Declassifying the Creeper Elderly

Samuel Beckett: bleak, tragicomic, postmodernist playwright and novelist; sworn enemy of the Creeper Elderly; arguably a Creeper Elderly himself.

Working Definition: The Creeper Elderly conducts his or her illicit affairs under a halo of soft, white curls, an adorably stooped back, and a tendency to cup one wizened hand around his or her hearing aid and chirp, “Excuse me, dear?” Creeper Elderly should not be confused with members of the Beloved Grandparents genus, although a Creeper Elderly may appropriate certain characteristics of a Beloved Grandparent in order to win your heart or guilt you into paying attention to their stories.

Manic Tendencies: Should the Creeper Elderly get ahold of a Facebook page, a Twitter account, or–God forbid–an iPhone with texting capabilities, expect to receive updates from the Creeper Elderly far more often than you would from your friends. Continue reading →

Register Now for "Unbelievable Failures! The True Stories of Young People Who Suck at Life."

My alma mater just sent me a charming email, encouraging me to register for an event called Successful Startups: The Back Stories of Forward Thinkers. “Hell to the no!” I cried in a voice that resonated throughout seven states. In the spirit of protest upon which this great country was founded, I have started my OWN event, celebrating that wondrous tie that binds us all together: UNBELIEVABLE FAILURE. I hope all of you who have not founded an internet empire by the age of 23 will join me.

Join the Macarthur Foundation and Tori Dot Gov for a panel discussion of incredible losers and jaw-dropping idiots who have failed to make a name for themselves and sometimes avoid paying taxes! Whether you’re a waitress, a homeless person, or a rich kid who simply doesn’t see the need to work a 9-5 and is thisclose to being disowned by your family, this dynamic panel of hopeless failures is sure to make you feel better about yourself! Continue reading →

Hilarious Things I’ve Said to Meriwether

If you’re friends with me on Facebook (and you’re probably not, because I have so many privacy settings set up that I still don’t understand how everyone’s mom manages to find me), you may notice that I’m always quoting my dear and hysterical friend, Ms. Meriwether Darcy-Fassbender. While I feel privileged to share Ms. Darcy-Fassbender’s genius with the offspring of Mark Zuckerberg’s lonely brain, the honor is very one-sided. MERIWETHER DARCY-FASSBENDER NEVER QUOTES ME. This may lead to the misconception that SHE is the hilarious one, when in fact we are BOTH the hilarious ones. I have husbands, too. I creep. I rage. I gossip. I type in all-caps. But no one gives me any recognition for it. I slave away at the business of sending my friends hilarious emails and texts, and how many times am I quoted on Facebook? Once a year, if I’m lucky.

The injustice stops here. This is a non-definitive list of all the hilarious texts and emails I’ve sent to Meriwether Darcy-Fassbender. Unfortunately, my phone forces me to regularly delete my texts, and believe me: when that sad day comes, I, too, cringe at the sight of all my genius disappearing into the ether. Continue reading →

Creepers I Can See From Where I Sit

1. My ex-husband. He just vanished through a filmy curtain into the back of his coffee shop. Is he avoiding me? I hear his sweetly deceptive voice berating another employee for something something latte temperature something something oolong tea.

2. The woman sitting alone on the park bench outside my window. Her fashion sense screams, “NEW YORK! NEW YOOOORK! THE SARTORIALIST, BABY!” Is that a plastic bag? Oh, she’s homeless. Continue reading →

Income-Based Hot Buttered Rum

Due to the overwhelming–OVERWHELMING–response to my last post, where I mentioned making hot buttered rum cocktails while dangling my perfect toes in the Pacific ocean, I decided to share my recipe here. But then I thought of how poor many of my friends are. How the cockroaches skitter over their ivory-and-blue toes at night. (I just read Slaughterhouse-5.) And I realized something in the core of my pulsing heart. My heart full of blood and aortas. My heart like a squishy busy anthill. Sometimes I feel that if I think too hard about my insides I will accidentally die because I will freak out so hard and somehow send signals to my brain to stop living. I realized this: I must give you not one recipe, but six. 

Merely find your income level, mixologize, and enjoy! I recommend drinking this silky-smooth cocktail while watching old Christmas trees being dragged to the curb like so many kidnapped children.

Hot Buttered Rum: $60,000+/year 

Mix one stick of softened butter with two cups of sugar, one teaspoon cinnamon, one-half teaspoon nutmeg, a pinch of cloves, and a pinch of salt. Drop two tablespoons of this mixture into a mug. Add a shot of rum, and fill mug to the brim with boiling water. Drink while running your bare toes through the pelt of a rare white alive Royal Bengal tiger. 

Hot Buttered Rum: $30,000–$59,999/year

Mix one stick of softened butter with two cups of sugar and whatever spices you have in your cabinet, or a handful of melted cinnamon candies. Drop two tablespoons of mixture into a mug, and add a shot of rum, whiskey, or brandy. Or vodka. Warm up some water in the microwave and slosh it in.

Hot Buttered Rum: $20,000–$29,999/year

Mix one stick of softened butter with a) stale sprinkles, b) leftover frosting, or c) a Hershey’s bar. Add some black pepper for “spice.” The idea here is to approximate the sweet/spicy aroma that more successful people achieve through the use of rare imported goods like Myristica fragrans and cassia vera. Is that a beer in the corner of the fridge? That’ll work.

Hot Buttered Rum: $10,000–$19,999/year

Do a shot of rum. Chase with a shot of olive oil.

Hot Buttered Rum: Under $10,000

Ask your homeless friends if anyone has any olive oil. Steal their rum when they’re asleep–the sound of your movements will be disguised by the whirring of the subway grate. If the “rum” is actually “mouthwash,” abandon all culinary pursuits and get some sleep. 

Hot Buttered Rum: broke