Cr: Paula Patton
This summer, in between hours of unpaid labor and franticly chasing ice cream trucks to get Two- Ball Screw Balls, my mind was wracked with an un- answerable question. This riddle was posed to me by an old man, a wrinkled, sickly fellow who told me he was concerned, above all else, with the liberation of women. Being an impressionable young lady myself, I was sure this man’s question would contain the so- lution to centuries of female oppression. So day after day, I tried to answer: “What rhymes with hug me?” And day after day I came up empty-handed. Even yesterday, many months and a foam finger seared into my memory later, I was still at a loss. Lucky for me, and all women and general human kind, some- one has discovered what actually does rhyme with hug me—DIVORCE ME. You go, Paula Patton! You are an independent woman, and Robin Thicke is a creepy old man who you are better off without!
D: Meryl Streep
Last week, the Iron Lady herself, Meryl Streep, rolled into New Haven for a speech and photo-op with the giant illustration of her face that hangs outside of Miya’s. I know it’s complicated bringing someone as famous as Queen Meryl to campus, but, mamma mia!, couldn’t someone have at least told me this was happening? I wasn’t even given the chance to decide whether to see her speak or go to class and miss out on the hours of inspiration she would provide. (Talk about a Sophie’s choice, right?) I guess I’ll just have to stalk her around Manhattan or hope I run into her flying out of Africa. My cousins Julie and Julia claim they met her once, but I seriously doubt it. Maybe they haven’t heard that liars go to hell, where apparently the devil wears Prada. No matter. If she just popped in last week, she will probably pop right back in tomorrow or the next day to get started on her next big project, Meryl and Eliana: a tale of true friend- ship. See you soon, Mer, maybe.
F: My grandma
I don’t mean to be generic and complain about not being able to locate employment this summer. But I’m glad we can all acknowledge that it is the absolute worst. Unlike most of you, though, I’m not worried because my grandmother, Gaga, recently wrote me a letter that said employers would be “knocking down the door to hire me.” I took this as a cue to sit back, snack on some Fruit by the Foot, and listen for those knocks to start pouring in. How they’re going to locate me is really not my problem. Gaga tells me they’re coming, and Gaga does not lie. But really, this fail is for Gaga because, as much as I love her, there was something conspicuously absent from her letter (in addition to the truth about my employment prospects). That is, where was the cold, hard cash? I thought it was an unbreakable rule that all correspondences from grandparents have to include money. That’s what being a good grandparent is all about. It’s how they get us to love them unconditionally and read through pages and pages of handwritten old lady wisdom. By PAYING you. So, Gaga, you gotta step up your game. Or I might just change my mind about which grandmother makes the best latkes next Hanukkah. Do you really want to lose that contest? The ball is in your court, Gaga.