Fate, Fury, and a Lifetime of Wet Socks

Good God… We are most certainly in The Bad Place. It was hard not to projectile weep yesterday.

Everyone needs to rush to their nearest public library and read both Kant and Lysistrata right now. And, WTF? If the actual FBI investigation had lasted as long as Susan Collins’s social studies disquisition… There might be some evidence to support the multiple claims that this pasty bro-bag is unfit for a lifetime appointment to any job… nevermind the highest court in the land. The whole thing makes me want to rage donate… The best curse I heard on Twitter was, “I wish her (Collins) a lifetime of wet socks.” Wet socks (along with damp bath mats) are the worst and so I wish the GOP an eternity of them. How do you like them apples, you hillbilly Mothertruckers?

I remember being a girl, watching Anita Hill from our tiny town in northern California and thinking then, “Why doesn’t anyone believe her?” The saddest thing is that in all this time nothing has changed. This whole “We-believe-something-happened-to-Dr. Ford” line but that she’s somehow damaged or “mixed up” because “it couldn’t be our guy,” when there are so many people attesting to his antics just tells us that nothing has changed. We still don’t believe women… not at work, not at home, not in the doctor’s office. Republicans… Fate and fury are coming for you because… WAY to step on ALL the women—and a fair amount of men.

“If you want me, I’ll be in the bar…”  —said Joni Mitchell to just about everyone.

Yours in fate & fury – XOXO – Gotham Girl

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PS – Liza Donnelly is not messing around…

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Big Little Sighs

Photo illustration by Cristiana Couceiro. Source photograph: Igor Ustynskyy

Hello, Lovelies… How the hell are you?

Behold, Spring. Mother nature’s way of saying, “Let’s get down!”

Amid the four nor’easters we’ve had here, I’ve found it necessary to shelter inside an emotional support meatloaf… Vegetarians, look away. This one’s a mashup of Ina Garten’s recipe tempered with the dark arts of Lipton onion soup mix. (Thereby sparing everyone the weepy misery of chopping three yellow onions in favor of a little packet of MSG nirvana.)

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It’s a blend of high and low culture that satisfies every time—much like champagne and potato chips. Oh, but gone are those days. A cheat day now and then is the best I can muster. And I’ve been cooking at the end of a long, snowy road, on hiatus from the city while I freight train through two TV scripts.

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One, dealing with neurodiversity, I’ve started and stopped at least twenty times with my writing partner… I’ll say cranky things like, “No, no, no… That’ll never work, that’s been done…”  just as he manages to pry the barnacles off and we come up with something nifty and almost weird enough to work. The other script is a single-camera half-hour rom-com series built around epilepsy, anxiety, and depression. My heart/brain still skips a beat/synapse that anyone’s actually interested, but there it is.

For reading during this latest storm/news cycle… I’d originally planned something intellectually rigorous like Diane Ackerman’s gorgeous A Natural History of the Senses. (Imma comin’ Diane!)

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Instead, I found myself retreating to the comforts of David Rakoff’s hilarious essay collection Fraud (since imposter syndrome is the central theme of my life).

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I’ve also been fangirling the eff out of some of my favorite writers on women’s pain and addiction like Abby Norman (review of Ask Me About My Uterus to come!) and Leslie Jamison.  Damn… Jamison’s words in her anti-memoir The Recovering: Intoxication and Its Aftermath “More. Again. Forever…” recalled the watery longing of mothers I knew from many a wine-soaked book club, the palpable ache for a deeper connection, more than for access to any Jack London’esque “white light” of creativity.

I’ve never been one who can write on the sauce (despite loving it). And I don’t get writer’s block as much as a kind of writer’s malaise that manifests in the form of big little sighs, working alone every morning in my pajamas, until some Mary Karr-ish language tumbles out: Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Don’t. You daft girl… Who on earth ever told you that you could do this? 

But then I go on. Here’s a great huzzah to the thrumming of buds and bugs and to a few more words.

Until tomorrow, hold fast – XOXO – GG