I’m sure you’ve seen quite enough of this on your Facebook feeds this week, so I hate to add to the bullshit. But the combination of characters I thought of made me laugh.
“Describe yourself in three fictional characters…”
They said “no photos” at the booksigning yesterday, but, I mean… CLEARLY they just meant flash photos, not my shitty, stealth, zoom-lens-through-people’s-heads iPhone 4S ones. Ahem…
#scofflaw #IHave60FollowersNoOneCares 
Here’s a video of the half-hour Q&A with Amy Schumer from earlier today at the Free Library of Philadelphia, because technology is amazing. (Except I can’t seem to get the video to embed here, even with the code, so maybe technology is a dick.)
Also, damn, like 2 hours after the event, my Twitter feed (ahem…@smug_singleton…#shameless) had blown up about what an asshole she is, so today’s been an interesting mental journey.
“I want equal pay and equal come.”
— Amy Schumer
#feminism
Oh, NBD, just meeting Amy Schumer today.
Ho hum, normal Wednesday.
(!!!!!!)
(At the Free Library of Philadelphia.)
Earlier I wondered if I’m walking around all Bitchface McIrritable at work today because I have PMS.
And then I saw this, got viciously angry, then weepy-sad, so… that answers that.
My body image has been hovering around decent lately, so I’m pissed this got to me, but Christ, this is what *I* look like, just shorter. People are fucking awful.
But then…Hm, I still think she’s hot, so I must be hot, too.
Right, then. Done and done. Good work, Brain.
Via E! Online and Hateful Fuckers Everywhere: Amy Schumer Slams Haters After Beach Body Criticism, Says She Looks ”Strong and Healthy”
My newly updated Amazon wish list is proof that Jesus loves me and wants me to be happy.
Or, you know, proof that book publishers know an It Girl when they see one. Whichever.
(I’m trying to score review copies, but they won’t send them until right around the release dates. *shaking fist at life*)
Sometimes I forget how much porn (erm…”erotica”) I follow on Tumblr until I open the app at work and “OMG, that’s a vagina. Gahhh, shut it down, shut it down!”
See also: wang. Giant, scary, first scene of “Trainwreck” wang.
“Your dick doesn’t end! Why doesn’t your dick end?!”
Disclosure: I am a Shonda Rhimes fan (duh): Meredith, Addison, Olivia, Annalise. You name, I worship.
So it really should come as no surprise that I loved her first book, Year of Yes. I loved it on spec, really. Shondaland disciples understand. (Juju be with you. And also with you.) But I was still excited that it met and exceeded my expectations. It was great to read about SHONDA, not just to see her peppered into little bits of her characters.
As you may infer from the title, Rhimes dedicated a year to saying “yes” to things outside her introverted writer comfort zone: giving the commencement speech at her alma mater (Dartmouth, NBD); losing more than 100 pounds; making self-care a priority; saying “no” when necessary; accepting praise — as a woman especially — with a “thank you” and no attempt to negate or downplay your achievements. (Have y’all seen that Inside Amy Schumer thing? You should. We all should. And then we should all knock that shit off.)
Really the best thing I can say about the book is: it made me feel better. I hesitate to use the word “inspirational,” because UGH. But it was. It helped me during a tough time (specifically, the week I happened to be reading it, my brain was not being especially kind to me). But the book still made me laugh so hard my lady-belly ached. I had to put it down multiple times to laugh it out. On at least one page, Rhimes had me brimming with weepy tears, then cry-laughing two paragraphs later. It’s one of those comforting books that made me feel like things are actually pretty OK — I am a badass lady and I shall “power pose like Wonder Woman,” and if you don’t like it, you can just step right off.
I actually bought a LivingSocial deal for an audiobook site just so I could have Shonda Storytime. Maybe her “badassery” can infiltrate me via hypnosis osmosis while I sleep.
Her reflections on Mommy Wars were insightful and hilarious, even though I don’t have children. Standing up at a PTA meeting and shouting “Are you fucking kidding me?!” when they demanded homemade desserts instead of store-bought? Hero. But it also made me think about how I speak to my friends who are mothers, and to consider again the way women address and judge each other. (By the end of that chapter, you too will be all, “Whitney Houston. Curling iron. Solidarity.” Just trust me.)
My favorite chapter was the one about her weight loss, how food is amazing and DOES make you feel better, because it’s delicious but also because it’s a lovely, numbing spackle for your internal wounds. Oh, Shonda — you had me at “Cheesecake will always taste like love.”
My new favorite expression — and get ready, because you’ll see me use it in the future — is “veal practice.”
“Did I tell you what veal practice is?” asks Rhimes. “Oh! Veal practice involved me lying very still on the sofa trying as hard as I could to mimic the life of a veal. While eating veal. I wish I were kidding. It. Was. Magic.”
Veal practice, people. It’s gonna be a thing.
2015 was actually my own Year of Yes — a year that brought me Amy Poehler’s Yes Please, Jenny Lawson’s Furiously Happy, Matthew Quick’s Silver Linings Playbook, and finally Year of Yes, the icing on the therapeutic cake (but only metaphorical cake because I try not to use cake as therapy anymore).
Rhimes’ book is, in essence, about deciding to stop living your life being small — meek, numb, detached. Going through the motions, doing only what you have to, not being present, not feeling joy. Sleeping, basically…hardly even living. I struggle every day NOT to live that way, but she’s right — sometimes it really is easier, so I can’t say I always succeed.
It was as if this year the book gods had bestowed upon me the exact books I needed to get my shy ass off the couch and out to an aerial yoga with a Creative Ladies’ Club full of women I didn’t know, to an oral sex class or a burlesque workshop, and to really deal with my family issues and these romantic ensnarements I can’t escape — Olivia Pope ahoy, y’all. (I suspect I won’t get past them until I find my own Jake Ballard, though, so I think I just have to wait that out. Plus, Liv totally screwed up that Jake thing. I mean, honestly — Jake taught you how to shoot, danced to Stevie Wonder with you, fingered you on a tropical beach, and brought you Gettysburger. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT, OLIVIA? You want “Olitz,” seriously? Fitz is a giant bitch-baby with an overly emotive forehead. Vermont is cold, and jam sucks — Jake shakes like jelly. For the love of God, Liv, go STAND IN THE SUN!!!!!!)
*pant* *pant* *pant*
I sense I have too many feelings about this.
So. You go get yourself a copy of Year of Yes.
And I? I will go enjoy some veal practice.
#YearOfYes
*At my request (pleading, really), the lovely people at Simon & Schuster send me a copy of Year of Yes for my review.
Smug Singleton 