Stephanie Dolgoff's Blog

When I used to go to Loehmann’s with my grandmother, my grandpa and a fraternity of tired, dutiful men sat in a row on the “husband chairs” by the door, variously snoozing, doing the crosswords or listening to Howard Cosell on a transistor radio with a little white one-ear headset. They’d give one another a “whattayagonnado?” nod, pop a butterscotch hard candy and plunk down for as long as it took. And it always took a long-ass time.

What I wouldn’t have done for a “mom chair” at H&M, where I took Viv (who’s coming up on 13) for some jeans last weekend.

Clearly I was cramping her style but there was no place for me to sit and give her some alone time with the zodiac crop tops and T-s (“Born in the ’90s” which she wasn’t). Instead I followed her around helpfully saying things like, “How ’bout this?” “This one is cute,” and “Oh, wow, that’s kind of Coachella-meets-MC-Hammer, but clearly ironic.”

For some reason, she opted to cut our mother-daughter retail bonding session short, which was fine because the music was SO LOUD. While we were waiting to pay, the cashier, who was about 20, called someone on his walkie-talkie to help another customer.

“Walking Dead to register 8 for a return. Walking Dead to 8.”

“Ha, that’s so cool,” I said to Viv. “They have code names for each other. It must make the day go by quicker.” She nodded. “What would your code name be?” She looked up at me, forced a terse smile meant to acknowledge my humanity but also indicate my profound un-funniness, and then looked at her hands. She’s a sweet girl, but these days it’s not cool for me to attempt a connection in public, even if no one we know is around. I forget.

I guess I felt a little lonely so when we got to the register, I smiled and asked the guy if all their Secret Service code names were from TV shows.

He looked at me like he was a Parisian supermodel and I was a mouth-breathing tourist wearing  a “Make America Great Again” baseball hat demanding in English to know where the Eiffel Tower was while standing directly beneath it. His entire face said “What are you even TALKING about?” without one word coming out of his mouth.

He couldn’t possibly have heard me, I figured. Music. Loud. “I thought I heard you page ‘Walking Dead’ a few minutes ago. What’s your code name? If I worked here I’d want mine to be Nurse Jackie,” I said louder, still smiling.

“Um…I paged my manager? So she could help a…customer?” he said, indicating a beautiful young woman on our right with a perfectly unfurling messy bun. She looked as if she had a stylist following her around with a can of Ellnet.

“But did you call her Walking Dead? That’s what I thought I heard.” I was starting to feel a little frantic.

“Um…no. The total comes to $113.11. You can swipe or insert your card.”

And then F*&^k me if he didn’t make eye contact with Vivian, and shoot her a stare of solidarity. (She looked down. Like I said, sweet).

But ouch! All of a sudden I felt my position on minimum wage laws do a giant 180–well, for him, anyway.

“OK, then,” I said, paying. “I still want to be Nurse Jackie,” I muttered, under my breath.

As he was bagging Viv’s clothes, I caught the eye of the messy bun woman, the one Walking Dead had been paged to help. She was around the cashier’s age, in ridiculous shoes that would hurt me but looked amazing on her. She smiled.

“Code names would be so cool,” she said. “Have a good day.”

And just like that, all was well. Nurse Jackie, out.

T shirt from Living Dope.

When I used to go to Loehmann’s with my grandmother, my grandpa and a fraternity of tired, dutiful men sat in a row on the “husband chairs” by the door, variously snoozing, doing the crosswords or listening to Howard Cosell on a transistor radio with a little white one-ear headset. They’d give one another a “whattayagonnado?” nod, pop a butterscotch hard candy and plunk down for as long as it took. And it always took a long-ass time.

What I wouldn’t have done for a “mom chair” at H&M, where I took Viv (who’s coming up on 13) for some jeans last weekend.

Clearly I was cramping her style but there was no place for me to sit and give her some alone time with the zodiac crop tops and T-s (“Born in the ’90s” which she wasn’t). Instead I followed her around helpfully saying things like, “How ’bout this?” “This one is cute,” and “Oh, wow, that’s kind of Coachella-meets-MC-Hammer, but clearly ironic.”

For some reason, she opted to cut our mother-daughter retail bonding session short, which was fine because the music was SO LOUD. While we were waiting to pay, the cashier, who was about 20, called someone on his walkie-talkie to help another customer.

“Walking Dead to register 8 for a return. Walking Dead to 8.”

“Ha, that’s so cool,” I said to Viv. “They have code names for each other. It must make the day go by quicker.” She nodded. “What would your code name be?” She looked up at me, forced a terse smile meant to acknowledge my humanity but also indicate my profound un-funniness, and then looked at her hands. She’s a sweet girl, but these days it’s not cool for me to attempt a connection in public, even if no one we know is around. I forget.

I guess I felt a little lonely so when we got to the register, so I smiled and asked the guy if all their Secret Service code names were from TV shows.

He looked at me like he was a Parisian supermodel and I was a mouth-breathing tourist wearing  a “Make America Great Again” baseball hat demanding in English to know where the Eiffel Tower was while standing directly beneath it. His entire face said “What are you even TALKING about?” He spoke not one word.

He couldn’t possibly have heard me, I figured. Music. Loud. “I thought I heard you page ‘Walking Dead’ a few minutes ago. What’s your code name? If I worked here I’d want mine to be Nurse Jackie,” I said louder.

“Um…I paged my manager? So she could help a…customer?” he said, indicating a beautiful young woman on our right with a perfectly unfurling messy bun. She looked as if she had a stylist following her around with a can of Ellnet.

“But did you call her Walking Dead? That’s what I thought I heard.” I was starting to feel a little frantic.

“Um…no. The total comes to $113.11. You can swipe or insert your card.”

And then f*&^k me if he didn’t make eye contact with Vivian, and shoot her a stare of solidarity. (She looked down. Like I said, sweet).

But ouch! All of a sudden I felt my position on minimum wage laws do a giant 180. Well, for him, anyway.

“OK, then,” I said, paying. “I still want to be Nurse Jackie,” I muttered, under my breath.

As he was bagging Viv’s clothes, I caught the eye of the messy bun woman, the one Walking Dead had been paged to help. She was around the cashier’s age, in ridiculous shoes that would hurt me but looked amazing on her. She smiled.

“Code names would be so cool,” she said. “Have a good day.”

And just like that, all was well. Nurse Jackie, out.

T shirt from Living Dope.

A post I did for my friend Louise over at Singlewith.com. Not grumpy! Just tired! This sentence is purely so I can put an exclamation point after it!

Published on May 6th, 2015 | by Stephanie Dolgoff

I grew up in an anti-Hallmark family in which Valentine’s Day, Father’s Day and Mother’s Day were ignored particularly loudly.

“They’re made-up holidays that big companies are just trying to get you to spend money on,” my own single mom confided when I was a kid. This made me feel savvy and consumer literate, like I had one up on the tchotchke-buying masses. No needlepoint samplers or Strawberry Shortcake mugs with A Berry Special Mom on them for my clear-eyed, lefty mother. “I always love it when you think of me, but for God’s sake, not because some billion-dollar corporation tells you to.”

Then I married into a more conventional family and had twins and realized that if clasping my bra made me feel I deserved a medal some days, then I was sure as shit going to take my appreciation any which way I could get it. I no longer cared that Mother’s Day was a cloying, sentimental capitalist ruse to part us from our money—if there was chocolate and maybe a brunch to be had, I was going to have it! And it really was nice to feel special and feted and appreciated, whether with a glittery, misspelled card or an afternoon to myself, courtesy of my husband. Once I even dragged my mom to my in-laws to share in the made-up-holiday joy, and she kept her radical views to herself.

Read the rest HERE

A post I did for my friend Louise over at Singlewith.com. Not grumpy! Just tired! This sentence is purely so I can put an exclamation point after it!

Published on May 6th, 2015 | by Stephanie Dolgoff

I grew up in an anti-Hallmark family in which Valentine’s Day, Father’s Day and Mother’s Day were ignored particularly loudly.

“They’re made-up holidays that big companies are just trying to get you to spend money on,” my own single mom confided when I was a kid. This made me feel savvy and consumer literate, like I had one up on the tchotchke-buying masses. No needlepoint samplers or Strawberry Shortcake mugs with A Berry Special Mom on them for my clear-eyed, lefty mother. “I always love it when you think of me, but for God’s sake, not because some billion-dollar corporation tells you to.”

Then I married into a more conventional family and had twins and realized that if clasping my bra made me feel I deserved a medal some days, then I was sure as shit going to take my appreciation any which way I could get it. I no longer cared that Mother’s Day was a cloying, sentimental capitalist ruse to part us from our money—if there was chocolate and maybe a brunch to be had, I was going to have it! And it really was nice to feel special and feted and appreciated, whether with a glittery, misspelled card or an afternoon to myself, courtesy of my husband. Once I even dragged my mom to my in-laws to share in the made-up-holiday joy, and she kept her radical views to herself.

Read the rest HERE

 photo by Eric Parker CC

I grew up in New York City, and except for college and a failed attempt to expatriate myself to Seville in my 20s (I’ll teach English! I’ll drink sangria! I’ll pantomime my distaste for rabbit entrails to a man named Carlos who either had a novia or a novela, I’m not sure!) I’ve lived here my whole life.

My theory is this: The best way to measure the age of New York woman is not by how she looks (she always looks amazing) but by her relationship to public transportation. (For you non-New Yorkers, this is a twice a day mandatory up-close-and-personal interaction.) There are distinct behaviors and emotions associated with every life stage. I am in the process of working my way through all of them. To wit:

Little girl You ride public transportation for free and old ladies on the bus tell your mom how cute you are and the world is a wonderful place. You draw hearts with your finger in the condensation you breathe onto the window and think yourself very clever.

Grade schooler You have a bus and subway pass (nowadays a school-issued Metrocard) and if you’re alone, you feel very grown-up and offer your seat to old women because you’re still nice. But sometimes they look at your funny and say no. You’re not sure why. You also notice that some of these older women kvetch about a lot about things, such as how long the bus took to arrive and the way the driver overshot the stop even though THEY WERE WERE STANDING RIGHT WHERE THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO! If you did that your mom would refuse to respond until you changed your whiney tone.

My gals and I, pre-middle school.

Middle schooler You are an utter nightmare on all manner of transportation, goofing around at decibel 11 with your friends and eating nasty orange Cheeto-like snacks, making people want to use backup birth control and/or change cars/and or pray for an early death. You are completely unaware of how excruciating your antics are for tired working moms (and dads) who are schlepping home after a long day, because of your sluggish frontal lobe development or total lack of empathy or whatever. Or maybe you are aware, and are defying your parents by proxy.

High schooler You are most likely doing homework on the subway or bus on your way to school, and are still occasionally a nightmare, giggling idiotically and rolling your eyes while the male of your species does parkour on the D-train.

20something God, you would never take the bus—not if you ever wanted to GET anywhere. Not that you can afford taxis. But the subway, while gross, can sometimes be kinda hot. If you’re up for it, you can exchange smoldering looks with like-minded 20somethings, and perhaps even more. (FTR, I met my ex-husband on the subway when we were in our 20s.) It’s cheaper than a night of drinking at a bar, right, and some of these guys may even not be interns, you know?

30something You still try never to take the bus–it freakin’ crawls and is full of older ladies who kvetch about the service they’re getting. You cannot imagine having the luxury to complain about minor stuff. You are a very busy human, in career ascent as you are and likely starting a family. Public transportation is strictly for getting to point B from point A, and to maybe decompress with some music or a book because everyone wants a piece of you. If you happen to be pregnant, you conduct sociological experiments in your mind to see which guy is most likely to offer you his seat–blue collar/white collar, black/white/Latino/Asian/Arab, Hassid/hipster/talking to himself etc. Most don’t. Unreal! You discuss this endlessly with your pregnant friends.

40something This is where I am. Strangely, you start to kind of like the bus. Such cute kids—except for those unbelievably rude middle schoolers—and maybe yours are the cute little kids over whom old ladies coo. If you have middle schoolers, you talk to them about BEING CONSIDERATE and fail to mention that you were an obnoxious junior high schooler some unfathomably long time ago. Sure the bus is slow, but geez, the subway is so loud and annoying. In fact, nowadays you might let three packed trains go by rather than squeezing on. You start to feel a certain kinship to the older bus ladies who threaten to call 311 if the driver misses their stop. I mean, it’s hard getting older, especially in New York City. You know, maybe you’ll just politely mention to the driver that the bus arrived early the other day and that there wasn’t another for 20 minutes. You know, just a quick word.

50something I’ve got a few years, but I can already see where this is going. You are a junior member of the kvetchers club (even if you kvetch only inwardly) and by decade’s end, simply disgusted by the state of youth today. I mean, one of them actually offered you a SEAT! Should you see your dermatologist? How old did she think you were anyway?

60something You kvetch in decible 11, and you have rewritten history. You no longer recall that you once were the very people you’re annoyed by, and that things were actually worse, not better, when you were riding public transportation in earlier decades. Now there are busses that bow down to make it easier to get on, and the subways are far less filthy and have clearer announcements. But GOD you’re just tired and at the very least THEY CAN STOP AT THE BUS STOP! No wonder they make those announcements about assaulting a bus driver being a felony! It must happen quite a bit if they need to make an announcement about it. You’d never! But you still are sure to let the driver know how you feel.

70s and beyond You are delighted to be retired and love talking to all the cute little kids on the bus—so well-behaved, for the most part. Really, not riding public transportation during rush hour makes New York City a much more habitable place. When young women (and by young, you mean 40something and above) look so worn out or complain you smile at them empathetically but don’t join in. Such negative energy. Who has time when there’s that Yoko Ono one-woman show at MOMA? Such an interesting woman, and so unfairly blamed for the Beatles breaking up…anyway, thank GOODNESS there’s such good public transportation in New York City. You can’t imagine living anywhere else at your age.

 photo by Eric Parker CC

I grew up in New York City, and except for college and a failed attempt to expatriate myself to Seville in my 20s (I’ll teach English! I’ll drink sangria! I’ll pantomime my distaste for rabbit entrails to a man named Carlos who either had a novia or a novela, I’m not sure!) I’ve lived here my whole life.

My theory is this: The best way to measure the age of New York woman is not by how she looks (she always looks amazing) but by her relationship to public transportation. (For you non-New Yorkers, this is a twice a day mandatory up-close-and-personal interaction.) There are distinct behaviors and emotions associated with every life stage. I am in the process of working my way through all of them. To wit:

Little girl You ride public transportation for free and old ladies on the bus tell your mom how cute and well-behaved you are. You draw hearts with your finger in the condensation you breathe onto the window and think yourself very clever. The world is a wonderful place.

Grade schooler You have a bus and subway pass (nowadays a school-issued Metrocard) and if you’re alone, you feel mighty grown-up and offer your seat to old women because you’re still nice. But sometimes they look displeased and say no. You’re not sure why.

You also notice that some of these older women complain about a lot about things, such as how long the bus took to arrive and the way the driver overshot the stop even though THEY WERE WERE STANDING RIGHT WHERE THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO! If you did that your mom would refuse to respond until you changed your whiney tone.

My gals and I, just pre-middle school.

Middle schooler You are an utter nightmare on all manner of transportation, goofing around at decibel 11 with your friends and eating nasty orange Cheeto-like snacks, making people want to use backup birth control and/or change cars/and or pray for an early death (yours). You are completely unaware of how excruciating your antics are for tired people schlepping home after a long day, because of your sluggish frontal lobe development or total lack of empathy or whatever. Or maybe you are aware, and are defying your parents by proxy. You pretty much suck.

High schooler You are most likely doing homework on the subway or bus on your way to school, and are still occasionally a nightmare, giggling idiotically and rolling your eyes while the male of your species does parkour on the D-train to impress you.

20something God, you would never take the bus—not if you ever wanted to GET anywhere. Not that you can afford taxis. The subway, while gross, can sometimes be kinda hot. If you’re up for it, you can exchange smoldering looks with like-minded 20somethings, and perhaps even more. (FTR, I met my ex-husband on the subway when we were in our 20s.) It’s cheaper than a night of drinking at a bar, right? And one time you met a guy who was actually not an intern, you know?

30something You still try never to take the bus–it freakin’ crawls and is full of older ladies who kvetch about the service they’re getting. You cannot imagine having the luxury to complain about such minor stuff. You are a very busy human, in career ascent and likely starting a family. Public transportation is strictly for getting to point B from point A, and to maybe to tune out because everyone wants a piece of you.

If you happen to be pregnant, you conduct sociological experiments in your mind to see which guy is most likely to offer you his seat–blue collar/white collar, black/white/Latino/Asian/Arab, Hassid/hipster/talking to himself etc. Most don’t. Unreal! You discuss this endlessly with your pregnant friends.

40something This is where I am. You start to kind of like the bus—except for those unbelievably rude middle schoolers!–and maybe yours are the cute little kids over whom old ladies coo. If you have middle schoolers, you talk to them earnestly about BEING CONSIDERATE, as if you were never an obnoxious junior high schooler some unfathomably long time ago.

Sure the bus is slow, but geez, the subway is so loud! Was it always that loud? It seems like there are more people in the city than there used to be, doesn’t it? In fact, nowadays you might let three packed trains go by rather than squeezing on. What’s the big damn rush, anyway?

You start to feel a certain kinship to the older bus ladies who threaten to call 311 if the driver misses their stop. I mean, it’s hard getting older, especially in New York City. Come to think of it, maybe you’ll just politely mention to the driver that the bus arrived early the other day and that there wasn’t another for 20 minutes. You know, just a quick word. He should know what’s going on.

50something I’ve got a few years, but I can already see where this is going. You are a junior member of the kvetchers club (even if you kvetch only inwardly) and by decade’s end, simply disgusted by the state of youth today. I mean, one of them actually offered you a SEAT! Should you call your dermatologist? How old did she think you were anyway?

60something You kvetch at decible 11, and you have rewritten history. You no longer recall that you once were all the very people that get on your nerve, and that things were actually worse, not better, when you were riding public transportation in earlier decades. Now there are buses that bow down to you like you’re a princess, to make it easier to get on, and the subways are far less filthy and have clearer announcements.

But GOD you’re just tired, and CAN THEY AT LEAST STOP AT THE BUS STOP? No, you’re sure that’s not too much to ask. And those announcements about assaulting a bus driver being a felony? It must happen quite a bit if they need to make an announcement about it. You’d never assault a bus driver! But if they’d just STOP AT THE BUS STOP you wouldn’t constantly want to.

70s and beyond The bus is rather delightful when you’re retired and can spare 90 minutes to get across town. You love talking to all the little kids—so well-behaved, for the most part. The bus is a little microcosm of society. Really, not riding public transportation during rush hour makes New York City a much more habitable place.

When young women (and by young, you mean 40something and above) look so worn out or kvetch you smile at them but don’t join in. Such negative energy. Who has time when there’s that Yoko Ono one-woman show at MOMA? Such an interesting woman, and so unfairly blamed for the Beatles breaking up…anyway, thank GOODNESS there’s such good public transportation in New York City. You can’t imagine living anywhere else at your age.

The other day my friend Laurel posted on Facebook this: “Okay, what’s the deal with the 20-somethings dyeing their hair silver and gray? Is it ironic? Are they *mocking* us? I need answers. And ‪#‎getoffmylawn‬”

No, they’re not mocking us, because mocking us would imply they thought about us for even a half a second, which they do not. I know I didn’t think about people in their 40s AT ALL when I was that age. Well, maybe my mom, but only as she pertained to me and my personal tragic music video of a life.

What they’re doing is even more irritating.

They’re dying their hair 50 shades of gray to call attention to the contrast between their full lips and dewy, youthful, unlined skin, oozing excess collagen, and something that people associate with old ladydom. “I choose to dye my hair gray because it’s so obviously my choice!” is the message. “I’m young and cute and nothing I do to myself, such as going braless or wearing pounds of eyeliner that makes me look like I’ve stayed up all night–or hell, actually staying up all night!–or dying my hair a color that millions of women pay billions to eradicate, can diminish my youthful glow! Tra la la!”

And they do it entirely without malice toward us Formerlies, because we simply don’t register.

Truth be told, I think it looks cool. And I love seeing someone my age or older who can pull off the natural gray look–some people like (Emmylou Harris and ) have the right coloring for white hair. But in my opinion, it makes most not-young women look, well, less young. Which, you know, isn’t the end of the world, though I’m in no rush. I’m lucky that at 47 I don’t need to color my hair. I have a few grays, but the overall impression is still dark brown, so I’m leaving it be.

But this whole going-gray-on-purpose trend is “not available to me,” as my yoga teacher says about certain poses that are similarly SO NOT HAPPENING. If I dyed my hair gray, I would look 10 or 20 years older, not edgy or radical and certainly not young.

Ah, whatever. I would have felt a little left out 5 or 6 years ago, when I first stepped over onto the other side of young and started this blog. Now, it’s a few hours not spent bent uncomfortably over a sink that I can use to hang out with my daughters or binge-watch House of Cards and work on my smile lines. People ask what happens after “Formerly.” I think this kind of peaceful rolling with it is what happens, or at least it’s what’s happening to me. And I feel even luckier about that.

Photo from Instagram

The other day my friend Laurel posted on Facebook this: “Okay, what’s the deal with the 20-somethings dyeing their hair silver and gray? Is it ironic? Are they *mocking* us? I need answers. And ‪#‎getoffmylawn‬”

No, they’re not mocking us, because mocking us would imply they thought about us for even a half a second, which they do not. I know I didn’t think about people in their 40s AT ALL when I was that age. Well, maybe my mom, but only as she pertained to me and my personal tragic music video of a life.

What they’re doing is even more irritating.

They’re dying their hair 50 shades of gray to call attention to the contrast between their full lips and dewy, youthful, unlined skin, oozing excess collagen, and something that people associate with old ladydom. “I choose to dye my hair gray because it’s so obviously my choice!” is the message. “I’m young and cute and nothing I do to myself, such as going braless or wearing pounds of eyeliner that makes me look like I’ve stayed up all night–or hell, actually staying up all night!–or dying my hair a color that millions of women pay billions to eradicate, can diminish my youthful glow! Tra la la!”

And they do it entirely without malice toward us Formerlies, because we simply don’t register.

Truth be told, I think it looks cool. And I love seeing someone my age or older who can pull off the natural gray look–some people like (Emmylou Harris and ) have the right coloring for white hair. But in my opinion, it makes most not-young women look, well, less young. Which, you know, isn’t the end of the world, though I’m in no rush. I’m lucky that at 47 I don’t need to color my hair. I have a few grays, but the overall impression is still dark brown, so I’m leaving it be.

But this whole going-gray-on-purpose trend is “not available to me,” as my yoga teacher says about certain poses that are similarly SO NOT HAPPENING. If I dyed my hair gray, I would look 10 or 20 years older, not edgy or radical and certainly not young.

Ah, whatever. I would have felt a little left out 5 or 6 years ago, when I first stepped over onto the other side of young and started this blog. Now, it’s a few hours not spent bent uncomfortably over a sink that I can use to hang out with my daughters or binge-watch House of Cards and work on my smile lines. People ask what happens after “Formerly.” I think this kind of peaceful rolling with it is what happens, or at least it’s what’s happening to me. And I feel even luckier about that.

Photo from Instagram

Yesterday my friend accidentally “butt-friended” her ex on Facebook.

She’d been checking out his page–purely to reassure herself that he’d gotten exponentially less attractive over time while she has become lovelier with each setting of the sun–then stuck her phone back in her pocket. When she got an email saying he’d accepted her friend request, she was mortified.

Quickly, she unfriended and blocked him, so her butt wouldn’t act on its worst impulses. But not before he’d taken the opportunity to post something pointed about how weird it was when exes friend and unfriend you in the space of two minutes. “He probably thinks, ‘I knew it all along, she still wants me!'” she moaned.

Now that our smartphones are ever more capable, that means so are our asses! And they act like they’re drunk all the time! One cheek can not only call people in Brazil (a phenom my 11-year-old inadvertently called a “booty call,” and then nearly died from the grossness when I explained what that means) but it can friend, un-friend, tweet, fill out Survey Monkey forms and join far right Open Carry gun activist groups, before the other cheek even notices!

The other day, I butt-activated Siri in the subway and then got really annoyed at the idiot who kept trying to talk to Siri when she kept saying there was no wireless. Until I realized the idiot was me. I. Or rather, my ass, which, as my friend Sarah says about her own, should get its own Facebook account.

Let’s just hope future world leaders don’t have apps on their phones that let them activate their nuclear arsenals or we’ll be in a world of shit.

Arsenals. That’s funny, in a Beevis and Butthead kind of way.

photo CC  MTSOfan

Yesterday my friend accidentally “butt-friended” her ex on Facebook.

She’d been checking out his page–purely to reassure herself that he’d gotten exponentially less attractive over time while she has become lovelier with each setting of the sun–then stuck her phone back in her pocket. When she got an email saying he’d accepted her friend request, she was mortified.

Quickly, she unfriended and blocked him, so her butt wouldn’t act on its worst impulses. But not before he’d taken the opportunity to post something pointed about how weird it was when exes friend and unfriend you in the space of two minutes. “He probably thinks, ‘I knew it all along, she still wants me!'” she moaned.

Now that our smartphones are ever more capable, that means so are our asses! And they act like they’re drunk all the time! One cheek can not only call people in Brazil (a phenom my 11-year-old inadvertently called a “booty call,” and then nearly died from the grossness when I explained what that means) but it can friend, un-friend, tweet, fill out Survey Monkey forms and join far right Open Carry gun activist groups, before the other cheek even notices!

The other day, I butt-activated Siri in the subway and then got really annoyed at the idiot who kept trying to talk to Siri when she kept saying there was no wireless. Until I realized the idiot was me. I. Or rather, my ass, which, as my friend Sarah says about her own, should get its own Facebook account.

Let’s just hope future world leaders don’t have apps on their phones that let them activate their nuclear arsenals or we’ll be in a world of shit.

Arsenals. That’s funny, in a Beevis and Butthead kind of way.

photo CC  MTSOfan