This is a rewrite of how the song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” should go. Please share and subscribe!
Gaby is a writer and comedian, and you might’ve seen her work in the New York Times Magazine, Thought Catalogue, and Cosmopolitain or maybe you know her as the woman defending the females of Los Angeles against evil cat-callers and would-be date rapists.
We’ve been longtime fans of Gaby’s Tumblr and Twitter, but officially decided to trick her into being our friend by luring her to Dara’s apartment with free wine and pizza after seeing her in the Youtube mini-documentary, I Didn’t Come To This Open Mic To Fuck You.
The official whine was “Women in Comedy” (Sponsored by Playtex) but we talk about everything from Gaby’s relationship with porn star (not ghost) James Deen to the perks of being bisexual to why feminism is for everyone and how we can dismantle the patriar–wait! Don’t leave!
This episode was so fun to record and we think you’ll enjoy it! Listen to it in the airport on your way home for the holiday’s and maybe you’ll be inspired by Gaby like we were to make 2014 “The Year of Enthusiasm!”
Back in college, I used to emcee at a karaoke bar. Though I only worked there for a month, I experienced more in that month than most 20 year-old’s should experience in like, two months. During that time, I picked up some lessons along the way, including:
1. If at your job, the new, older security guard who looks like Channing Tatum asks you out upon meeting you, it really is too good to be true. It’s possible that he might smile and you’ll realize he has a missing tooth or maybe he’ll end up getting fired on his first day for calling your manager a bitch. Or both! Yes, surely both.
2. Just because one of your managers has a newborn and says he’s sickened by the men who harass you while you’re trying to work, doesn’t mean he won’t tell you that he thinks he never should have gotten married, and you’re the only one he’s told, and you’re so mature, and do you want to get a drink after work?
3. Everyone sings the same handful of songs.
So, using all of my professional expertise, here are the 10 Karaoke Songs Everyone Sings and What They Say About You:
Shoop by Salt-N-Peppa or Man, I Feel Like a Woman by Shania Twain:
You have a delightful sense of humor and are something of a feminist, interested in uniting the women of the bar, if only for 3 minutes. While we all drunkenly shout through the chorus as one, we are singing for our oppressed sisters around the world who do not have the freedom to hold a GirlZ Night for themselves.
All These Things That I’ve Done by The Killers: You’re a boy in your mid-twenties who has been forced to go to karaoke night for your girlfriend’s best friend’s birthday party. I will hand it to you though, everyone gets hyped for the “I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier” part.
Fool in the Rain by Led Zeppelin: You’re a man in your mid-forties who has been forced to go to karaoke night for your wife’s best friend’s birthday party. It’s a night out of the suburbs where every wife gets a Moscato and every husband gets a Jack and Coke!
I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston: You have no self-awareness.
Take Me or Leave Me from “RENT”:
You are a former or current musical theatre kid who will go up and sing no less than 3 times in one night, use all the vibrato you can muster, and then sit in a booth in the back while you complain about how sad it is that any person singing who isn’t you thinks they’re doing really well.
Don’t Stop Believing by Journey or Santeria by Sublime: You have no creativity or imagination.
American Pie by Don McLean or Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin:
You have narcissistic personality disorder and have no regard for other people’s feelings or happiness. I always had the courage to save a room from a 10 minute Led Zeppelin hostage situation and pull the plug on the mic after a verse and a chorus, but not every karaoke emcee is as protective over their audience.
So, based on your favorite karaoke song, what kind of person are you? Honestly, I don’t care as long as you don’t sing Hallelujah.
How’s my week going?
Well, I almost drove into oncoming traffic while looking at a poster for cronuts in the Crumbs Cupcakes window, I’ve been commuting 45 minutes to work in a car with no A/C in 100 degree weather, and at one point, a Trader Joe’s cashier seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being.
Overall, I find TJ’s employees to be way too prying and overly friendly. I appreciate them asking if I have a fun weekend planned, but they always take that next step too far and ask me what I’m doing. You have checked my ID and can see I’m a 24-year-old buying only $4 wine, egg whites, a quart of skim milk, and Ezekiel bread, so what do you think I’m doing? Eating an egg sandwich for dinner, drinking a glass of wine while listening to “Bad Girls” by MIA, then teetering around West Hollywood in cork wedges, desperately trying to make a human connection with a man I hope won’t slip a rohypnal into whatever variation of a gin and elderflower cocktail I’m drinking. Like, why bother asking?
Anyway, my cashier made some intense eye contact and asked if I was okay, then proceeded to tell me how I have “beautiful eyes, and do I get that a lot?, and I just think this world is just such a hard place and we should all be kinder to each other and compliment each other more.” Now, I could, could have launched into a feminist tirade about how he would never say that to a male customer, and why does he assume that my emotional well-being is tied to a strange man’s approval of my appearance, BUT. But. He meant well. I think he gave himself a pat on the back for probably saving me from turning on some Patsy Cline and Girl, Interrupting myself in a warm bath. And let him think that.
In reality, though, I just have something called a Resting Bitch Face, so people are constantly asking if I’m okay.
Anyway, anyway. Crumbnuts. Probably the best part of my week? They’re just a cross between a donut and a croissant, though I will go out on a limb and say these particular cronut knock-offs are just a croissant shaped like a donut, filled with Bavarian creme. Still good, though I felt like a garbage can after I finished it. God did not intend for humans to eat cronuts. Or movie theatre nachos. Or Dominos stuffed cheesy bread. Yet here we are, and here we shall remain. Human trash compactors.
Sorry, does this sound like a suicide note?
If you’re interested in reading something that doesn’t sound like it was written in Winona Ryder’s journal circa 1992, you should check out Kasey’s Kitchen, a blog written by my coworker, without whom, those cronuts would not be possible. She had a bunch of Crumbs gift cards and a dream.
Also, formal apology to Kasey for including her in my bell-jar of a blog post.
I know people complain about the choices Rihanna has made in the past because she is a role model to young girls, but in fairness to Ri-Ri, she is a young woman herself. Who will be her role model now that her role model is gone…. gone….? I mean, good lord, look at this:
I will be your role model.
I will be your body guard.
I will be your long lost pal.
Doo doo doodoo, doooo doo doodoo
Seriously, this bums me out. Oprah, are you too busy mentoring Lindsay Lohan to monitor Rihanna’s clothing choices and incriminating Instagram pictures? Between this and writing a Twin Peaks Broadway musical adaption, it would appear that I have to do everything myself.
So, hypothetically, would any of you fund a Kickstarter to raise money for my celebrity home for wayward girls? Basically, between general education classes we would watch repeats of 30 Rock and before bed I’d read them excerpts from Hillary Clinton’s Living History until we all fell asleep with visions of Eleanor Roosevelt dancing in our heads. My dad and a salt and pepper haired Steve Carrell would serve as the girls’ mentors and stable father figures (ps. does anyone have Steve’s contact info?).
Look, the home hasn’t even opened yet and my father is already giving Rihanna the validation and support she needs! (I swear this text is real and unsolicited).
This is a lil’ inneresting video! A police officer arresting a 72 year-old woman in the gallery at the Wendy Davis’s Filibuster Fun-Time Party of 2013 for… sitting? I guess? She was charged with a felony for resisting arrest (which was later dropped), and I can only hope that at 72 I start getting charged with felonies for being a regulation bad ass.
You know who else is an intelligent, regulation bad ass and an Earth Angel Queen with a majestic waterfall of hair that looks like it’s been kissed by the morning sun?
Waaaaait, a second…..
If, hypothetically, they were to make a Wendy Davis biopic starring Connie Britton, would it be so unreasonable to request that she leads a chant of “clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose” with the gallery of protesters? What if she just whispers it under her breath really fast at the end of a scene? Add a scene for it in the Blue-ray director’s cut?!!
Oh, and one more thing!!!
I can’t believe it took me almost two and a half years of posting on this blog, but it finally happened. I got my first insulting comment!
This little gift was left for me on an older post, The Nice Guys of OKCupid!
It was actually in reply to another comment I had replied to, in which a 22 year-old dude told me I was wrong and he was offended…
OH, WAIT! MILESTONE TWO!
My first offended reader!!!!
The comment from the offended reader was just way too long to post here, but the gist of it was, “you’re wrong about your thoughts and feelings and the thoughts and feelings of other women your age, Certified Vagina Owner. As a 22 year-old dude with a lot of life experience, you can just defer to me and my opinions since your brain is made up of a hollow, dark chocolate Easter bunny filled with Midol pills.”
I mean, in his original argument, he was saying that he’s a nice guy but girls don’t like him, and girls only like assholes, which makes me think that he didn’t even really read the post (maybe because he just couldn’t get over the shock that my dad or brother let me use his computer. It’s a miracle my cup of tea didn’t slip through my delicate lady hands and spill all over the keyboard) because I kind of addressed that myth directly. Not eloquently or intelligently, but I did address it.
In my reply to this kid, I kind of just said, “shut up, 22 year old boy,” and referred him to another article that might help clarify my point. Because I’m just trying to open hearts and minds here, people.
Okay, then came the mean comment (from a different guy):
First of all, thank you for calling my assertions “hilarious,” but what is questionable about Tom Hanks being nice? Scientists have been studying him for years and they came up with that conclusion, not me. Secondly, why do I have to choose between being mentally deficient OR trying to get attention? And I thought that by having a blog it was just implied that I am looking for attention?
Andy, I can see where you got your last name, “Wisdom” (what is that, Greek?). Everyone does have flaws. Like for me, the proportions of my individual body parts are totally out of whack: my hands and wrists are abnormally small, so you’d think that I’d have some really tiny feet, right? Nope! A totally average size 8!
Also, what are these separate flaws that “assholes” and “nice guys” have? Because please, oh, please, remember that the whole point of the post (that I don’t think you read) is that a [QUOTE] Nice Guy [END QUOTE] is really just an asshole in sheep’s clothing, not a genuine and kind man.
And listen, I’m not saying that women don’t date assholes and then write off guys who treat them with respect. There are plenty of woman who do. If that didn’t happen then all the strip clubs across this great nation would be empty and we’d have to turn them all into libraries and soup kitchens. Saying that we ALL date people who treat us badly is just a lazy, sweeping generalization that is patronizing to women.
So, thank you, Andy Wisdom, you made my day because you haven’t really made it until people start insulting you. Hopefully, one day soon I’ll hit it big and have thousands and thousands of followers, and then I can finally start tweeting things like “Good Morning, Haterz! xox #soblessed”
“Can’t see haterz! #raybans #michelobultra #BFFs #livelaughlove #sorrynotsorry #sweetsummer”
If you think the acronym “NSA” is shorthand for the 2011 romantic comedy No Strings Attached then you have probably heard about Miss Utah screwing up her onstage question at the Donald Trump-owned Miss USA pageant. If you haven’t heard about it, here is a clip, and also who are you and why are you reading this blog?
Now, I’ve noticed that people are taking either one of two positions with this Miss Utah situation (you’ve entered the situation room! What does NSA stand for? Who is Benghazi? I DUNNO!):
They either A.) Have zero sympathy and call her a bimbo, or B.) Give her all of the sympathy because stringing together a coherent sentence on national TV is very nerve wracking.
But I’ve found a third option because I don’t see the deflated breast implant as half empty or half full.
Maybe Marissa Powell isn’t very smart, but she doesn’t have to be. She was campaigning for Miss USA (and probably for a show on FOX News), not Secretary of State.
Or maybe she is smart and that 30 second clip wasn’t an accurate reflection of her intelligence.
Regardless, as an audience, it’s not fair that we watch a pageant where you won’t be taken seriously if you’re under 5’9 without heels and throw them a question on gender inequality (perhaps a subject that pageant girls from Utah aren’t super familiar with?) then tell them to just shut their mouthes and stick to being beautiful when they screw it up.
Surely, there was a beautiful woman up there who could have answered the question eloquently, but don’t eviscerate Miss Utah because she couldn’t. If you want the real answer to that onstage question, then why don’t we open up the pageant to some Bryn Mawr student who doesn’t know the proper form for a squat.
Either way, pageants aren’t a great scale to measure a woman on because being smart or beautiful doesn’t determine the worth of a human being. Apparently, Marissa is a singer/songwriter, an ambassador for a charity that brings rehabilitation medicine to Haiti, and has a terminally ill little brother, so maybe she’s not so bad and we can all chill the eff out on publicly humiliating a 21 year-old. At least she’s out there doing something other than crack. I don’t love pageants, but they are certainly better than crack.
Sooooo, I guess that third option I was talking about earlier is we all enter into a nationwide suicide pact for allowing Donald Trump to decide the criteria for the ideal woman? That sounds right, I think.
Ugh, feminism is hard.
Here’s another idea: instead of making fun of someone, we use all that excess energy to burn TMZ to the ground for posting stuff like this:
Hire as the CFO for your Silicon Valley start-up?
Be the godmother and role model to your future children?
Put your penis in?
Right!! Sorry!! That last one is all that matters! Thanks, TMZ!!!!
All my life, I’ve been the kind of person who clings tightly to her principles and convictions.
I am also the kind of person whose principles and convictions can be bought with blended margaritas and movie theater style nachos.
Do I consider myself a feminist? Absolutely. Will I speak up and defend myself or a fellow woman when I see a sexist injustice occurring? I believe it’s my duty. Am I so poor that I will throw all of this away so I can get my buzz on foh’ free at a Beverly Hills pool party? Within reason. But mostly yes.
The dissolution of my moral compass began when my roommate and I were invited to a pool party celebrating the birthday of Jesse from that Super Bowl GoDaddy commercial:
I’ve talked about it before, but if you’ll allow me to mount this high horse again, the commercial was sexist because it perpetuated the idea that women are supposed to be beautiful and men are supposed to be smart. Also it had a fat guy making out with a hot girl. What hope do us averages have of finding a man on our level if the media keeps telling boys and Kevin James that they are entitled to a woman who is 80% boobs and legs??
So, despite my reservations, I still wanted to go to the party because the poor kid was just in a GoDaddy commercial, not a Spike TV show. And I was promised free booze.
My friends and I arrived before Jesse got there, and after being handed a free(!!!) margarita, we were informed that they were filming a documentary on Jesse. The producer wanted a very specific shot of Jesse when he entered the party. He handed my girlfriends and me an armful Hawaiian leis and told us to go up to Jesse one-by-one and ask, “can I lei you?” Okay, so obviously this dude had no idea that this group of women included one who had read Hillary Rodham Clinton’s Living History.
This request made me thoroughly uncomfortable, but it all happened so fast! I suddenly found myself doing an awkward Target Lady-esque shuffle, mumbled a “here you go” and threw the lei around his neck like I was doing a county fair horse shoe toss.
I felt like an idiot, but I just gave it to Jesus and prayed that if this documentary ever surfaced that my future moms Amy and Tina wouldn’t recognize me thanks to my giant mosquito sunglasses.
I drank another Jesse-rita and felt better.
A few minutes later, the same guy asked if we would rub Jesse down with sunblock. To this I replied, “feminism!” and moon walked on my cork wedge heels back to the margarita bar. Listen, am I being a little over sensitive? Maybe. But there would never be a pool party thrown in honor of an overweight, 25 year-old woman just because she was in one popular commercial. How about this? If any hot man reading can tell me he was once asked by a producer to rub down Nikki Blonsky with some SPF at a pool party put together by her publicist then I will just delete this post.
Anyway, as my blood blended with the Jesse-ritas, I realized what a surreal situation I had put myself in. I’m 90% sure that the house we were at is also rented out to shoot porn. I’m also 90% sure that most of the guests at the party have shot a porn in that house. Please don’t misunderstand, though, this was not a trashy party. It was an absolute who’s who of Hollywood extras. There were some big G-list stars too: the cook from 2 Broke Girls, the nerdy guy with the Jew-fro from Glee (I can say that because we have the same last name), and most exciting, Yolanda Foster’s ex-husband Mohamed.
I only ever left my spot on my beach chair to get more nachos or to go to the bathroom (if I looked a little harder I bet I would have found a cocaine dispenser next to the hand soap), but it was a real trip, and it was certainly worth going to.
Next stop, the Playboy Mansion!