Thursday. What a Concept.

Maybe it’s because the one time I was chill in life… things went very badly. Or maybe it’s just this week that’s always an anxious-existential-emotional stewpot for me.

Let’s review…  Sunday: you began with so much outlandish bliss… it’s like that Esthero song from the perennially underrated Down With Love. Everyone should live this song.

Monday gets even better at work… because sometimes you get a writing note that’s the fucking skeleton key to unlock all the bits you’ve been struggling with over a whole season of work. You bounce around the office with such long-legged joy until an assistant tells you have something on your chin and you realize it’s a chapped spot—a little soul patch where a potential squeeze may have kissed you too much just 24 hours prior. You moisturize.

Tuesday becomes slightly more laughable when said squeeze sends you this as a present… you love presents.

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And in the back of your mind, you wonder if he’s trying to tell you something about himself… and/or whether (like Oprah or Toni) you should listen. OR maybe he’s just mistaken you for being wicked-green—when underneath it all you have intense lady-balls.

Wednesday comes and it’s the day when all the mythologies you built up about the one city you always thought would save you… and it still feels broken. It’s the day you shielded your kids from every media outlet possible, only to have them spout frighteningly uncanny observations the very next day. A few years later, this would also be the date your husband says, “I can’t do this anymore,” after just moving you to a brand new city where you neither like or know anyone. In the meantime, you look around at people whose marriages have endured… only to lose their love to a tragic illness while another couple (yes, they’re both writers) celebrates an anniversary in a way you now strangely long for…

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but only with someone who’s really true and good. It’s also a day where you read articles like this one and realize politics will always leave you befuddled and cynical.

And then, you get to Thursday… your assistant tells you the chafe on your chin has healed nicely and you realize after all these years, maybe your rag and bone heart has done so as well. And you think about dyeing your hair some autumnal shade… like Natasha’s. Can you still get away with it? You poll your girlfriends, who all hesitate…

I’m not sure yet…  Much work to do. Stay rad, lovelies – xoxo – gg

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Girls Gone Mild

Morning Lovelies,

Remember back when the above was considered bad?

Oh, for those gentler days when you could take a silent drag alongside your repressed, simmering 1960s ice queen of a mother and know that somehow… things were going to be okay… that all the consequences of female appetite, desire, angst, ambition, anxiety, and murky existential despair could be held at bay for 3-5 minutes and then slowly dissipate, wafting away on an ethereal ribbon of smoke. Oh, for a cigarette.

If the alt-reality of the current world… with people hurling trash cans at each other in the streets while our ridiculous supreme leader proves himself to be messier than a woo-woo girl after bottomless mimosas at brunch. Then, there’s endlessly charming douche-bro Elon Musk waxing poetic about his damn Hyperloop… Seriously, does the man not realize? We can’t even get the subway to work in New York City! We’re not building a 29-minute train from here to DC. We just want to get to Brooklyn… If all of this makes you want to shelter in place and stream Yacht Rock, rest assured you are not alone.

[Sidebar: Holy Proustian flashbacks! I finally figured out where my guy “type” comes from… it’s not from pirates after all! It’s from Yacht Rock! When I was 7, apparently I told my mom I was going to marry Kenny Loggins, live on a farm and be his muse. I think I thought I was Stevie Nix??? So much for that plan.]

In any case, if cigarettes and Kenny are not your jam, DO try Plum Sykes’s recent gem Party Girls Die in Pearls, which I devoured it in 2 sweltering days. Lordy, this girl gives good Beach:

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Without blathering on too much… It’s Whit Stillman meets Miss Marple meets Gossip Girl and they all venture to Oxford to solve addressable problems in late 80s couture. Sykes’s intrepid sleuth, Ursula, gives us curiosity without consequences. Initially, some of the Dickensian character names threw the cynic in me, but it’s pure laugh-out-loud escapism where you also learn a little Latin and are equally comforted by both Plain Granny and Vain Granny. Most of all, I just wanted to meet these Girls-Gone-Mild characters again… if only to learn more of their quirks, charms, faults, and traditions. There’s an innocence here that’s so needed in New York right now. It’s also exactly what you want in a crime series, so am looking forward to the next one.

Just a belated antidote for a mess of a week. For now, I leave you with this snap of Sean Spicer fleeing the Whitehouse—most certainly on his way to shacking up with Kenny.

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Stay rad, Lovelies – xoxo – GG

P.S. If you are seeing doubled-up paragraphs in these posts, sincerest apologies. I think it’s something to do with WordPress, so trying to find a web pixie to sort it out.