oh-so-human foibles. The characters are pimply, brash, wildly sullen and then whisper-sweet-tender. It’s uncomfortable at times, but there’s also a quietude in this book that runs completely counter the current melodramas of our world. You’ll fly through reading it and you’ll remember how you are all the good and all the bad rolled up in one. You virtuous, tasty taco, you.

As I write this, something else crazy is probably happening. I can’t look without another round of George Benson. Some of you have written to ask if I have forgiven McCain for his voting acrobatics and the short answer is: I haven’t. I don’t want any one white guy having that much power over our healthcare… not now, not ever.

Stay rad, Lovelies – xoxo – GG

P.S. Is this not the best business card ever? These were the real mavericks of last week.

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