I want to go to there

Yes, yes. I know everyone is excited that “Mad Men” came back. Even I’m excited that “Mad Men” came back, and I’ve spent more time gazing adoringly at Christina Hendricks’ considerable, um, assets than actually watching the show. (I know, I know – it’s a great show and I’m an idiot for not watching. Take a number to express your outrage along with all the BSG and Bad Girls fans out there. I’ll get to them eventually, possibly…) While all of your were anxiously agonizing over those last few minutes before you were reunited with Joan, Peggy and Betty, my agony continues.

Why, because it’s still almost nine full weeks before I am again reunited with my Fake TV Wife, Tina Fey. Look, I know I’ve been shamelessly ignoring my Tina these last few months. But they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. In fact, I attribute the general malaise I’ve felt this summer with everything on TV to the fact that Tina isn’t on it. So to tide me (and you, I can share – just hands off!) over until I can again be reunited with my beloved, how about a walk down Liz Lemon lane? Oh, yes, there will be bi-curious shoes.

Muppet Tina vs. Real TinaReal wins for goofiness, Muppet wins for hairstyle.

Night Cheese Tina vs. Princess Leia TinaGod, how can I choose? HOW?

Bi-curious shoes vs. Everybody dance now braHow about the shoes and the bra, only? Now we’re talking.

And then, in case you’d forgotten, there’s this.


October 15 – I want to go to there!

My Weekend Crush

You’d be hard pressed to find someone who isn’t, somewhere deep down, at least the tiniest bit in love with Kelly Clarkson. How could you not love her? We all know the story: An ex-cocktail waitress plucked from obscurity, voted on by America and transformed into a superstar. She is the pop star next door; an everywoman with an otherworldly talent. Her voice is clear and in command, as is – from the looks of things – her life. Which, once again, only makes you love her more.

What quite possibly makes us love Kelly the most is that she is so refreshingly, confidently herself. She is still a spunky gal from Texas who just wants to sing her heart out. The blinding glare of celebrity that can cripple so many into self doubt and self loathing has not changed who she is. And who she is is a gal who sometimes weighs a little more, sometimes a little less, but always looks entirely normal and altogether fantastic. As she told SELF magazine:

“My happy weight changes. Sometimes I eat more; sometimes I play more. I’ll be different sizes all the time. When people talk about my weight, I’m like, ‘You seem to have a problem with it; I don’t. I’m fine!’”

This of course makes the recent brouhaha around her airbrushed SELF cover all the more ironic. The very magazine in which she professed her happiness with who she is is apparently not all that happy with who she is. Why else would they Photoshop her to be who she is not? And why, after admitting to the airbrushing, would they say it was an attempt to make her “look her personal best.” No, you’re trying to make her look like who she isn’t. Which is not her personal best; it’s make believe. Also, if your goal (as the editor professed) is to “inspire women to want to be their best,” how can they possibly attain that when what they are aspiring to is pure fiction? Thanks for setting us all up for eternal failure.

Look, I hadn’t intended on turning this into a very special body awareness week on Surrenders, but the world keeps making me repeat myself. Some airbrushing is inevitable. But the wholesale rearranging of a human being is not. Must we learn, once again, from the wisdom of Angela Chase? “People are so strange and so complicated that they’re actually... beautiful. Possibly even me.” And definitely Kelly. Happy weekend, all.

Forgive me, fatties, for I have Cintra-ed

And you thought Willow and her softer side of Sears had it bad. Yesterday, New York Times columnist Cintra Wilson wrote a scathing and, let’s just say it, incredibly mean review of the new J.C. Penney store in midtown Manhattan. If you haven’t read it yet you should, if only as an exercise in blood pressure elevation.

For those of you who have already seen the screed, or who want a recap, here is a taste of her tactless take on Penney’s. (Find the full thing here.)

On its move to Manhattan:

“Why would this dowdy Middle American entity waddle into Midtown in its big old shorts and flip-flops without even bothering to update its ancient Helvetica Light logo…”

On its sizes:

“It took me a long time to find a size 2 among the racks. There are, however, abundant size 10’s, 12’s and 16’s. The dressing rooms are big, clean and well tended. I tried two fairly cute items…. Each was around $80; each fit nicely and looked good. I didn’t buy either because I can do better for $80, but if I were a size 18, I’d have rejoiced.”

On its mannequins:

“..it has the most obese mannequins I have ever seen. They probably need special insulin-based epoxy injections just to make their limbs stay on. It’s like a headless wax museum devoted entirely to the cast of ‘Roseanne.’”

Again, on its sizes:

“The petites section features a bounty of items for women nearly as wide as they are tall; the men’s Big & Tall section has shirts that could house two or three Shaquilles. And this is really, remarkably smart.”

Once more because she hasn’t belabored it enough, on its sizes:

“…we discovered that even a Penney’s medium is five times larger than any large T-shirt either of us had ever seen: The sleeves came down to the elbow, and there was enough room in front for eight months of unborn twins. And that will probably make some guy feel pretty svelte.”

Ooof. About this time every gal (or guy – equal opportunity anger here) who is not a size 2 is probably pretty pissed. You see, instead of just insulting the clothes – which is perfectly valid if you don’t like the clothes – she is insulting everyone who wears the clothes. She is mocking people who – in her eyes – have the audacity to squeeze their fat asses into Penney’s fashions. Don’t you know this is Manhattan?

To be fair, as nasty as her piece is, she did say that the store serves a niche that “has been almost wholly neglected on our snobby, self-obsessed little island.” But then, in the accompanying info at the end, she couldn’t resist one last zing: “No matter how many Grand Slam breakfasts you’ve knocked out of the park, Penney’s has a size for you…”

Ha ha ha, fat people eat a lot!

Like I said, ooof. The lady blogs have rightfully ripped into her. Her piece was remarkably insensitive, obnoxiously elitist and (what she would probably consider the biggest sin of all) simply not funny. My size 2 svelte self can buy a lot of cute things for $80 but your size 18 wide-load can only afford dumpy Penney’s. Hilarious! What is this, grade school where you point and laugh at the heavy kid?

And it just gets worse. As so often happens in our write-and-respond world, she went and apologized on her blog. Twice. Sort of. You see, first she posted a rather long, somewhat snarky fauxpology which essentially boiled down to: “Sorry I hurt your feelings, fatties! Really, I love the chubbies! Also, Beth Ditto!”

And then, she took that one down and posted instead that “frankly, people, I think this has all gotten a bit ridiculous. You know I didn't mean it that way, so please remove the knot from your panties…”

Oh, and her last tweet read: “HATING: That lady website, teeming with humorless, enfeebled twunts.”

Surprisingly (look, appropriate use of sarcasm), people did not take kindly to her not-so sorrys. So then she later posted a shorter, more sincere apology in which she said she regrets wounding the feelings of people “who already feel they take more than their share of abuse from our very shallow and ridiculous society. I was not sensitive enough to this, and the extent to which my article exacerbated these feelings is a very real failure on my end for which I sincerely apologize.”

I’m guessing the fact that right about now her hate mail inbox could fill the Mariana Trench played a part in that last mea-so-culpa.

The thing about writing is as soon as you express an opinion, someone will hate you for it. That’s just the way the world works. I understand that; I live it every day. So, of course, I don’t hate Cintra. I don’t know enough about her to have much of any opinion. I’ve read her writing in the past and to know that bitchy is her calling card. And I, of all people, can certainly appreciate that. But there is a difference between being bitchy with a point and being bitchy just to be a bitch.

In the end, I think what this highlights most is a lapse in judgment in what should be our nation’s most prestigious paper of record. All the news that’s fit to print should not be an asshole to anyone over a size 2. Newspapers, especially great newspapers, shouldn’t stoop to the Perez model where insults equal eyeballs, so let’s hurl as many as we can. Now I realize given my chosen name that this might seem like an odd thing to say, but everything doesn’t need to be snarky.

Though, as long as we’re being bitchy, how obnoxious is it that her website menu calls its photo gallery “PIXX?” Oooh, two XXs? HOW FUCKING CLEVER.

What haven’t you done to your face

News flash: Humans age. Sure, vampires are all the rage in Hollywood these days. But vampires are make believe and humans are real. And, because it bears repeating, we age. Yet somehow the cult of vampirish, anti-aging, baby butt-faced, immobilized-brow lovers in Hollywood keeps on growing. Which is yet another reason I love the Brits.

You see, British women, by and large, act their age. And more to the point, they look their age. Why? Because they don’t fuck with their faces. I was reminded of this when looking up photos of the luminous Julia Ormond to post about her replacement on “Three Rivers”, Kate Moennig’s new medical drama. (p.s. Pull back on the Photoshop, CBS, seriously.) Seeing Julia’s un-nipped, un-tucked, un-stretched face was a bit of a revelation. Julia Ormond is 44. Julia looks 44. And Julia at 44 is fan-fucking-tastic.

Take that certain age and flaunt it, ladies: [Click to wallow in wondrous wrinkles.]

Julia Ormond, 44Olivia Williams, 41Helena Bonham Carter, 43Kristin Scott Thomas, 49Emma Thompson, 50Charlotte Rampling, 63Helen Mirren, 64

Granted, all these women are ridiculously genetically gifted. But what makes them even more sublime is that those little lines, they’re earned. Life leaves a mark and it looks great on your face.

Tank Top Tuesday

Sometimes simple is best. A quiet evening on the couch. A home-cooked meal. A good book. And, of course, a plain white tank top. Never let it be said that in the hustle and bustle of the modern world, we cannot stop long enough to enjoy the simpler things. In fact, I’d say they were more important now than ever. Granted, I’m not exactly sure how fake mustaches fit into this back-to-basics equation, but I’m happy to let Sarah Silverman try to explain. ‘Tis a gift to be simple, indeed.

Jenny ShimizuClearly, Angelina was powerless to resist.

Naomi WattsNormally I would advise against wearing dark undergarments with a white tank. Normally.

Leighton MeesterWho needs Chuck Bass, anyway?

Jenna FischerThis is why every office should have Casual Fridays.

Kristin Scott ThomasRemember when she said she was a lesbian once in college in “Four Weddings & a Funeral?” Hello, visual aid.

Kristen Stewart

If she wore stuff like this in “Twilight,” maybe I’d finally watch. Maybe.

Reese Witherspoon

Eat your heart out, Ryan Phillippe.

Amanda MooreProving that lesbian style is not an oxymoron

Just another Music Monday

My seemingly Sisyphean task of trying to make Mondays a little less miserable marches on. Today, we try music. Now, I’m no hipster music zealot. Nor do I own a pair of skinny jeans. But I do enjoy a ditty now and then. And I’ve particularly been enjoying these lately. OK, fine, I’ve also enjoyed this.

With that, DJ, drop the needle…or push the button…or whatever the hell it is they do these days.

The Cliks, “Dirty King”

Hot queers, surf guitar, hair flips. You’re welcome.

Peaches, “Talk To Me”

A Cousin It threesome? I would expect nothing less.

The Sounds, “No One Sleeps When I’m Awake”

And you thought IKEA was your favorite Swedish import.

Metric, “Help I’m Alive”

I would like to marry this song, or at very least go steady for an extended period of time.

Lily Allen, “Fuck You”

Cursing rendered utterly adorable.

Shakira, “She Wolf”

I am not sure the human body is supposed to bend this way. But I am sure I’m thankful it does.

So, give it up, what music have you been listening to lately to soothe the savage she beast?

My Weekend Crush

Most teen movies don’t actually like teenagers. They use them as props, as miniature adults, as interchangeable widgets. But when you watched a John Hughes teen movie, you knew that not only did he like teenagers, he understood them. He knew how we saw the world, how we saw ourselves, our parents, our schools, our futures. He made movies about us because he thought we were important. He took us seriously but reveled in our silliness.

Were his movies perfect? No, of course not. Nothing about being a teenager is perfect. Yet while there were no explicitly gay characters and far too few minority characters, we all identified with someone in a John Hughes movie. His characters weren’t stereotypes, they were archetypes. So we saw ourselves even when we didn’t actually see ourselves. He knew that in each of us really was a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal.

But even while they followed a formula, they remain fresh. When he made a mistake like the ending of “Pretty in Pink” (She should have gone with Duckie!), he acknowledged and atoned with the altogether wonderful “Some Kind of Wonderful.” Though, we all know that Watts ultimately gave back those earrings and started dating girls in college.

And the girls, well, we could talk about them all day, That’s because they weren’t just superficial lust objects. OK, fine, Kelly LeBrock. But the rest of them gave as good as the guys. He made stars out of beautiful yet approachable girls with something to say – Molly Ringwald, Ally Sheedy, Mia Sara, Jennifer Grey, Mary Stuart Masterson.

Hughes had an especially soft spot for the nerds of the world. The dorks, the outsiders, the misunderstood – he championed them all. While he poked fun at their inherent nerdiness, it’s as if he knew that in the not too distant future the geeks would inherit the earth.

If you ever doubted that John Hughes cared about the teens he wrote about, read blogger Alison Fields’ touching tribute to the man who for many years was her pen pals. As he told her in one of his hand-written letters:

“I can't tell you how much I like your comments about my movies. Nor can I tell you how helpful they are to me for future projects. I listen. Not to Hollywood. I listen to you. I make these movies for you. Really. No lie. There's a difference I think you understand.”

Ultimately, what made a John Hughes movies a John Hughes movie is that everyone – the sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads – they all adored him. They all thought he was a righteous dude. Thanks for the movies, John. And thanks for caring. Happy weekend, all.

p.s. I just couldn’t let a John Hughes movie post go without showing some of John Hughes’ movies. Enjoy.
 

The Breakfast Club

Admit it, you totally made one of these sandwiches afterward.

Some Kind of Wonderful

Oh, Watts, Watts.

She's Having a Baby

This scene and Kate Bush's voice still make me well up.

The Obligatory Awesome John Hughes Movie Montage

Yeah, good luck finding any John Hughes movies at the video store this weekend.

Putting the special in agent

I love a woman with “Agent” in front of her name. FBI, CIA, Secret. It all works for me. Also working for me? These new promo shots of Anna Torv as Agent Olivia Dunham.

“Fringe” grew on me its first season, burrowing deeper and deeper into my brain with its intricate mysteries and bold brandishing of the conspiracy theory crown once held by “The X-Files.” Also, it helped that Anna made out with a stripper. (Yes, I’m ignoring the whole it-was-in-her-head, oh-and-she-killed-her-afterward stuff.) Have I mentioned she looks good in a suit?

This then begs the question: Which female agent is your favorite?

FBI Agent Olivia DunhamFBI Agent Clarice StarlingCIA Agent Sarah WalkerSpecial Agent Dana Scully

Granted, Agent Walker is at a disadvantage with her non-pantsuit attire. Or possibly it’s an advantage, depending on your feelings about dirndls. As for my favorite, while I love ALL my very special agents, the truth is out there.

Free at last

Good news is hard to find these days, so let’s revel in it today. Jailed American journalists Laura Ling and Euna Lee came home today into the eager arms of their families after more than four months imprisoned in North Korea. We can get into the who did what when and how later. Right now, just feel this love.

It’s OK, don’t be ashamed to cry; it’s the good kind of cry. I should have told you to have Kleenex ready beforehand. Afterward, Laura, whose sister is the American television journalist Lisa Ling, spoke to the media. This time I will warn you; Kleenex, people.

What an amazing turnaround for the two women who in June were sentenced to 12 years of hard labor in a North Korea prison camp for allegedly straying across the border into the country while working on a report for Current TV. Since their capture four and a half months ago their families have kept up a tireless campaign to have them released.

You see the thing is, diplomacy works. Yesterday former Pres. Bill Clinton made a surprise trip to North Korea to secure the release of jailed journalists and, well, it worked. Of course, Bill didn’t act alone. He went with the implicit blessing and careful planning of Pres. Obama, Sec. Hillary Clinton, former Vice President Al Gore and the families of the imprisoned women. But it was good old Bill who came, saw, negotiated and less than 20 hours later flew home with the now pardoned and free journalists in tow. Admit it, you miss the hell out of Bill.

The only thing that pisses me off about this story? How some have already made this a “Bill Overshadows Hillary!” story. Talk about your news judgment fail. This is a “Thank God These Women Are Home Safely” story, period. OK, it’s also kind of a “Bill Clinton Is Still the Man” story. But I don’t think anyone – even the wingnuttiest of wingnutty Hillary haters – can honestly believe that Hillary is sitting by herself seething at this moment. She is overjoyed, as are we all. Welcome home, ladies. And thanks, Bubba.

The hills are alive

I can’t… Words… Having problems… The breathing… Ohmygodchristinahendricksohmygod. Whew. Now that that’s over with, how is your Tuesday going? Better now, I bet. Christina Hendricks and her Cleavage from The Gods has that effect on people. These shot from her Esquire photoshoot are, well, rawwwr.

Of course, the lovely Christina (Ms. Holloway if you’re nasty) takes all this attention in stride. As she told NY magazine this week: “It’s strange how astounded people are that I have breasts.” Oh, honey. You don’t just have breasts. You have unparalleled monuments to human hope, folly, joy, power and desire.

All that and you haven’t even turned around yet.

Streep tease

A world where Meryl Streep is not sexy enough is a world in which I don’t want to live. Period. Full stop. But it was a world we all almost had to live in thanks to the underdeveloped definition of sexy from director Sydney Pollack back in the day. Last week, Meryl revealed that the “Out of Africa” director did not consider her “sexy” enough to play the role of the Danish writer Isak Dinesen. Meryl divulged this nugget to Conan on The Tonight Show, as well as her creative way of combating the problem. Hint: It involved the quicker picker upper.

Let us first get over our fit of giggles about an actress not being hot enough to play a writer. (I know from experience; I’m a writer.) But now let’s get to the not-so-funny fact that once again directors who should know better are looking past talent and straight to cleavage. Granted, that was back in 1985. But I’m sad to say I’m pretty sure this is still happening, all over Hollywood, right this very second. That sound you hear is the deep, impatient sigh of women everywhere who want, finally, to be judged on talent – nothing more or less.

Now, that said, the letch in me can’t help lingering on the visuals. Oh, Meryl. Just the thought seeing parts of you “mound up” is enough to send me into hotness overdrive. In fact, now I can think of nothing else. In case you need a visual reminder, there’s this [Click! To! Embiggen!]:

And those are of Meryl now. This is what she looked like back in her supposed not-hot-enough-to-be-Isak-Dinesen days.

Suck it, Sydney. The only things Meryl needs paper towels for is to hand out to her legions of admirers to wipe up the drool.

Speaking of drool, I just love it when Meryl gets her SGALGG on about Amy Adams. Look at her face: pure bliss. God, I can’t wait to see “Julie & Julia” this Friday. You’d better believe I’ll be on “mound” watch.

p.s. As if you needed more reasons to see this movie (Meryl? Amy? Food? Duh, I’m in!), it also has Jane freaking Lynch. Jane with Meryl together is almost too much awesomesauce for me to handle. Also, duuuuude. Check out Jane in a dress. Whoa.