Make it Quick, Satan

“Why do they always look like they are about to eat Coraline?”

Hello, Lovelies. How the hell are you?

Ahoy from this absurd hell, where time has all but slowed to a standstill and the award for most ridiculous superspreader event goes to Austria for a yodeling conference. If you think about it… all a Trump rally really is is a much less artful yodeling convention. High on a hill is a scary goat herd.

And then there’s our dear ex-president… yes, Obama does seem to be rather enjoying his new gig as needler-in-chief. What’s better is that he’s just so damn good at it… twisting the knife.

Still… has the state of constant disaster preparedness left you in a constant blender cycle of fight or flight? Are you eating your feelings? Are they all made of pie? You are not alone. That said, we may need to appeal to the baser powers to get us through these last days… Make it quick, satan. Make your move… Remind us of all of our scrappy ways.

The other day I had what can only be referred to as a New York conversation. I needed something from a woman on the other end of the line. Her voice was fast and low, she didn’t fuck around: “Here’s what you need to do,” she said… Ah, my maven, my answer, I thought. She didn’t over-explain shit like men here so often do. There weren’t too many words. I told her to stay safe and felt her slight telephonic smile as we hung up. I missed that. Ah, New York City where you always carry a knife in your purse… in case you encounter danger or a bagel.

Last night, a friend reminded me that if these are our the last four days before another civil war or some such crazy thing, we’ll remember them as the last BEFORE times so, we need to let go of certainty right now or it will make us nuts. Instead, he suggested we enjoy a little of what’s good…

Some things that are objectively good right now:

Queen’s Gambit… This generation’s Beautiful Mind

I am obsessed with these hypnotic Chinese gardening videos… this woman’s goddamned effortlessness is a wonder.

Seeing how different brains hear music…

A new genre-busting movie… Thorp… that will take you out of these last four days, and which I’m pretty sure Daniel Levy from Schitt’s Creek should get behind because there’s just a sweetness here that the world needs right now.

This incredible poetry wisdom of kids… (breath audibly departs)

Stay rad, lovelies and take care of each other. XOXO – GG

Granny Panties, Bitch Slap Coffee and a Hundred New Yorkers…

Imma come right out and say it… er repeat it… I just want girls to have ALL the things! It has been a good week for women’s hineys here in Gotham.

~ Mayan Toledano

Photo by the amazing Mayan Toledano of itsemeandyou.com

Between the return of the granny panty and the full-bush Brazilian wax… I’m feeling pretty righteous. No doubt, everyone has read the NY Times piece on the granny panty’s stunning comeback… Ladies, set your crotch free and cry hallelujah! I have been voting for this one since I first put on my real granny’s panties… What? I was 4, it was laundry day and funny…and fun. (They were so big they came up to my chin!)

The cherry on top of that literal cherry is that NYC has entered the era of the full-bush Brazilian wax… To be clear, this is when the butt strip (a technical term… and I’m down with it) and bikini line are waxed, but the technician leaves a full bush on the outer labia–rendering the process ever so much more bearable. (You don’t even need to drink!) This is bigger than mere Boho nostalgia people… this is about self-determination and forgiveness… your hoozie is already awesome, it always has been, so wax like nobody’s watching! (or not at all… straightjackets of acceptable womanhood be damned)

New Yorkers know about forgiveness… you see it thousands of times a day in the streets… Subway deodorant fails, opera-singing neighbors, people who missed the Obama PSA and manage to sneeze directly into your mouth, dog poo skid marks on the sidewalk… the trace evidence of some poor sucker simultaneously cursing and forgiving his way down the street. Pseudo intellectual TV shows like True Detective make the case that there’s no such thing as forgiveness–only short memories and forgetting–time is a flat circle, blah, blah, blah…

Forgiveness is intentional. You have to mean it and express it for it to be a thing. (You don’t necessarily have to deserve it) The universal sign of it is the smile. They say New Yorkers don’t smile… that there’s the whole rule of not-looking, of minding your own business. Not so. The lady who knocks into you at Zabar’s sheepishly flashes one, you return it–a momentary connection, a split second of reciprocity and all is forgiven. Yes, in Grand Central, at rush hour, it’s more of a tacit thing, but it’s this ability not just just to roll with things, but to forgive the sins of the city and its people, moment-by-moment that seems a prerequisite for living here… We even have the Dad Mayor… who forgives constantly. Some say too much. I bet he wears granny panties. (People are actually irritated that he’s so reasonable, but that’s for another post…)

I notice it more than ever now that I can’t smile. It’s 3 weeks since the surgery, and while I feel pretty decent… i.e., everyday, I wake up at 7, ply myself with coffee and go to the gym where Marvin has me lifting weights and things. He says, now that I no longer have “Mom-bod” it’s the perfect time. And it’s true, I am pretty little as of late. I’m sure the “straw” diet has helped, but he also says months and months of no booze beforehand will do that to a person too… I don’t know what happened. It was like when I was pregnant… I was just going along when suddenly, one day… wine tasted like complete ass. Now, for a girl who spent her early kid-hood in Sonoma, playing tag in the vineyards, whose family still makes wine, it would seem a bit of a sacrilege, but go figure… So, I feel good, but I still can’t smile or talk much. I have about an hour’s worth of words in me… daily. And while I can totally deal with a mostly-silent, Amelie existence, the not-smiling-part suuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.

Why? Because it means I can no longer take part in those critical moments of street forgiveness/redemption. I can’t smile back. I recently read an essay somewhere that women who smile are less successful business, that more than anything, a woman needs to bring an inscrutable game face. I hate this idea. It’s worse than a thong. I can’t stay like Kirk Douglas… Not for all the money in the world. Walter (my oral surgeon whose real name is Dr. Ira Sturman, the Oliver Sacks of maxillofacial stuff) and his nurse will do anything to make me laugh, smile and/or open my mouth at this point. Yesterday, they presented me with this:

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Today, I’ll go out to do errands in a bit (in my granny panties, yes) and I just hope a hundred New Yorkers bump into me, step on my toes and steal my cab… I hope that somehow the city can bitch slap a smile back onto my face. But before I do that, a bunch of you have written in wanting to know actual, useful things about the city… I’m not very good at that, but friends of mine are… so am posting next…. I swear.

xx – gg