[Ed. note: on Monday, our frequent contributor Jolie Kerr sung the praises of House of Cards, the David Fincher-directed series that is single-handedly proving the success of Netflix and internet streaming. But our other frequent contributor Miles Klee is not buying it.]
No no no no. No. Do not do this to me, America. Do not believe the hype. Do not line up to watch the first and ideally last season of this show in one sitting. Re-watch a show you already know you like, I’m telling you. Take up knitting. Whittling. Anything. Just step away from the screen. I’d never normally say it, but you deserve better than this.
You can get your political intrigue elsewhere! Hell, stream Patrick Stewart’s Macbeth before you watch Kevin Spacey mercy-kill an injured dog on a Georgetown sidewalk whilst soliloquizing in formalwear. Rip through The Thick of It or Veep and get a superior satire of government that’s also funny. Read just about any book featuring Richard Nixon: it will be both more incredible and more relevant.
HoC, it would seem, has it all—decorated actors, fearless director, a poster that’s very Mad Men circa season three—everything but a glimmer of entertainment value. It’s not even as good as Lilyhammer, Netlix’s first flop of a foray into original programming, which once you get past the god-awful setup actually earns its mobster-out-of-water storyline. If this overnarrated mess takes off, it will prove nothing but the marketability of “[blank] of [blanks]” titles.
Holy mackerel, is House of Cards ever great. Overblown, overwrought, soap opera-esque at times, it still manages to offer up enough political dialogue and stunning business attire to keep from insulting its viewers. Kevin Spacey’s Shakespearian asides to the audience—and even the inclusion of Kevin Spacey doling out Shakespearian asides in and of itself—are mostly absurd, but then he drops a perfect eye-roll in your lap and all is forgiven. Shakespearianishly.
Robin Wright, looking unsettlingly like Ur-mommyblogger Heather Armstrong, is sublime as Spacey’s icy cold wife. Kate Mara as a social media-savvy political reporter Zoe Barnes—and even the inclusion of a social media-savvy political reporter in and of itself—is excruciating. Mostly because her presence allowed for terms like "Twitter twat" to be bandied about and DO NOT WANT EL OH EL. Looming over them all is Kevin Spacey at his most Kevin Spaceyest as Congressman Francis Underwood.
And oh my God the echo joke. (Oh my God the echo joke.)
Muchhas beenmade of the decision on the part of Netflix to dump all 13 episodes on its audience at once, hoping to capitalize on what’s been dubbed the binge-style viewing habits of subscribers to the streaming video service. Time will bear out the relative strength or weakness of the strategy, but from where I’m sitting it sure does look to be slam dunk. Because holy mackerel, is House of Cards ever great. So great that in spite of having a heap of weekend chores and brunch with friends, I still managed to clear out thirteen hours to blow through the entire series. On Saturday, I stayed up well past my bedtime, so hooked was I, and woke up with a violent House of Cards hangover on Sunday morning. I figured a little hair of the dog was what the situation called for and fired up another episode while I drank my first cup of coffee. On Sunday night, when the closing shot of the final episode startled a loud yelp out of me, I immediately went back to the first episode and began House of Cards Binge Two: The Shuffling.
Now I need you all to go watch the entire thing so we can dissect every detail and so you’ll understand about that echo joke. (That echo joke.)
For the month of January, Apartment Therapy—the self-help guru of home design websites—has coached its readers through what it dubbed The January Cure, a 30-day clean-up diet. The project involved a daily assignment, given via blog and email. Along the way, one of the participants, Maria Pinkelton, unearthed a treasure trove of old Sassy magazines, and shared her discovery on Twitter. I am a great lover of cleaning and also of Sassy, which I grew up fetishizing, as did so many girls (and guys!) of my age; so when I saw Maria’s tweet I fell to the ground keening and rending my garments from sheer burning jealousy.
Then I picked myself up and emailed her to ask a few questions.
What made you decide to take on the January Cure? I am a huge fan of Apartment Therapy and thought it would be great to begin 2013 with a relatively clean slate. I have a two-year-old son and a husband who really isn’t into the whole organization thing. Needless to say I had my challenges but I thought that by following the steps and taking smaller bites it would not be such a daunting task. Also, I looked at it as a group exercise class — there would be others motivating me along and I would not be alone.
Did you know the collection of Sassys were there, or were they a total discovery? They had been in my mother’s house for ages in a plastic storage bin. I had completely forgotten about them and then got so excited when I remembered they were there. They went from her house to storage because at that time we lived in a one bedroom condo with no room for them. When we moved everything from the storage unit they landed on the shelves in the garage of our new townhouse. We had so much other stuff going on they stayed there until this month. I was so excited to thumb through them and give them a home on the shelves in our new place.
What’s your favorite issue? The Johnny Depp cover of course. I remember losing my mind when that thing came in the mail. I dug through the bin crazy-style to make sure it was in there when I opened it up here.
Did you have a favorite Sassy staffer and feature? I loved Kim France. I also liked Christina Kelly, but Kim had this really quirky style thing working. I wore "Kim France Pants" a lot during high school. It was nice that there was a cool name to put with the look my mother called very "hobo."
"Make It" was great. They would teach you to completely deconstruct and then reconstruct clothing. One time I remember they made a skirt from men’s neckties [JK: OMG I TOTALLY REMEMBER THAT AHHH!!]. It was awesome and in the magazine Mayim Bialik wore it. They were the opposite of the horrible Butterick patterns my mom would pull out.
Have you unearthed any other treasures during your clean-up? I found my remote hard drive, clown nose and my hand carved wooden handle pocket knife. I know that is a random combination but I had wondered where all of them had gone. The funny thing is they were all in the same place in my closet. I guess they were hanging out waiting for me to find them.
Welcome to Fern Bar Fridays, a lighthearted romp (is there any other kind?) through a decade of cool music and even cooler drinks. The fern bar era, which roughly spanned 1975-1985, was filled with giant lapels and ties (and then later teeny tiny lapels and ties), ridiculous drinks, and sweet sounds. Every Friday we’ll bring you a song and drink pairing emblematic of that delightful time to help you get the weekend started off on the right loafer-sans-sock-shod foot. Today, and throughout the month of October, we’re celebrating the season of the witch with "Sisters of the Moon" by Fleetwood Mac.
Sometimes, on particularly stormy days, Bruce—the afternoon bartender at Rita’s, the imaginary fern bar that exists in my head—and I get to talkin’ about which Fleetwood Mac song is the ferniest of their catalogue. We never truly reach a consensus, and likely never will, though "Second Hand News" always gets a STRONG BUY from me. But it’s our game and we enjoy it. Before long the handwringing and rending of (gauzy, flowing) garments begins as we struggle with what’s known as Rita’s Choice: faced with only one option, which Stevie-on-lead-vocals song would you keep: "Gypsy" or "Rhiannon"?
It’s unpossible to choose and so, after an hour or so of the aforementioned wringing and rending, we generally agree to pour another glass of chablis, toss a few ice cubes in and not think on such a troublesome topic any longer and opt instead to wax poetic over the incomparable Stevieness of "Sisters of the Moon."
When performed live, the song would usually go for over 8 minutes in length. A very well known example of this performance is the Mirage Tour version, 1982. The performance is referred to as the ‘speaking in tongues‘ performance in which Stevie Nicks delivers the song’s coda in such an intense, gravelly manner that her words become indecipherable.
The tongues come in at ’round about the six minute mark (and please don’t miss poor Christine McVie trying to keep things positive with her lavender lei-adorned mic stand). But if you’re the anxious sort, allow me to crush a quaalude up into your Harvey Wallbanger point you to this version, which has been conveniently cued up to the exact point at which La Steve begins wailing on the cowbell, right before she gets into it with the tongues.
We should also probably take a moment to discuss why Lindsey Buckingham was dressed like an itinerant farmer wearing his Sunday best. Also open for discussion: Do you think the sisters of the moon ever squabble amongst themselves?
If the tongues are a bit much for your delicate constitution, let me pour you a spritzer and offer up this version, from the 1975 Tusk tour documentary, features a seemingly sedated Stevie keeping time on a cowbell.
If you’d like to work yourself into a state of sedation, a la Stevie, may I offer you today’s signature cocktail?
Creme De Moonthe
½ oz white creme de menthe 1½ oz Georgia Moon corn whiskey 1 dash lemon juice
In a cocktail shaker filled with ice, shake all ingredients together and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a plug of sage for its cleansing properties and a sprig of lavender because Stevie would want it that way. Dipping your sleeves in the drink: optional, but highly recommended.
And finally, a small programming note: Rita’s will be closed for renovations in November. Roger Cook promises that he and the crew will have the place winterized by December, but you know how contractors are.
Welcome to Fern Bar Fridays, a lighthearted romp (is there any other kind?) through a decade of cool music and even cooler drinks. The fern barera, which roughly spanned 1975-1985, was filled with giant lapels and ties (and then later teeny tiny lapels and ties), ridiculous drinks, and sweet sounds. Every Friday we’ll bring you a song and drink pairing emblematic of that delightful time to help you get the weekend started off on the right loafer-sans-sock-shod foot. Today, and throughout the month of October, we’re celebrating the season of the witch with "Werewolves of London" by Warren Zevon.
Warren Zevon holds a special place in the heart of the staff at Rita’s, the imaginary fern bar that exists in my head. We like to think of Warren as the prototypical Rita’s patron—quirky glasses, a personality that leans toward ornery but which escapes full-on bad humorism with a sparkling wit and a penchant for a good time, if you know what I mean and I think you do, and a really good head of hair. Love a good head of hair. I would give anything to be able to get tanked on piña coladas (and scorpion bowls) at Trader Vic’s with Mister Zevon. Alas, both are gone now, off somewhere in the great fern bar in the sky.
Linda Ronstadt, who we’ve discussed before and is, as you know, the Patron Saint of the Fern Bar, covered a number of Zevon’s songs including "Carmelita" and, notably, "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me" which features probably my all-time favorite stanza in song:
Well I met a man out in Hollywood Now I ain’t naming names Well he really worked me over good Just like Jesse James Yes he really worked me over good He was a credit to his gender Put me through some changes Lord Sort of like a Waring blender
We named the Waring Blender we use to make the coladas “Linda.” Joanne, our best waitress, likes to holler, "GIT ‘EM GOIN’, LIN!!" when she’s on frozen drinks duty. Bertie once sent me a birthday card expressing the sentiment that I was a credit to my gender. It still hangs on the bulletin board in the Rita’s back office, so touched was I by it.
But back to "Werewolf": The Dead often played this song during their Halloween shows, a fact which does nothing more than make me fall to the floor, rending my garments and pleading with the sweet lord to let Phish cover it.
(The above is, to say the very least, an unpopular opinion at the fern bar.)
(Also both John McVie and Mick Fleetwood are featured, playing bass and drums, respectively, on "Werewolves" which deserves a keyboard smash made up entirely of sevens and threes because those numbers are spoo0ooky just like werewolves. 73773737737737373737373777373737377437373737737373737. (How’d that four get in there? GET OUTTA THERE, FOUR.))
This clip of "Werewolf" was chosen mostly because the concert takes place in Passaic, New Jersey, and even though Jersey generally is about as un-ferny a place as you’ll find, Passaic gets a pass because the name is such a delight to say. Pass-aaaaaaaaaaa-ic! What fun!
Also the concert takes place in 1982 and, good God damn, ’82 was a great year for ferns.
Our weekly drink pairing is a delightful brew called the Howlin’ Wolf. Might I suggest you serve your Howlin’ Wolves in one of these?
½ oz vodka ½ oz white creme de menthe 1 oz blue curacao Sprite
Pour spirits in a glass. Add some ice and fill up with Sprite. Spear a blue cherry with a cocktail sword. Warren would have wanted it that way.
I love this drink because 1) the name and 2) the blue curacao. God, I love blue curacao. Arrr-oooo!
Welcome to Fern Bar Fridays, a lighthearted romp (is there any other kind?) through a decade of cool music and even cooler drinks. The fern bar era, which roughly spanned 1975-1985, was filled with giant lapels and ties (and then later teeny tiny lapels and ties), ridiculous drinks, and sweet sounds. Every Friday we’ll bring you a song and drink pairing emblematic of that delightful time to help you get the weekend started off on the right loafer-sans-sock-shod foot. Today, and throughout the month of October, we’re celebrating the season of the witch with: "Abracadabra" by the Steve Miller Band and "I Put A Spell On You" by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Last week we kicked off our Hallowe’en festivities down at Rita’s, the imaginary fern bar that exists in my head, and this week we’re continuing to spook ourselves the frond out. And oh boy, do we ever have a treat for you! Because today, for the first time, I get to spin a yarn for you about one of our regulars!
We have the greatest regulars, you guys.
Roger Cook is one of our best customers, and I’ll admit to having a soft spot for him. Sadly for me, he’s got a real thing for Joanne, our most reliable and competent waitress. Cute tush on ‘er too. Of course, Roger doesn’t know that Joanne was born as "Randy" and we all made a pact not to let on. We figure it’s best that way. Plus, we’re all too busy snickering behind our hands when Roger works himself into a good one over Bruce, our afternoon bartender. Roger haaaaaaaaaates Bruce—calls him "that scrawny ginger" and is forever putting him in what he calls "a friendly headlock" or threatening to treat him to an atomic wedgie. It’s bad form, as an employer, to encourage this sort of harassment. But it’s unendingly hilarious to watch Bruce get all angry and red-in-the-face so I mostly just don’t say much of anything at all.
Our Roger loves the Steve Miller Band and gets exasperated with us when someone (Bruce) puts on what he calls "that namby-pamby Alan Parsons-type music you all like so much." He’s a rock’n’roller, old Roge.
Roger likes to wax nostalgic when "Abracadabra" comes on—he was at this show, having found himself in Belgium for reasons he never fully explains to us—and sometimes, when he’s deep into his cups, he’ll reach out and try to grab Joanne. We forgive him that trespass, even Joanne (who, frankly, secretly likes it) because we’re all—well, all except for Bruce—so overly fond of Roger, and often will even cede control of the jukebox to him on the nights he’s in and let him play some of his favorite classic rock songs. Though I’m quick to remind him that it’s rightfully Proto-Fern, I certainly never protest when he gets into it with the CCR, especially not at this time of year, when he inevitably saunters up to the "music machine," as he calls it much to my delight, pops in a few dimes, turns over his shoulder to give me a wink, and cues up "I Put A Spell On You."
He’s a lover, that Roger. He’s also a joker, a toker and a midnight smoker. (He makes me say that every time.)(He also always informs me he has that same Mickey Mouse tee Doug "Cosmo" Clifford wore at Woodstock. I smile and nod and pour him another Schlitz in response.)
Despite Roger’s quirks, he really is indispensable to us down at Rita’s. He helps out with minor repairs when Bertie needs to be put down for a two-day nap, or just won’t come out of his shed; he’s great at coaxing the cats down from trees; and he’s the only one of us brave enough to handle the dry ice for the Halloween punch.
And oh! Our Halloween punch! It’s a delightful witches brew, served in a cauldron.
6 oz. lime Jello 2 cups boiling water 3 cups pineapple juice 2 liters gingerale 3 cups vodka
Put the powdered Jello into a large bowl and slowly stir in the boiling water; stir for 2 minutes, which will seem like an eternity but is absolutely necessary, until the Jello powder is completely dissolved. Stir in the pineapple juice and let come up to room temperature. Pour into a large plastic punch bowl and add the vodka and gingerale. Chill and/or add ice as desired.
Place the punch bowl into a plastic cauldron with a circumference of about an inch more than your punch bowl. Using tongs or heavy duty gloves so as not to get burned on ice, which would be so embarrassing to explain to people, place 5-10 small chunks of dry ice into the cauldron, and cover with hot water to create a "smoking" effect.
Serve in a seasonally appropriate glass, and don’t forget to reach out and grab the lucky recipient with a flourish and an "ABRA-ABRA-CADABRA!"
Welcome to Fern Bar Fridays, a lighthearted romp (is there any other kind?) through a decade of cool music and even cooler drinks. The fern bar era, which roughly spanned 1975-1985, was filled with giant lapels and ties (and then later teeny tiny lapels and ties), ridiculous drinks, and sweet sounds. Every Friday we’ll bring you a song and drink pairing emblematic of that delightful time to help you get the weekend started off on the right loafer-sans-sock-shod foot. Today, and throughout the month of October, we’re celebrating the season of the witch with: "Magic Man" by Heart and "Witchy Woman" by The Eagles.
It’s a busy time down at Rita’s, the imaginary fern bar that exists in my head. There are costumes to begin preparing, and cobwebs to hang, and pumpkin punch bowls in need of carving and oh! I’m just all a’fuss. You can’t even imagine what it’s like trying to keep the gang in line: Bertie has to be constantly monitored because every year he insists on being in charge of making the pressed leaves except he fritters off to that shed of his and forgets that he’s left the iron on and every. single. year. the fire department shows up to find an unattended pile of smoldering leaves, issues us a citation, and then the guys hang around waiting for a couple of chicken, grape and champagne pies to go.
One thing that I never worry about is putting together our annual Spooky Fern playlist. The era of the frond, she was a good one for spooktacular tunes. So good, in fact, that we won’t even come close to touching on all the songs we like to fire up during this most wonderful time of the year. (The rest of you can have Christmas. I’ll be facedown in the eggnog if you need me at any point in December.)
In order to account for the embarrassment of riches we’re faced with during this magical and marvelous time, this week we’re bringing you a Rita’s Twofer with "Magic Man" by Heart and "Witchy Woman" by The Eagles. They make a cute couple, don’t you think?
We’ll start with "Magic Man" because I know you know that there’s no way in hell that I’m going to let the Wilson sisters take a backseat to Don Henley, last worthless evenings be damned. And there are… some things about this video that we need to discuss. Can someone holler at Joanne to bring over a round of gimlets? Thanks.
This video has inspired my to take a page out of Frond of the Fern Bar Katie Baker’s playbook and begin to institute a scoring system of sorts to measure the relative ferniness of a given video or performance clip. To wit:
+17 for the dry ice. -3 for Ann Wilson’s maternity-looking outfit. +33 for the star pattern on Ann Wilson’s maternity-looking outfit. +2,100 for Roger Fisher’s white satin half-blouse tied at the midriff.
Sadly, for old Don—and as an aside I cannot WAIT until we get into the later fern bar era and discuss Glenn Frey’s work as a solo artist because by “discuss” I of course mean “stare at photos of a sockless and pastel-clad Don Johnson”—the available video clips for "Witchy Woman" didn’t work out so well for The Eagles in terms of this new competitive time.
-7,000,000 for that creepy hand bird AHHHHHHHH GET IT OUT OF THE BAR GET IT OUT OF THE BAR BIRDS ARE BAD LUCK GET IT OUT OUT OUT!!!!!!!!!!
You know what would soothe me? A nice, stiff drink. In honor of our very first Two-fer Fern Bar Fridays, let’s make like an antiquated Frenchman and reinforce casual ’70s sexism and gender essentialism with His and Hers Cocktails! And what could be more seasonally appropriate than His and Hers Ghoulishly Green Spirits?
For Him: Absinthe
Ingredients & Tools:
Absinthe A wide fluted glass An absinthe spoon Sugar A carafe or pitcher full of ice-cold water
Pour an ounce of absinthe into the glass. Place the absinthe spoon over the rim of the glass and place the sugar cube on top of it.
Pour a small amount of water onto the sugar; when the sugar cube is saturated, allow it to sit for a minute or so, until it begins to dissolve on its own. Then start pouring a very thin stream of water slowly onto the sugar cube. Continue pouring slowly until the sugar cube dissolves completely and serve.
For Her: Midori Sour
1 oz Midori liqueur 1 oz. vodka 1 ½ oz. sweet and sour mix Maraschino cherries and cocktail umbrellas for garnish
Pour Midori and vodka into a cocktail shaker filled with ice; add the sweet and sour mix and shake to combine. Strain the cocktail into a rocks glass filled halfway with crushed ice. Spear a maraschino cherry or three on a cocktail sword, garnish and serve.
Spooky and delicious! And casually sexist. The perfect thing to celebrate A Very Fern Bar Halloween.
Welcome to Fern Bar Fridays, a lighthearted romp (is there any other kind?) through a decade of cool music and even cooler drinks. The fern bar era, which roughly spanned 1975-1985, was filled with giant lapels and ties (and then later teeny tiny lapels and ties), ridiculous drinks, and sweet sounds. Every Friday we’ll bring you a song and drink pairing emblematic of that delightful time to help you get the weekend started off on the right loafer-sans-sock-shod foot. Today we’re throwing a rager to celebrate the Autumnal Equinox with: "September" by Earth, Wind & Fire.
Do you remember the 21st night of September? If so, you’re doing a whole hell of a lot better than me and the rest of the gang down at Rita’s, the imaginary fern bar that exists in my head. Oh man. We spent all last week preparing for our annual celebration of the Autumnal Equinox on Friday, in which we dress up as the 52 current and former members of Earth, Wind & Fire, mix a batch of Rita’s Famous Falldown Punch and seek to secure blessings from the High Priestess of the Fern Bar, Stevie Nicks, through the ritual sacrifice of white winged doves and gauzy sleeves removed from summer garments.
Other activities include a gourd throwing shot put competition and a broom balancing contest and oh! The fun we have!
Still though, it was totally worth it. I mean, our night basically looked and felt exactly like this:
(Also do you think that Bobby Brown knows that the two backup dancers in the black outfits have absconded with the entirety of the wardrobe from the My Prerogative tour? I worry for Bobby sometimes. And other times I just bellow "Bob-AAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY" at my walls in tribute to the late, great Whitney Houston.)
Now then, about that punch. As I am a woman of my word, I’m following through on my Labor Day weekend promise that I would endeavour to bring you a cider-based cocktail to ring in the coming of Fall. And do you ever have a whole bunch of things to look forward to now that the weather is growing colder and the days are getting shorter, because I love the Fall in that special way that New Englanders do. Come October we’ll be devoting the entire month to all things spooky, and come November we might even start sharing recipes from Rita’s Cookbook! The possibilities are endless, really, when it comes to the Autumnal experience.
Rita’s Famous Falldown Punch
2 cups rum 4 cups apple cider 1 cup cranberry juice 1 cup orange juice 1 cinnamon stick 1 orange 6 cloves Bacardi 151 Applejack whipped cream (optional)
Poke the cloves into the orange to make a pomander. Combine all ingredients in a large pot and bring to a simmer. Serve warm in an Irish coffee mug, with a 151 floater if so desired and a cinnamon stick for garnish and a dollop of applejack whipped cream (recipe to follow).
Applejack whipped cream:
½ cup heavy whipping cream 2 tablespoons sugar 1 tablespoon applejack
In a medium-size metal bowl, whip together the cream, sugar and applejack until thick.
Right then gang, sharpen your pumpkin carving knives and get ready to have some real fun. We’ll be back to our regular posting schedule in October, once we’ve recovered from this hangover. And figure out where we left our sequined vest.
Welcome to Fern Bar Fridays, a lighthearted romp (is there any other kind?) through a decade of cool music and even cooler drinks. The fern bar era, which roughly spanned 1975-1985, was filled with giant lapels and ties (and then later teeny tiny lapels and ties), ridiculous drinks, and sweet sounds. Every Friday we’ll bring you a song and drink pairing emblematic of that delightful time to help you get the weekend started off on the right loafer-sans-sock-shod foot. Today we’re singing in two-part harmony with: "Islands in the Stream" by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton.
What really is there to even be said about "Islands in the Stream" that hasn’t been said before in Tiffany lamp-lit saloons the world ’round? Show me the person who doesn’t like "Islands in the Stream" and I’ll show you a person who has lost all capacity for joy.
As for Kenny Rogers? He can Roger my Roaster any day of the week and twice on Sundays. And the song? The song is sublime. In every possible way. I mean, it was written by the Bee Gees, and when Kenny and Dolly perform it live they do so in formalwear.
I’m utterly enamoured of their formalwear. I’m also, obviously, utterly enamoured of Dolly’s onstage cheek and banter.
The song title is, of course, inspired by the posthumously published Islands in the Stream by Ernest Hemingway. We keep a copy of it at Rita’s, the imaginary fern bar that exists in my head—and also by now don’t you all know what Rita’s is?? Sweet ferny Moses, haven’t you been paying attention? Do I have to repeat myself every week? (No, no, you haven’t. And yes, yes, I do. Because you’re not really supposed to have to pay attention to the things that go down at Rita’s. It’s a fern bar, you’re supposed to get blitzed on amaretto-based cocktails and whatever color pill Bertie is handing out that night.)—on the shelf right next to the bust of Abraham Lincoln and our tattered copy of The New York Times Crossword Puzzle Dictionary.
Now then. In keeping with the new tradition we’ve established at Rita’s, and in a nod to Dolly’s, ahem, ample bounty, I must address the fact that resident sawfly Miles Klee has once again plum ticked me off. And, as such, is back outside shivering in his stupid sweater. What, you may ask, has Miles done this week? Well, I’ll tell you: he’s gone and issued edicts about proper usage of the terms ‘tit’ and ‘boob’:
Compliment your girlfriend on her “boobs,” however, and you may not get to touch them fora while. The bedroom is where “tits” come into play. It’s the dirtier, more intimate word, and as such will turn up in all manner of breathless naked imperatives: “____ my tits,” a woman might say, never “____ my boobs.”
First of all, unlike everything about Kenny and Dolly, this is just WRONG. You may indeed compliment me on my ‘boobs’. (Seriously, go ahead. I’m quite pleased with my boobs and would be delighted to know that you are as well! My boyfriend does it all the time and I hope he never, ever stops, even when my boobs are hovering somewhere around my waistline.)
Second of all, you don’t get to make up rules about what people can and cannot say in the bedroom. Sorry. ‘Tit’ is not part of my sexytime lexicon. ‘Giraffe pussy’ might work its way in there, but never ‘tit.’
And finally, absolutely under no circumstances never ever ever do you get to expound on what a woman may or may not say. Just in general. To put it in Jezebelian terms—OH YES, I’M GOING THERE. You mess with the fern, you get the fronds, Klee—you’re "universalizing about how everyone feels." To put it in JolieKerrian terms: Knock that malarky off and busy yourself with something useful, like bringing me fresh ice for my wine spritzer. Or better yet, get to cracking on making me one of these babies:
1 ¼ oz. melon liqueur ½ oz. Cointreau 1 ½ oz. orange juice 2 oz. mango juice ⅓ oz. blue curacao 1 oz. whipped cream
Shake the melon liqueur, Cointreau, orange juice and mango juice together and strain into a pina colada glass filled a bit more than halfway up with crushed ice. Add the curacao, and then float the whipped cream on top. Garnish with bar fruit and serve with two straws.
Offer your date a sip through your extra straw. No one in between. From one lover to another. Uh-uh.