Thursday, August 31, 2017

The 5 Men Who Will Inappropriately Compare You to Their Wives for Some Reason in a Professional Context and How to Drag them Into Next Week in Response*

1. The Dick: The Dick’s real name is Richard, but he goes by Dick, both because he’s over 50 and because he is one. At some point, you will tell the Dick that you have tried to blot his face from your memory because he has infuriated you one too many times. At that point he will laugh and you will blink awkwardly at him with a completely straight face. Seeing that you’re serious, he will then ask you how tall you are, and you will tell him, at which point he will tell you that his wife is the same height and he has learned “not to mess with short women" over the years. At that point you will ask him his height and regardless of his answer, you will tell him that it’s a perfect kneecap-to-balls ratio.

2. The Joe: The Joe is a mid-life crisis-having cheddar-ball who drives a red convertible, wears too much hair product, and interrupts you or talks over you at every opportunity. On the few occasions he doesn’t, he just pretends to listen while he’s waiting for an entry point into the convo. Joe will tell you that his wife has “that exact same dress," which will briefly make you consider hate-fucking him in the supply closet (Hate sex is the best sex, amirite ladies)? Having dispensed with that idea as quickly as it popped into your head, and to make sure the Joe never speaks to you again, you’ll tell him that you actually inherited that dress from your dead grandma and it still smells like Bengay.

3. The Austin: The Austin is a recently-married millennial who pretends to be a woke-ass bae but is secretly just thirsty AF for constant female attention now that he’s reckoning with the fact that he’s technically off the market until he gets divorced in five years. Maybe you made the mistake of giving the Austin your cell in case of a work emergency but now he’s abusing the privilege by sending you cat memes at midnight and complaining to you that his wife “just doesn’t get it.” Cancel this exchange by texting him that you don’t get it either.

4. The Connor: The Connor is also a millennial who was President of his college fraternity, has been married for five months longer than Austin, and has newborn twins. As a result he gets no sleep and comes into work with spit-up on his shirt every day. Since lack of sleep begets disinhibition, he tells you that your body “has bounced back really well” from your own pregnancies. At that point simply unbutton your pants and unleash the overflowing muffin top from your Spanx.

5. The David: The David is older than your dad and wants to father-figure/preacher-teacher you into career success even though you’re almost 40 and got a promotion that he didn’t. The David will call you “hon” and tell you that your sassy attitude reminds him of his wife when she was younger. Say THANKS DAAAAAVVVE, knowing that he insists on being called David just to be difficult and hates when people call him Dave.

*All names are pseudonyms.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

This Bedtime Convo with Isaac Was Insane

Isaac: Beetlejuice is gonna die soon.
Me: Who?
Isaac: Beetlejuice!
Me: Like the guy in the movie?
Isaac: NO, the STAR. It's an old star and it's gonna burn up and die soon.
Me: Oh BETELGEUSE--I actually think the movie guy is named after that star.
Isaac: What movie guy?
Me: Never mind.
Isaac: There's this girl at recess . . . 
Me: Yeah?
Isaac: And every time I have a ball, and I'm kicking it, she kicks it away from me, and I'm thinking to myself, WHAT THE FUCK?!
Me: WAIT WHAT?!
Isaac: I just said I THOUGHT it. I didn't actually SAY it.
Me: Oh good.
Isaac: Mom?
Me: Yes?
Isaac: What do you do at work all day? Like do you just sit there at a computer and wait for people to call you?
Me: Not exactly. It's kind of hard and boring to explain.
Isaac: Are you like on a team?
Me: Kind of.
Isaac: Do you play other teams?
Me: Yeah, in a way.
Isaac: Do you sometimes get mad?
Me: Only when the other team kicks the ball away.







Ninja Suits and the Battle for Control

It’s hard to over-emphasize just how little control a child has over his or her own life. 

Think about it. 

For the first 18 years of your life, maybe a bit less, very few of your choices belong to you. Adults name you. Adults decide where you’ll live. Adults decide where you’ll go to school. Adults decide where you’ll go for vacation, or if you will. Adults decide if or when you’ll go to the doctor or dentist. 

And on and on. And this big chunk of your life--the one that is so monumental and lasts so long--is, sadly and ironically, the chunk you can least control.

I try to be mindful of this when “picking battles” with my kids, specifically how important it is to give them some feeling of control over stuff that doesn’t really matter, so they can more readily accept that they have no control over the stuff that does.

Every parent has lines in the sand, but of course they’re not all the same. This December, I will have been a mom for ten years. Here are the battles—so far—that I’ve decided to pick and not pick. "Yes" indicates a battle I always pick. "No" indicates a battle I refuse to have.

Food: No.
Homework: Yes.
Reading: Yes.
Being polite: Yes.
Regular bedtime: Yes.
Screen time: Yes.
Ear piercings: No.
Hair styles: No.
Ninja suit for picture day: No.
Dressing up for weddings: Yes.
Clothes in general: No.
Exposed anus on couch or chair: Yes.
Getting really muddy: No.
Making a big mess: No.
Cleaning it up: Yes.
Jump ropes near neck/other asphyxiation risks: Yes.
Gun safety: Yes.
Seatbelts and car seats: Yes.
Ski helmets/bike helmets: Yes.
Brushing teeth:
Yes.
Jumping on furniture: No.

Isaac decided to wear his “Ninja suit”—which is really just black long underwear—to picture day for the third time in a row this year. Consistent with my above battle-plan, I wasn’t about to deprive him of what little control he has in life and say no. I’ll save that for the inevitable moment that he wants to do something stupid and dangerous, as opposed to just aesthetically unorthodox and vaguely regrettable for that reason alone.


Tuesday, August 29, 2017

OMG You Guys Denmark is Suuuuuch a Basic Bitch

OMG you guys, seriously? I know this is gonna sound petty AF but seriously Denmark is suuuuuuuuch a basic ass bitch.

Like she is AAAAALWAYS trying to one-up everyone, have you noticed that? She seriously declares on her Wikipedia page that she is “considered the happiest country in the world” and that her citizens “enjoy a high standard of living and the country ranks highly in some metrics of national performance including education, health care, protection of civil liberties, democratic governance, prosperity, and human development.”

And have you SEEN her Insta? I mean, who just puts that shit on blast? Could she be more of a pick-me?!

Also, APPARENTLY, Denmark “ranks as having the world’s highest social mobility, a high level of income equality,” and “the lowest perceived level of corruption in the world.”

WHAT-EVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVS.

Obvs she is taller and blonder than everyone else (although you know that shit comes out of a bottle), and now she’s humble-bragging about being greener than everyone else too? I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking OVER this.

Denmark has like, ZERO CHILL. Remember when she threw shade at America and told us how to raise our kids? Like with Hygge or some other word you can’t pronounce? OMG like shut uuuuuuuuuuuuuuup. It’s almost like she has this secret special language with its own alphabet that only she speaks and no one else on earth knows. 

We GET IT. You're the wokest woke bae ever to wake on planet earth. Your kids are empathetic AF and don’t care about getting into Harvard or on the varsity soccer travel team. And that bitch has the balls to trash us. Like seriously, one of her citizens LITERALLY went OFF about “how glad [she was] not to be an American parent.”

I meeeeeeeeeeean . . .  I can't even. This bitch's 'tude is full-on EXTRA.

What she DOESN’T want you to know is that her king is a DICK. That’s right, fam! Denmark’s Prince Henrik wanted to be king, and because he didn’t get the title or a king’s salary, he’s refusing to be buried next to his wife

Like who DOES THAT?

I know we can't really talk because Trump. (Duh). But does a country who still lives under a giant baby figure-head monarch somewhere on an ice floe reeeeeeeeeeeeealllly need to tell everyone else how to live their lives?

I don't think so. Seriously I'm legit considering ghosting Denmark forever.

Monday, August 28, 2017

All of Juneau Totally Done Giving Any Fucks About the Eclipse

As of 6:00 a.m. AST today, Alaska’s capital city was officially, totally, and collectively done giving even one single, solitary fuck about last week’s solar eclipse.

The once-in-a-century astronomical event presented the rest of the nation with a welcome and joyous break from neo-Nazis and nuclear warfare, but gave Juneauites only another dismal moment to grumpily and invidiously ogle the sun’s existence on social media from under the cover of their bedclothes.

The sun—a bright, glowing, 695,700 km spherical mass of hot, life-giving plasma at the center of our solar system—has not made a meaningful appearance over the remote Southeast Alaskan hamlet in six weeks, although technically its citizens have lost count.

In other words, not only was the eclipse invisible from the skies above Juneau, but the sun itself and actual sky weren’t either, nor have they been, nor will they be for the foreseeable future.

“It’s safe to say I’m totally over the eclipse. You could say I'm "in totality" of fuckless-ness,” said Jane Smith, a state employee approached for comment under an awning, where she and O.H.M. had sought refuge from a downpour. 

“Like if I see one more picture of the eclipse or anyone in eclipse glasses I’m gonna lose my shit,” she continued. “I mean, we can’t even get the sun to show up here to begin with. Why would I want to see it getting covered up by the moon in Nashville or Oregon?"

Tim Jones, a construction worker who was digging up one of the 10,000 streets currently being pounded by jackhammers throughout Juneau's 60 miles of pavement, echoed Ms. Smith's sentiment. 

“I seriously don’t give a single fuck about the eclipse now, if I ever did,” said Mr. Jones. “Frankly I’m moving on to being worried about that hurricane in Texas,” he added. “As we here in Alaska know all too well, climate change totally blows and I’m redistributing what few fucks I have left back to that issue and the unfolding humanitarian crisis in Houston for now."

Sunday, August 27, 2017

How to Avoid Catching Feels

1. Do not access the internet.

2. If you must access the internet, rinse your eyeballs thoroughly with bleach for 45 seconds after each use.

3. Do not call, email, text, look at, PM, DM, or view the social media profiles of anyone you have ever slept with in the past, are sleeping with in the present, or would ever consider sleeping with in the future.

4. Do not leave your house for any reason.

5. If you must leave your house for some reason, cover your head with a brown paper bag with two eyes cut out for holes and wear headphones that play only white noise.

6. Do not call, email, DM, PM, or text another human being for any reason unless you are positive they will return your overture in a satisfying manner within 5 hours' time.

7. Do not watch videos of baby animals or humans doing cute things.

8. Maintain an emergency supply of whiskey, marijuana, Ambien, and/or other feels-killing drugs and alcohol on hand at all times. Some of these substances may actually reduce your immunity to feels, in which case just consume more until you fall asleep for a long long time.

9. Cultivate fear: ignore that song where Katy Perry says "don't be afraid to catch feels." Be afraid.

10. Do not share a toothbrush or split french fries with anyone you just slept with.

11. Don't watch Beaches on cable.

12. Don't listen to Jeff Buckley or Elliot Smith (The first drowned in the Mississippi River under mysterious circumstances and the second stabbed himself to death. Also their music is really sad).

13. Vaccinate yourself against the feels by thinking really hard about the most unattractive physical attribute or personality trait of the person for whom you feel a case of feels coming on.

14. Build your immunity to feels by hardening your heart, soul, mind, and spirit against this cruel, meaningless world we are all forced to share.

15. If you think like you might be getting feels, go to work and start reading all your reply-all emails. That'll take care of that.



Saturday, August 26, 2017

Trump Pardons Satan

Fresh off his presidential pardon of convicted criminal old man bigot controversial Arizona sheriffJoe Arpaio, President Donald Trump is deploying his newfound magical superpower to pardon none other than Satan Himself.

According to the Dark Lord's Wikipedia entry, Satan "is a figure appearing in the texts of the 
Abrahamic religions who brings evil and temptation, and is known as the deceiver who leads humanity astray." 

Though "Satan is generally viewed as having negative characteristics, some groups have very different beliefs."

And one of them is the Trump White House, which had this to say about the unorthodox presidential blessing of Beelzebub:   

Throughout his 25 centuries as All-Mighty Ruler of the Underworld, Satan, also known as Lucifer, continued his immortal work of affronting all that is righteous and good on this miserable slum of a planet," the statement read. "Satan is now 2,500 years old, and after more than 25 centuries of admirable service to the scourge of depraved humanity, Lucifer is (a) worthy candidate for a Presidential pardon.
The statement drew outcry from civil rights groups, scholars, and empathic leftist libtards, but whatever. Fuck those triggered special snowflakes. There are no snowballs in hell.

Friday, August 25, 2017

Juneau, You Know This Feeling

Who among us, I ask, does not know this feeling? At least those of us in Juneau do. 

Juneau the feeling.

You drive your car to the airport for a one or two day trip to Seattle or Anchorage. It's not worth taking a cab since it's almost just as expensive, and you don't feel like waiting 20 minutes for another cab on the back end. One that you'll end up sharing with six cruise ship passengers from Ohio, which means you'll have to make small talk about fishing and rain when all you want to do is get home to your own bed immediately.

And no, America. We don't have Uber, at least not yet, and no one's coming to get you at this hour. So you leave your car. 

You make a mental note, or try to, thinking once again about the fact that this parking lot is too small for numbered spaces, yet somehow too big to remember where the fuck you parked your car.

It's sort of like a microcosm of the whole town in a weird way. Juneau: too big to know everyone's name, but too small to have an ex. The city assembly should pass an ordinance making that the town motto. It would look great on a flag or a bumper sticker. Picture it:

JUNEAU: TOO BIG TO KNOW EVERYONE'S NAME, BUT TOO SMALL TO HAVE AN EX.

Good, right? Anyyyyywwwwaaaay.

So you land after a super harrowing 20 minutes that you feel like could easily have been the last 20 minutes of your life, only to walk out into a monsoon of cold November snain ("November Snain" was the original title of that GNR tune. Look it up.)

And now your mind goes blank. Where are my keys? Fuck the keys. Where is my CAR? You haven't thought about your car for 48 hours, and now that POS will have its revenge!

And you walk up and down every aisle like a total asshole, because here's the problem: every other car is either a beat-to-shit Subaru or beat-to-shit pickup truck. And you can't find yours for the life of you. And it's dark. And it's cold. And it's pissing rain. And you're wheeling a little piece of shit suitcase behind you wearing whatever weather-inappropriate clothes you put on in another city or town 17 hours ago.

And then you finally find your car and pray that it starts. When it does, mercifully, you curve around to the exit, and you say to yourself every time: really? They still have this concrete barrier with a spray-painted arrow on it to show you how to get out of here? Isn't this the capital of Alaska? 

Come on people. This is bananas. Let's get our shit together here. PULL UP YOUR FUCKING GRUNDENS, JUNEAU! Maybe that should be our motto. 

Then you dig around for the ticket, and you think about the ticket robot. The one that told you two days earlier in a creepy Sharon Stone voice to "TAKE THE TIIIIIIIICKET." 

And you wish she was there to tell you where you left it, and where you parked. Like why can't she be more useful? You know you have to take the tiiiiiiicket. You're not a moron. What you could really use is a reminder of where you parked your fucking car.

How about that? Huh, Sharon? Of course not.

And then just as you get ready to pay your parking fee, you pull up to one of the two attendant booths and realize you've pulled into the one that has no attendant and you dropped your TIIIIIIIICKET between the gearshift and the passenger seat, all while a line of 10 politely not-honking cars has gathered behind you.

THE END, FAM!

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Someone Did This to Denim and I AM SHOOK AF!

As the Police famously sang, when the world is going down, you make the best of what's still around. And what's still around, apparently, is this DELECTABLY hideous pair of denim peep-toe booties from Forever 21.

There are a lot of people and things that bring joy to my life. One of them is writing O.H.M. and another is the people who read it, because they send me THE BEST PICS. That's right. O.H.M. has the BEST WORDS & O.H.M. readers THE BEST PICS & IDEAS!

And so it was that one attentive reader sent me this, seen at a Forever 21 somewhere down in real America, I presume.

Where. Do. I. Even. Start.

This pair of shoes looks like Debbie Gibson donated her cat's old scratching post to the Hard Rock Cafe, and then the surviving members of TLC consulted with Karl Lagerfeld-for-K Mart on the design. But not before Tiffany Amber Thiesen from Saved by the Bell scissored up a pair of her cutoffs in a fit of rage over not making cheer squad, chewed them up, barfed them back up again, and then tied the scraps around the ankle of this bootie.

Like I hope the person who's first two toes poke out of these has some sick toenail fungus she picked up after a shady $12 pedicure in buttfuck Queens. 

Because that is the only possible improvement on this MUST HAVE pair of kicks. This crime against denim is so unconscionable--and yet so compelling--I'm gonna write it a poem:

Roses are red 
Skanky booties are blue
Denim is dead
And its grave is a shoe.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

#ImWithKap is About Some Important Shit

So. Let's talk about it, shall we?

Let's talk about patriotism for a minute, and the fact that it's been totally hijacked by people--our President ESPECIALLY-- who have never read the constitution and have no idea what's in it.

Let's talk about the fact that participating in democracy by using your voice to draw attention to its systemic inequities instead of goose-stepping to a song is an act of patriotism.

Let's talk about the fact that standing for the national anthem and putting an eagle in your social media profile doesn't make you an American hero or even, necessarily, a patriot.

Let's talk about the fact that the violent, misogynist NFL pretended to care about breast cancer so it could dress up its DV perp image in a pink bow, and how we shouldn't be surprised that it's blacklisting a Black man at least in part for sitting down during a song.

Let's talk about the fact that the Black NYPD held a rally to support Colin Kaepernick and why? Because they understand better than anyone what he stands (and sits) for.

And finally, let's talk about expending energy. Maybe all the white dudes who care so much about standing for a song can expend a little more energy using their power and privilege to address the reasons Colin Kapernick is sitting down for it in the first place.

For Fuck's Sake. Seriously.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

The 10 Types of Juneau Rain: Your Definitive Guide

1. The Widowmaker: So named for its ability/tendency to bring down small water and air craft, this pounding rain is accompanied by fog so dense you forget that mountains, trees, and other terrain features ever existed on earth. Suggested attire/equipment: head-to-toe rubber and a float coat.

2. The Hydraulic Needles: This is what Forrest Gump would call the “little bitty stingin’ rain.” It’s characterized by small, painful, wind-driven droplets usually delivered in a direct hit to the face at a 45 degree angle. Suggested attire/equipment: protective eyewear.

3. The Escapeable Misery: This is the dreary rain that falls only on cursed downtown and Douglas, and that you can fortunately easily escape by driving 25 miles further north to Lena. Suggested attire/equipment: Goretex on Douglas and downtown; T-shirt and shorts at Eagle Beach.

4. The October Non-Surprise: This is the rain that falls, predictably, throughout the entire month of October. Suggested attire/equipment: more head-to-toe rubber.

5. The Julytober: This is the rain that falls, somewhat less predictably, throughout the entire month of July, turning the summer into an unwelcome predecessor to fall. Suggested attire/equipment: the three Ps: Pot, Prozac and a Plane ticket.

6. The Snain: As its name suggests, this is the snow-rain combo that can fall anytime from October to April, and makes you question if there will ever be real snow or real winter again, or if we are just going to continue our long, depressing slide into irreversible climate change. Suggested attire/equipment: hat, gloves, down, rubber, a powerful lobbyist.

7. The Winter-killer: This is the “big ol’ fat rain” that arrives shortly after a really great snow and makes the entire ski hill, nordic trails, and every frozen lake thaw to shit, thus setting winter back into fall by another month. Suggested attire/equipment: The Three P’s.

8. The Axl Rose: This is the cold rain that falls in November, so named for Guns N’ Roses’ signature hit song, “November Rain.” Suggested attire/equipment: an iPod with this song playing on loop.

9. The Sidewinder: This is any of the foregoing types of rain, propelled by winds over 35 mph and coming straight at your face due east or west. In other words, "the rain that flew in sideways." Suggested attire/equipment: everything listed above.

10. The Misty Mountain Cloud Trap: This is the type of misty rain you experience when you are literally INSIDE a cloud, and you say to yourself, wow. I can’t believe I am in a cloud. On the ground. But yet here I am. INSIDE a cloud. On the GROUND. How did I get here? Suggested attire/equipment: A substantial chunk of time to take stock of your entire life.



An anonymous creative genius posted this in the break room at work. I wish I could take credit for it, but alas!

Monday, August 21, 2017

Your Excuse for Missing the Solar Eclipse

A friend posted this "solar eclipse identity" diagram on Facebook in honor of (duh) the solar eclipse, and since I missed it, I thought it'd be fun to make a similar chart to determine the real reason you missed the eclipse:



Sunday, August 20, 2017

Please God, Not the Mascots!

Anything but that! NOT THE MASCOTS!


This has been a VERY hard week for "white culture" in America and its freedom-y advocates on Twitter.

First, it's been forced to defend its sanitized confederate past by continuing to pretend monuments to a treasonous band of losers that plunged the nation into a bloody civil war so they could own other human beings as property are worth saving, despite the trauma the sight of them inflicts on slavery's many descendants, because "heritage."

Then it's had to work hard--without very compelling spokespeople--to establish a moral equivalency between "white culture" and other cultures, when we all know that "white culture" is not about celebrating Irish or German or Scottish heritage, as we already do.

It's about reveling in the perceived genetic superiority of white skin and its attendant entitlements, and bristling at the reality that melanin-based privilege is eroding, which is scary. Because really then what? White supremacists, by and large, are neither attractive nor intelligent, and have no other leverage in the world other than their white skin. 

As the Vice writer @jules_su so perfectly summarized on Twitter, "fascism is when you think capitalism will make you rich because you're great, but when you grow up and suck, you blame Jews and blacks instead." (He omitted immigrants, but probably just ran out of characters).

Now, it appears that the grave injustice of toppling monuments to white supremacy has trickled down the slippery slope to . . . wait for it . . . COLLEGE SPORTS MASCOTS

And from there, as we well know, it's a short hop skip and jump to changing the name of the Washington Redskins or the Cleveland Indians or any other number of professional sports teams that rub salt in the wounds of colonialist cultural genocide by making crude caricatures out of other human beings who apparently are way out of line to suggest that perhaps this "tradition" is unnecessary and disgusting and should end in fucking 2017.

Here's a better idea: pour all your outrage about sports mascots and statues of horses and tradition and heritage into outrage over the very-present reason they exist in the first place. And here's an even better idea, borrowed from the rally in Boston this weekend:








Saturday, August 19, 2017

The Junk Food House

Everyone had one growing up (at least if you were lucky enough to have food and shelter in America). Well let me modify that slightly: you either had one, or you were one.

The junk food house. 

You know what I'm talking about. The one house that had AAALLLL the goods. The one where the parents don't give a shit if you eat Count Chocula or Fritos after school. Not because they were bad parents--not at all. It's just that they decided to forego the Capri Sun battle for other battles, like violin or soccer maybe. 

And the full benefit of their junk food largesse fell to the us, the kids.

The thing of it was, the kids who lived in the junk food house never even seemed to know how good they had it. You'd show up and casually open the pantry in their kitchen after school, hoping for some whole wheat pretzels, at best. And then . . . 

BAM!

There it was, gleaming like a cache of gold and jewels that Indiana Jones or Lara Croft Tomb Raider or some shit just swung into a cave on a vine in order to steal. Cheetos. Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Cool Ranch Doritos. Hershey Bars. Marshmallows. 

And you'd turn around wide-eyed and stick a thumb behind your shoulder and whisper yell "DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU'RE SITTING ON HERE?!?!?!?" But your friend would just shrug like it was nothing, and watch with disinterest while you continued to paw over all the options before selecting a package of Bugles.

And even though it was the 60th time you'd been over to their house, the glee of unfettered access to junk food was never diminished. Admit it: you know that person just popped into your head and you're about to tag/@ them.

Friday, August 18, 2017

Sugar and Screen Justice Shall be Served!

In these trying times, the one beacon of light has been my two children and their strong sense of social and civic responsibility. Now you're probably thinking:  How does she know for a FACT that her kids are two woke AF mini-citizens of the world? 

Now I don't mean to brag, but it's because they fight for justice, of course! And by "fight for" I mean "fight each other for." And by "justice," I mean sugar and screen time.

As two First World children with all their basic needs (and nearly all their gratuitous wants) reliably and consistently met, Paige and Isaac are blessed enough to have time to focus on what really matters in this world:

Who got more sugar and/or iPad during any given span of time. 

You see, sugar and screen time are valuable household resources to which neither of these kids necessarily has equal access at all times. Their draconian overlords only let them have the iPad on the weekends--not out of virtue or sanctimony--but simply because the iPad turns them into punishing, insufferable assholes. 

No, we save the iPad for when we, their overlords, need it: at 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning or a transcontinental flight to the east coast.

Sugar is a bit tricker because it's less predictable, sprinkled into our food supply, and almost unavoidable in sickening quantities. Corn syrup is its own food group in 'Murica, and every activity is followed by a fucking snack made out of sugar and you're like the worst Grinch ever if you point this out.

Anyway. 

My kids expect sugar justice and they will settle for nothing less: You finish the first day of school? BAM! Ice cream time. You were good in the supermarket and didn't nag for a bunch of shit? BOOM. Here's a donut. I'm pretty sure there are a lot of books that caution against doing EXACTLY this.

So that's the demand. Whether it will be met is anyone's guess, which I guess is what makes it all such an exciting emotional roller coaster. Because God help you if one finds out that the other secretly got Tic-Tacs on an errand the other was absent for.

These grave miscarriages of justice are added to the running tally of statistics in a long, ongoing sociological study being conducted by Paige and Isaac, to see who is truly more loved and cared for, as measured by the amount of screen time and sugar they each receive.

One day not far from today, I hope my kids are so busy marching in the streets along with their mother that they've stopped thinking about screen time and sugar all together. 

But for now, sadly, Tina Fey's mildly funny and majorly tone deaf #sheetcaking movement has nothing on our family.


American Depression: The Struggle is Real

Last week, I went to Minneapolis to meet up with my mom and spend a weekend with three cousins Paige and I had never met before. We did a bunch of touristy things around the city, and took a sunset boat ride on the Mississippi River, where I snapped this picture. 

The elephant in the room all weekend was Donald Trump. He was (and is) ever-present in everyone's mental landscape, if only because he wakes each day determined to make a spectacle of himself at the expense of everything else, including national security and unity. 

They knew we couldn't stand him, and we knew they'd probably voted for him, so we just didn't go there, which is fine. I think it's destructive to engage in arguments with my fellow Americans (much less my family) about President Trump (God, it still hurts to type that). Pointing fingers, blaming each other, attacking each other: It's self-destructive. It's unproductive. And it serves to yank on threads that further unravel us.

But the depression and the struggle is real. 

We have long ago crossed the Rubicon from "politics" to a genuine civic crisis, and we need all hands on deck to resolve and survive it. Yet there must be a balance between staying informed and active, and not completely burning out and crawling into a hole of depression over the tone Trump is setting in America and the utter havoc his administration has wreaked on us in less than a year.

Scholars of fascism and authoritarianism warned us this would happen, and as it all unfolds it still feels impossible. I know I think about this too much and it feels unhealthy. But I am a Jew, a woman, and a human being in this body, on this planet, with two children.

I can't help it. 

I wake up every morning and the first thing I do is open Twitter to see what sort of crazy Trump unleashed on the world from his Android overnight. I spend much of the next hour panicky and sad, until I distract myself with the mundane machinery of everyday life: helping the kids get ready for school, getting out the door, sitting down at my desk and burrowing into my work.

Everyday life goes on, as it did (and does) for the citizen-victims of every country that was ever squeezed in the abusive grip of a dangerous megalomaniac. Except now it's us, and finding an anchor of sanity and purpose amid chaos and misery feels harder with each passing day, and with each affront to our democratic norms and our national moral fabric.

American depression: the struggle is real.


Thursday, August 17, 2017

Empathy and a Moral Compass are Fundamental to Real Leadership. Trump Lacks Both.

It’s taken me the better part of a week to crystalize my thoughts on the events that unfolded in Charlottesville and our President’s response to them.

What I’m about to say isn’t new or original. It’s all been said before by people smarter than I am, in more articulate terms. But I think it bears repeating and reiterating, if only because failure to articulate and identify the moral rot now at the center of our democracy serves to condone and thus perpetuate it.

It should go without saying that Nazis and white supremacists and those who oppose them are not morally equivalent.

It should also go without saying that the white supremacist movement—which is dedicated to retaining power, control, and a eugenics-based superiority over “inferior” races and cultures—is not equivalent to movements by the targets of white supremacy (e.g. Blacks, Jews, LGBT, Feminists), that seek recognition of their humanity and equality under the law.

It should also go without saying that the confederacy, represented broadly by Robert E. Lee, for example, and our democracy, represented broadly by George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, say, are not historically equivalent.

The confederacy was an illegitimate band of traitors that lost an attempted coup against our democracy. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, slave owners and flawed human beings to be sure, founded that democracy and drafted its guiding documents, and Abraham Lincoln steered the country through the confederacy’s criminal attempt to undo their work.

So no. 

Removing statutes of confederate “heroes” is not the same—intellectually, historically, logically, ethically, or morally—as removing statues of the founding fathers. Nor is that removal “erasing history” any more than removing a statute of Hitler at a Holocaust Memorial or of Osama Bin Laden at Ground Zero would be.

But there is a deeper issue at play in Trump’s self-destructive and all-around insane response to Charlottesville, reflected in these eight words: “I’m not putting anybody on a moral plane.”

That’s what he said in his near universally-panned press conference at Trump Tower, when asked pointedly whether he would put white supremacists and neo-Nazis on the same “moral plane” as their liberal and leftist resisters.

In those eight words, Trump once again revealed his core deficiency and the true mark of a sociopath and clinical narcissist: lack of empathy and a moral compass. This void has been clear and present throughout Trump’s life and career: in his personal life, in his business dealings, and now in his public policy in ways too numerous and too well-documented to name.

Trump has no empathy, and he has no moral compass. You have never seen him laugh. You have never seen him cry. Indeed, you have never seen him express any genuine emotion at all—only an apish simulacrum of human expression and feeling. 

So of course he's not putting anyone "on a moral plane." He can't even put himself on one.

True modern leadership requires, at a minimum, empathy as defined on a poster hung in the hallway of my child’s elementary school. All hope for the future of our democracy now lies with a Congressional willingness to recognize that, and act accordingly.




Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Let Us All Take a Moment to Acknowledge that My Children Started School Today

What a time to be alive!

I graduated high school before the Internet, witnessed 9/11, and have now seen Neo-Nazis infiltrating our government thanks to a sociopathic, treasonous, greedy lunatic while our planet burns to a cinder.

But the world keeps on turning, as Stevie Wonder (and Galileo, among others) have so wisely said. So I think it's more than appropriate at this point to publicly acknowledge that my two little bone-prizes started first and fourth grades today!

In the age of social media, everything that happens is "pics or it didn't happen," nothing more so than children's milestones. Short of Halloween and their actual births, the first and last days of school each year must be assiduously documented for posterity in order to torment the rest of the planet, who gives a shit somewhere on the spectrum of ... not much, if at all.

But I believe in civic duty and doing my part for society, which is why I am putting the scholastic progress of my uterine issue on blast.

As usual, we were too lazy and disorganized to make our testicle trophies dress up and hold signs, so after doubly-decontaminating their heads of a previous bout of lice, we let them wear whatever the fuck they felt like, and asked them to hold up their grimy little fingers to indicate their new grade.

In these uncertain times, it pays to know that you will see my children on Facebook whether you want to or not, and will be subjected to their pithy "bon mots," such as Isaac's comment this morning that "crab lice live on a grown man's penis hair," which I feel compelled to assure my readers was NOT knowledge he obtained first-hand.

In any event, please take a moment to acknowledge the perfectly mundane and yet apparently 100% necessary-to-advertise fact that today was my loin discharges' first day of school for the 2017-2018 school year.

You're welcome, and God Bless.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

George Washington Issues Press Release Dragging Donald Trump

MOUNT VERNON

Statement for Immediate Release

Although I am dead and buried some 220-odd years, I was nonetheless much chagrined to read today’s dispatch from New York City.

Specifically, I was perplexed and dismayed that the 45th President of the United States—a ruddy-faced ignoramus with a wig and dental veneers to rival my own—questioned whether my statue would “be next,” after civil disobedients removed the traitorous confederate general Robert E. Lee’s likeness from a park in Charlottesville, Commonwealth of Virginia.

First let me say I know not of which statue the President speaks, as there are numerous monuments commemorating my noble visage and life’s achievements in Maryland, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Washington DC, New York, and South Dakota.

But let me assure our at-present troubled nation, which I so conscientiously labored to found and which Divine Providence deigned to bless with His glory: I would care not one shilling if every one of these statues were exploded into smithereens with gunpowder this very instant!

Not if it meant that a complete buffoon the likes of which has never darkened the doorway of our nation's capitol were removed from office by the Congress entrusted to such lofty and somber matters.

Neither I nor my Good White Christian colleagues, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, could have anticipated that our names would be so sullied and our vision of the American Experiment so clouded to opacity by a failed casino magnate and unrepentant sociopath.

To be sure, I was a big “dick” whilst alive, to coin a modern phrase. A misogynist, a slave-owner, an adulterer, and landed gentry not easily distinguishable at first blush from the current occupant of the office I once held in such esteem.

And yet I was a lot smarter. Like, a lot. 

Because along with the other men currently adorning metal and paper currency, I spent a good deal of time studying the innermost workings of democracy and the human condition, carefully crafting through this study a nation that would sustain the blows of a tyrant and a fool, whose total ignorance and craven greed none of us could fully have anticipated.

And so it is that I answer Mr. Trump’s question of the day: No, I am not “next.” And if I am, may he follow swiftly thereafter, forced by a principled Congress to skulk back to the ignominious, cloistered gold-plated tower in midtown Manhattan from whence he came.

Done this fifteenth day of August at Mount Vernon, Commonwealth of Virginia, in the Year of Our Lord two thousand and seventeen.

Monday, August 14, 2017

Sports Romance is a Genre of Bodice Ripper, Apparently?!

I'm taking a break from all the feel-good news about Nazis in America to deliver a report from an alert O.H.M. reader about Julie Brannagh, USA Today's "bestselling sports romance author." 

Before I get to what that means, lemme just say I lied about Nazis. This post isn't totally a break from Nazis, because apparently the way we discovered Julie Brannagh--and in turn the existence of the sports romance bodice ripper--is through Nazis.

I'll explain.

My friend was reportedly going down an internet rabbit hole, researching brands that are distancing themselves from Nazis (as you do in 2017) and stumbled upon the whole New Balance and Trump sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G controversy. 

This in turn led to him finding Julie Brannagh, who decided to use her awesome brand power for good: to declare she would no longer continue to walk her chocolate lab, Moose, in New Balance kicks because Trump. In the now-seemingly innocent times of 11/6/16, Julie tweeted: 

I have been wearing New Balance shoes (at $160/pair) for the past 10 years. If they support Trump, I've bought my last pair.

And good for Julie! 

Make no mistake: I am by no means dragging Julie Brannagh, as the last thing I would do is drag someone--particularly a fellow sister in Trump hateration--from living her truth in writing and making a respectable living at it to boot. I'm more just confused and amazed at the sheer specificity of a literary genre that was heretofore totally unknown to me.

Naturally, I immediately followed Julie on Twitter and set about doing my own deep dive into her life and bibliography.

The first thing I discovered is that Julie Brannagh does NOT have a Wikipedia page, and after "the President of the United States firmly denounces Nazis and actually means it," this is the number one thing that needs to change in 2017.

So I then followed Julie on Twitter, where she self-identifies as a football fan to the ninth tenth power, and went to her website. 

There I discovered she is based in Seattle (Go Seahawks), has an agent, and has published "Blitzing Emily," "Catching Cameron," "Covering Kendall," "Holding Holly," "Chasing Jillian," and "Intercepting Daisy," among others.

I confess I don't even know what even one of those football terms mean. I barely even know the difference between a linebacker and a quarterback. I'm not even sure if linebacker is one word or two. So needless to say, the combination of football and panty-moistener bodice ripper romance novels is not exactly one I would have come up with myself. 

But like the maple-bacon donut, sometimes the whole is better than the sum of its parts, and helping a strapping tight end (tightend?) out of his shoulder pads in the shadows of a steamy locker room shower doesn't sound half bad, TBH.

If you think I am not ordering ALL of these books from my local independent bookstore TO-DAY, taking a pint of low-fat chocolate fudge brownie Ben & Jerry's out of the freezer, and warming up the vibrator, WELP, THINK AGAIN, FAM!

In the meantime, you'll find me strategizing how O.H.M. can become the (now sadly bankrupt) "Alaska Dispatch News' Most Ridiculous Terrible-Parenting, Trump-Mocking, and Vulgar-Feminist" blog.

Now that's genre-specificity!









https://twitter.com/julieinduvall

Sunday, August 13, 2017

So Much Winning

You guys. There is SO much winning. I can't take all the winning. 

It feels like America just got 8 gazillion gold medals in every Olympics ever held since the first Olympics in Ancient Greece. It feels like Oprah just gave us each a brand new car as a reward for winning the Nobel Prize and the Pullitzer in the same year. 

If America could win a MacArthur Genius Grant at presidenting, it totally would based on the amount of winning Donald Trump is doing for us right now. What? You haven't noticed?

Your 401K is winning and that's all to his credit. Also immigration is good and crime is down and there are JOBS JOBS JOBS because Trump said so!

What? 

Haven't you noticed that all the coal miners in West Virginia just got their jobs back from transgender Mexican drug dealing rapists who were recently deported over a big, beautiful wall?

Or were you too distracted by Neo-Nazi rioting terrorists and a bloated megalomaniacal toddler and senile cantaloupe threatening to annihilate us all into cosmic dust, all while making America the pitiable laughing stock of the entire globe and two thirds of our own citizens?

Wow you guys. WINNING FEELS AMAZING. 

Saturday, August 12, 2017

What Do We Call This?

Not all of these are mine, but at least one of them must apply...

1. Fuhrest Gump
2. Home Despot
3. Pier One Trumports
4. You Do Nazi One Woman
5. Khakistocracy
6. Never Been Fucked
7. Basic Basement Bros Unite
8. Alt-Right White Fright
9. Cult 45
10. Vanilla Reich
11. Angry Mayonnaise
12. If it Weren't for Trump None of This Would Be Happening Because Trump is the Common Denominatior of Emboldened Neonazism and Imminent Nuclear Holocaust and People are Already Dead Because of It




Thursday, August 10, 2017

And God Created Alaska

I saw Sara Runnels' awesome "And God Created Millennial Earth" on McSweeney's today, and thought this model deserved an Alaska spin.

1:1 In the beginning, God created Alaska.

1:2 And Alaska was almost twice the size of Texas, yet much harder to find on a map for some reason and devoid of Trader Joes; and darkness was upon the face of Alaska for six months per year in some parts. And the Spirit of God moved upon sustainable yield timber harvesting and productive, environmentally-sound mining practices operating in sync with each other like Kumbaya.

1:3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light, but again, only for six months a year. The rest of the time half the population suffered from Seasonal Depressive Disorder and had to buy special lamps to stick their faces into while weeping inconsolably.

1:4 And God saw the light, that it was good: and said fuck it, you guys can handle some darkness in winter, because you’re Alaskans and tough AF and anyway that shit looks good with snow at Christmastime.

1:5 And God called the light June, and the darkness He called December. And the evening and the morning were the best times to get charged by a cow moose or a sow bear while taking your garbage out to the curb.

1:6 And God said, Let there be a telegenic celebrity politician with cute glasses in the midst of an historic presidential election campaign, and let her divide the State amongst itself, and then let the State be nationally redeemed years later by a more serious person who voted her conscience when asked by her well-insured male colleagues to take chemo away from babies.

1:7 And God made Xtra-Tuffs, and divided them into the shitty ones that are made in China now and the quality ones they used to make right here in the good old U.S. of A., and it was hard to get that kind anymore.

1:8 And God called all that was good “Skookum.” And the newbies He called Cheechakos. And He let a major cultural genocide go down and that was really, REALLY fucking NOT cool, I think we can all admit?

1:9 And God said, Let the sport fishers under heaven be gathered together unto one place, and that place was the Kenai River in July.

1:10 And God covered the dry land with no-see-ems; and the falling into the waters He called hypothermia: and God saw that "PFD" should stand for both life jackets and a modest amount of annual cheddar from Exxon.

1:11 And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and a Supreme Court case called Ravin v. State and a ballot measure that will let everyone get Irie in the sunshine, even though Jeff Sessions is kind of a dick: and it was so.

1:12 And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the slow-moving creatures known as cruise ship passengers that hath money, and helicopters that may fly above the glaciers for $300 a head plus tax.

1:13 And God created great whales, that tourists pay good money to see bubble net feeding
, which the waters brought forth abundantly, thanks to the Marine Mammal Protection Act and God saw that it was good. 

1:14 And God blessed Alaska, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, but not if you're an RV-driver or a dudebro talking about the sick line he skied in the Chugach last winter because we have enough of those, k? Thanks, bye!

1:15 So God created man in his own image, and put a lot of weird dudes up here but not as many females, except in Juneau for some reason as all the single ladies will tell you.

1:16 And God saw every thing that He had made, and, behold, it was very good. Which is why He knew the legislature would fuck it all up.
1:17 Thus Alaska was finished.

1:18 And on the seventh day God ended his work and blessed Seward Day, and sanctified it, and gave us all the day off from work because some old white dude supposedly bought an ice box from Russia.



Wednesday, August 9, 2017

You are Old and Hideous! Buy Me and Fix it Now!

Oh Hello, Hideous Old Hag!

I’m glad you stopped by this Hudson News at the SEA-TAC airport to check me out. I am New Beauty magazine

You may not have heard of me, but I’m one of 18 gazillion advertising circulars glossy mags dedicated to the truth that women are naturally fat, old, and lowkey hideous, and that they must buy a lot of shit—like, a LOT—to fix their fatness, oldness, and hideousness.

As you peruse my online content from your iPhone with a morbid curiosity and an eye toward mocking me on your blog, you will discover that I am targeted at insecure early 40s moms such as yourself, boasting content with titles like “This Is the Number-One Makeup Mistake Older Women Make, According to Bobbi Brown,” “These are the Best Ways to Firm Saggy Knees,” “12 Famous Women on the Anti-Aging Procedures They Love,” “This Botox Technique Will Give You a Much More Natural Look,” and “A New Neurotoxin is Coming to the U.S.” 

What? No! I don’t mean biological warfare courtesy of Trump and Kim-Jong Un’s dick-swinging contest. Sure the mushroom cloud is coming, but you don't want to have the most homely aesthetic in the fallout shelter, do you? Especially if you're called upon to repopulate the earth! So get up off those saggy knees and start going back in time like Marty Fucking McFly.

For as every woman knows, there is nothing more natural than loading up a six-inch syringe with botulinum neurotoxin and jamming it between your eyeballs so that you look permanently surprised for six months and #nofilter your forehead on your teenage daughter's Insta.

In this issue alone, I'll be offering tips from "doctors" on how to stop aging (which mankind has been trying to do ever since we could rub two sticks together in a cave fire). I’m also providing the “secret to looking younger,” also something no one has ever before promised in the course of human history, much less been able to produce, but which I deliver in this magazine with an article entitled “7 Ways You Can Avoid the Need for a Facelift.”

The Need.

I also do a deep dive into beauty creams (legit or no?) and talk to Courtney Cox about what she’s been up to since Friends.

Spoiler alert: having zero chill about getting old, getting plastic surgery, regretting it, getting more plastic surgery to undo the plastic surgery she got because she hated herself for being old, and then hating herself a little less while still getting a little bit older every day.

But looking snatched AF is not without its risks, because I also fear-monger with hard-hitting journalism like “Woman Experiences Horrifying Infection from Eyebrow Feathering Treatment Gone Wrong,” “This Skin Care Cure-All Has Caused Some People’s Hair to Fall Out,” “This Woman’s Unicorn Hair Dye Job Left Her Partially Bald,” “Woman Badly Burned After a Bath & Body Works Candle Burst in Her Face,” and “This Terrifying Pimple-Popping Story Will Make You Never Want to Touch Your Face Again.”

So if you want to look like Courtney Cox in 1990 and you don't want to be bald, wrinkled, and sporting an infected, swollen face riddled with third degree burns and zits, you will buy me and everything advertised inside of me today.

I’ll take that $7.00 now. Thanks!


Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Dear Messy: Entry #1

I’m trying something new at the request of a reader: A messy advice column! I’ve done a few O.H.M. parody advice columns before, but never “real” ones. Let me know what you think of the idea in general, and feel free to weigh in with your thoughts on the reader’s question, too! (This is a real question I received, but some details have been changed to protect the innocent).

Dear Messy,

My partner and I are in our 40’s and planning a wedding. We have both been married before, and we both have school-aged children from our first marriages. Our kids get along well with each other, and we get along well with each other’s kids. They all want us to get married. However, we do not want to include any of our kids in our actual wedding ceremony. When we told our kids this, they were very upset. I have always thought it was weird when people get remarried and have their kids from previous marriages in the wedding party. I’m not sure kids should participate in a new marriage when the prior, failed marriages were the whole reason the kids exist to begin with. I worry about how other people will view our kids’ participation in the ceremony, and I also don’t want the kids to dictate our wedding plans. What do you think?

Sincerely,

Ceremonial in Soldotna

Dear Ceremonial in Soldotna,

In my opinion, you and your partner should do whatever makes you comfortable in terms of a wedding, be it just the two of you on a bluff somewhere, a courthouse administrative job, or a big to-do involving all of your extended families and children. So I agree that you should not let anyone else, including your kids, dictate your wedding plans.

However, I do not think it is "weird"—nor do I think it will be perceived as weird—to have your kids be part of your wedding ceremony. The fact that your kids “would not exist but for prior failed marriages” has nothing to do with the fact that everyone is moving forward in a new joint life together. Not that anyone else’s opinion matters (it doesn’t), but it strikes me as very normal and almost expected to have your kids—who will be part of a blended family—be part of the ceremony that actually blends that family together.