A woman believes that being prepared for the day includes remembering to carry chapstick.  A woman dislikes her natural love for sleeping in late. For some reason, a woman always looks great in lipstick and a baseball cap, even if she owns neither. A woman hates running out of candles and taking out the trash, especially if there is thick liquid or glass beer bottles involved. A woman would much rather not do push-ups, which she forces herself to do even though they make her feel like she is in prison. She doubts she will ever get better at them and yet she is accustomed to carrying much heavier things in her arms. A woman takes off her makeup before going to sleep. A woman laughs when things are actually funny and is quick to point out at the expense of Daniel Tosh when they are not. A woman is never done plucking her eyebrows. A woman wants to know what the nutritional difference between ‘wheat’ and ‘whole wheat’ is, but cannot be bothered to look it up.  A woman doesn’t smell all that bad without deodorant. A woman never forgets to set her alarm.

A woman is constantly in the middle of having deep, ongoing conversations with a dozen people whom she checks up on at least every three days or so, pinning to the inside of her brain the article mentioned by one, what another said would be a good song to download, each with time-sensitive tags that require her feedback and which she believes might be made better by setting a personal course of action, like sending somebody flowers. Tiger lilies, red poppies, big yellow sunflowers, roses. A woman is not above making up reasons to write – post-its, to-do lists, letters. A woman is reluctant to throw out shoe boxes because they make excellent storage units for keepsakes. A woman owns at least one peeled over photograph of her mother on her wedding day and at least one gooey acrostic poem written to her in sixth grade on Valentine’s Day by the object of her simultaneous attraction and repulsion, Rob.

A woman knows she looks awesome naked and she loves watching your face thinking the same exact thing, too. A woman likes the sight of her cleavage, no matter what size her breasts are. A woman knows that the stringiest thongs are the most practical and sexy of all, but that doesn’t mean she likes wearing them. A woman hate thongs. A woman hates wearing pantyhose. A woman loves wearing sweatpants. A woman cannot wait to go home and put on that pair of baggy grey sweatpants with that big hole in the crotch. A woman always notices: jawbones, shoulders, abs, eyebrows, ass. A woman knows all of the words to one Tupac or Biggie Smalls song.  A woman wishes she could redefine the word cunt for everybody’s benefit.

A woman knows there is no such thing in the world as a ‘free dinner.’  On a first date, a woman wants to go Dutch and she would have kissed you, if you had just leaned in a little bit closer. A woman calls you and promptly leaves a voicemail so that you know exactly why she called you. A woman is open to the idea of a romantic lunch. A woman asks you out. A woman pays, a woman treats, especially to ice-cream. Unsuccessful male bartenders have perpetuated the myth that women dislike the taste of alcohol. Actually, woman love gin. Woman love scotch. Women love tequila – women breathe in tequila. Women love swirling booze around in a glass with tumbling rocks, left-eye squinted before casting a dart.

A woman raises daughters to be sons and sons to be daughters. A woman wants for other people’s children to love her: that includes that Chinese woman’s drooling adolescent daughter in the blue Cartoon Network t-shirt in the third car on the subway. All women believe that helpless mothers with crying infants on airplanes will one day have their redemption.

A woman believes that beauty is the one natural cure for everything and remains permanently unaware that such a cure includes herself. At any age, a woman is pursuing higher education. A woman is over-practicing self-assessment. A woman is getting a raise. A woman spends a lifetime wrestling with her intelligence. Her intelligence usually wins. A woman learns to do the things that no one else will: file a 1090, speak Spanish, use mental arithmetic at the grocery store, give directions. A woman has multiple senses of duty that frequently come into conflict with each other. A woman intuits effects and believes in causes. A woman is an expert at alleviating pain.

A woman is self-conscious about her mouth but never realizes when she is biting her lip. A woman believes that her temperament is predetermined by the color, cut, consistency, etc. of her hair – and sometimes, she must change it. A woman enjoys the idea of a sustained bath more than the actual undertaking of it: something about the soapy water making fake wrinkles on her skin.

A woman can always feel sad for an infinite number of abstract reasons and while she doesn’t always know why, she knows that it is essentially good for her to at once feel the heavy weight of the world, from time to time. A woman is the most romantic person in the world because she bares all, whether or not she knows it. For example, a woman is always the first to notice when there is a sunset. A woman is guilty of finishing the toilet paper with no intention of ever replacing it.

All women love rain.

As the Bush tax breaks set to expire and the $1.2 trillion sequester of automatic across-the-board cuts hedge closer in December, Congressional leaders have decided to delay all budget negotiations until a bipartisan compromise can be reached on the most appropriate metaphor to use when referring to the potential fiscal disaster next year, otherwise known as the ‘fiscal cliff.’

“We have agreed to cooperate with the administration on how to raise revenue, but we simply will not budge on the term ‘fiscal cliff.’ A cliff is an eroded rock that juts out into plunging waters. It is hazardous due to human neglect, foreboding, and avoidable. Nothing can more suitably describe what our current fiscal predicament is,” Speaker of the House John Boehner (R-OH) said on behalf of the Republican party today.

Democrats in the House and Senate, however, maintain that “fiscal cliff” is too hyperbolic and promotes a negative atmosphere of fear-mongering in the eyes of the American public.

“A ‘fiscal cliff’ is inevitable and tragic,” Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-NV) argued. “We need a metaphor that is less alarmist and more cautionary… like ‘fiscal slope,’ which perfectly rhymes with ‘fiscal hope!’ Now that’s what I call subtext. Or is that subliminal messaging?”

Congress members dissatisfied with both extremes have offered a swath of their own alternative fiscal metaphors. Sen. Mark Pryor (D-AR) has proposed “fiscal waterfall” to capture the flowing loss of entitlement programs, Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-SC) suggested “fiscal mountain” to convey the tax reform challenges that have to yet to be faced ahead, and Rep. Jan Schakowsky (D-IL) introduced “fiscal avalanche” to highlight the risk of accelerating cuts to Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security before they have a  chance to grow.

“Fiscal Sahara Desert,” “Fiscal Icy Tundra,” and “Fiscal Amazonian Rain-forest”  were also submitted for consideration, but Associated Press confirmed this morning that several lawmakers found them too exotic and Congress has since ruled them out.

According to one anonymous staffer on the Hill,  532 potential fiscal metaphors are currently on the wait list for an up-or-down vote in the House and Senate.

I can tell that the American Economy is not happy to see me. Hair unwashed, wearing a star-spangled Occupy Wall Street T-shirt, slurping a cheap Scotch on the rocks, conspicuously. The American Economy is looking Dickensian – too Dickensian – even for the bar we are in, which is the kind of place where faded, glitterless rockstars stopped hanging out because the Jukebox is never drunk enough to take home and the girls do not accept pennies.

We are here, no less, to make light of an eerily dark situation:

SS: Four years ago, our government bailed out America’s biggest financial institutions with $133 billion of your money. You weren’t exactly at the height of your professional career, but you were still managing. Then Wall Street totally crashed and the whole world was watching you, kind of hoping you’d screw up. You were being sweettalked at home while people overseas were backstabbing you. Without ripping the bandaid right off, what was that period in your life like?

AE: Like a nightmare, only I couldn’t wake up. It’s surreal, the way everyone builds you up only to give you utter bullshit when you fall. Not to mention, there was no actual strategy for my recovery and taxpayers were freaking out. Suffice to say, I hit rock-bottom.

I remember at one point during that summer I checked into Cirque Lounge in Utah for overexhaustion. Next thing you know, I’m a fucking coke addict and the bailout is all my fault. I mean, listen, if I could shave my head off in a single, ‘Eureka’ moment of self-understanding like Britney Spears did, I would. But my relationship with the Too Big To Fail Banks, it’s just not that easy.

SS: How would you describe your relationship with the banks today? Or with Britney Spears, for that matter?

AE: With the banks, it’s on the rocks. If my publicist gives me the greenlight, I will break up with them before the end of the year. I’ve tried to make it work, but the truth is I am sick of making the entire financial sector a priority in my life when I am only an option in theirs. It’s not worth it to me anymore. I cannot wait around for a real apology and expect the rest of the country to cut me slack and stand outside of the pool while I make up shitty excuses for why I’m holding my breath.

As for Britney Spears. We don’t run in the same circles, but I deeply respect her work. I bumped into her at Bar Marmont in L.A. three years ago and we commiserated over vodka-redbulls. She told me that ‘ Life is an asshole and then you give him the entire settlement he asks for, but somehow he still gets full custody of the kids.’ I don’t plan on tying the knot until gay marriage becomes legal, so cheers to Anderson Cooper. But I put up with enough during the bailout to understand Britney. I get her sentiment.

SS: I think America is going to be relieved to hear you are severing your relationship with the banks. According to the latest pollsters, Americans on average worry more about you than anything else.

AE: Yeah, I’ve heard that. I hope Americans know I worry about them, too. You know, all I ever wanted was to create more jobs and build more dream homes for people. That I could have just stood by, doing nothing, while corporations were granted enough market freedom to forgo the common good for this country stirs in me more self-loathing than I can adequately express.

If my memory serves me correctly…I had to take a ridiculous amount of Xanax and Ambien for months just to go to bed. Of course, I am healthy now and I do not participate in any sort of activity that could be construed in any way as harmful behavior.

(Looking into the bottom of the glass.) 

For the record, I want Americans to know I haven’t spoken to Fannie and Freddie after fully understanding what they did. I was a naive judge of their character. I did not consider the consequences. I should have. I thought, if I just did my part, I could decide how they felt about me. I think it was David Foster Wallace who called what I was thinking at the time an “American Illness.”

SS: Are you a big fan of David Foster Wallace? 

AE: I wouldn’t say I’m a big fan of anyone. But yeah, I guess I like David Foster Wallace. I read Consider the Lobster at the foodcourt in JFK once. The lady at Hudson News recommended it.

SS: Who are your favorite writers?

AE: I don’t read much. Anything by Matt Taibbi I can get my hands on. Adam Smith, obviously. Comic books. I love Superman. Noam Chomsky.  I hated Naked Economics.

SS: Why’s that?

AE: If the core principles were that simple, I wouldn’t have screwed up.

SS: I see.

AE: I’m serious. You know what I think is missing from that book, besides a competent title? In fact, what is missing from this whole equation?

SS: What?

AE: Underneath this enormous balloon of capitalistic competition, where the deficit is bigger than any tit-job walking down Sunset Strip and the only thing college kids can look forward to after they graduate is unemployment benefits…is the one fact nobody can deny, and yet everyone always fucking forgets it.

SS: Which is?

AE: That I’m human. Me and every other goddamn national economy out there. Sure, on the surface level, we’re some fancy exchange of goods and services, but deep down inside, we’re just a bunch of morally-conflicted children of the earth with bad fathers and bleeding hearts. Like, no wonder I got fucked. Ever read that book with the limegreen apple on the front cover? Freakonomics?

SS: Yes, actually.

AE: Well, I’m that freak they’re talking about.

SS: Let’s talk about the upcoming Presidential election for a minute. Who are you voting for? What are your general thoughts?

AE: I’m nonpartisan.

SS: No you’re not.

AE: Fuck no, I’m not.

SS: So?

AE: So, I can’t tell you much for legal reasons and because the papparazo at the pooltable over there thinks he’s more icognito than James fucking Bond. But, I will tell you this: we have $1.2 trillion of deficit reduction to figure out before defense spending gets sliced in half, otherwise known as ‘sequestration.’ If Obama’s for the win then he needs to realize this is no simple math. As for Romney, if he even thinks about making massive cuts to social welfare programs, I will personally snap off his cock.

(pause)

There, I said it.

SS: You did.

AE: And that paparazzo totally heard it.

SS: He did.

(Standing up)

AE: Fuck. I think I just pulled a Megan Fox.

April 26th, 2012;

I saw you at the Cheescake Factory last night, making googley eyes on your iphone and kissy faces with your lip gloss. I think you were waiting for your hot date to show up. On his behalf, I’d like you to know that your ‘come hither’ face looks like an invitation to hell.

I was going to warn you, but Piper gets cranky when I’m late for her soccer practice and your date walked in a moment later with Ray Bans on, so I figured he was blind.

Anyway, I’ve got a bigger bone to pick with you – and no, I don’t mean a bone from the Caribou I shot with my Dad from a helicopter ten thousand feet high and roasted for dinner last night on a spit with the rest of my redneck family in the outback. I mean a bone like an idiom, which is a form of expression that takes on a specific meaning to an intended group of people, thank you very much.

You’ve been talking straight smack about me for five years now, Dowd.

You’ve published my secret diary, accused me of having solipstic meltdowns, ridiculed my smoked salmon, denigrated my Tea Party conservatism, questioned my primitive view of electoral politics, dissed my Mama Grizzlies and called me a nihlistic cheerleader. Oh, and apparently I make ignorance fashionable?  I’m sorry that my Updo offends you. I’m sorry that there are pro-America areas in this great nation. I’m sorry I didn’t get a B.A. from Catholic University.

When I wrote Going Rogue, you made all that hoopla about us having so much in common. What was that, reverse fucking psychology? Yes, we’re a pair of decent-looking Y-Fronts trying to carve out a pro-woman sisterhood in this dog-eat-dog world. But I don’t remember you winning the Miss Wallisa Beauty Pageant, or becoming the most popular governor in America. I do, however, remember you lifting a paragraph from Josh Marshall’s Blog on TPM and pretending it was your own. Funny, I don’t think I ever did that.

I question your integrity as a journalist, Dowd. You busted Joe Biden’s balls when he plagiarized a speech by Neil Kinnock. You won a Pulitzer for chrissake, and when you’re not smacking on lip gloss like a sixteen year old, you’re freaking hot as hell. Chris Hitch was intimidated by you, Michael Douglas used to bone you. John Tierney used to jack off in his office everytime he heard you flush the toilet.

Now your column is about calling me Caribou Barbie. What the fuck is a Caribou Barbie? I guess you’re right, I am the Queen Bee of Mean Girls. Wait – aren’t you the one who spread nasty rumors about my teenage daughter’s pregnancy?

You’ve spent far too long making a name for yourself by calling me names. It’s time I called you out. I don’t care what the lamestream media says, you are not a feminist. Susan B. Anthony is ashamed of you. Jill Abraham avoids you. You make Marilyn Monroe turn over in her grave. That’s right. Read it, and weep.

You know what sucks, Dowd? I wanted to like you. I’ve got a posse of my own, but Michele Bachmann is practically cross-eyed and Jan Brewer might as well be a beaver in a wig. We look like a bunch of sock puppets whenever the Tea Party Caucus actually holds a meeting. I could’ve used you. We could’ve been Romy and Michele at their High School Reunion, except the reunion is the 2008 presidential race and I slip McCain 10,000 mg of Levitra and make you my Vice-President. I’m talking cream blazers from Dolce & Gabanna and a seven percent body mass index requirement for all male Congressional pages… But I guess there’s no point in speeding down this Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

I’m just going to tell you what Track tells me every time a Blake Sheldon song comes on. Check yourself, before you wreck yourself.

Seriously Dowd, stop talking shit about me.

xo, SP