Schoprah's Decadelicious Comparison of the Last Ten Years

Fashion

Then (2000): I was but a mere parcel of the Abercrombie & Fitch state, with plenty of room in the pockets of my cargo-cut jeans for conformity. Lots of wool v-neck sweaters and olive flare pants.

Now (2010): While running errands a few hours ago, I noticed I was one of three young maidens hitting the pavement in dark pants tucked into tall black boots with a long black jacket and scarf. This is the actual uniform of OWLs in Manhattan. Crap...

Politics

Then (2000): I defended our president in class against impeachment for lying about getting a beej. Cut to a year later when I see my prom date on the receiving end of one—not from me...

Now (2010): Elliot Spitzer. John Edwards. Mark Sanford. Larry Craig. Mark Foley. I curse all of them and their skanky ways! Throw them all in jail. Rude, guys. Rude.

Romance

Then (2000): Hooking up at under-18 clubs. (Soma!) 

Now (2010): Hooking up at bars.

Spirits

Then (2000): Stole half-used 10-year-old liquers (Cherry Schnapps) from my parents; stored in small Tupperwear containers which I ducktaped to my stomach and wore underneath a large sweater when leaving the house.

Now (2010): Forties in my purse. Progress!

And how will you spend New Blerg's Eve?

I know what I'll be doing. Schoprah will either be a) crocheting a Lady Gaga slipcover while nursing a Whisktea and freebasing Afrin alone in her room, or b) schlepping all over Blergistan in uncomfortable shoes with a forty in her purse, looking for a nice clean alpha-male to forcibly kiss at midnight but ending up at a gay man's house party, where she will down said forty in said man's bathroom while going through his medicine cabinet. It's a coin toss.

A few programming aplologies. I just returned to Blergistan from a 10-day visit with the family. My younger brother just installed a new wireless router, and mistaking our home for the White House or a Scientology compound, coded the passwords so deeply and with so many characters no one in my family could remember them. That's right, I said wordsuh. There were three layers of passwords, one of which is 40 characters long—caps sensitive. Also, as soon as I arrived in Real America I came down with a kind of a stomach flu complete with a high fever and the inability to consume beef tenderloin and snickerdoodles at my preferred pace. Clearly my Liberal Career Girl immune system is weak and unprepared for germ warfare. (COUGH JANET NAPOLITANO HATERS COUGH.) And if you missed me, which clearly you did by the number of comments, I'm baaack.

I bid you fond and safe travels this New Blerg's Eve and a happy start to 2010. Only four more months until Glee starts back up again...

But is he the son of a Nigerian prince?

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And the show has reached a new low. COMMENT DAMMIT.

Everyone's a little bit racist sometimes

Woah. Just when I thought liberals couldn't be racist, Blergistan's hometown paper The Bleeding Heart Gazette proves me wrong. I was perusing the Times at work—research of course—when I came across this helpful gift guide with the following headline deck:

Somali fashion, do-it-yourself henna kits, children's books that draw inspiration from the lives of Barack Obama and Sonia Sotomayor: it's not hard to find gifts created for and by people of color this holiday season. Here are some possibilities.

DAMN YOU GRAY LADY. Now my friends and roommates of color will know what I'm getting them! Schmamber, Schmahira: read no further! My favorite line was this:

It's well-documented that only people of color like hip-hop. I am willing to the bet the editor of this piece shouts "Gettin' jiggy with it!" when he sees a black person dance.

Also: what woman of color wouldn't love to get makeup or product for their "problem" hair from a friend of non-color, who being white is obviously rich with experience when it comes to knowledge of their hair and skin? We white ladies with our white lady hair and skin are the best resources when it comes to women of color's needs. Does the Times know that its readership extends beyond OWLs?

However there is one thing in it that this slice of Wonderbread really really covets:

I am one-quarter Boricua after all. I'll just wear it underneath a sweater...

Full disclosure: I used to edit call in hundreds of products many a gift guide in my previous incarnation as a member of The Media. I can tell you now that these "guides" are created by some intern emailing a shit-ton of publicists and then a bunch of white ladies stand around and throw the products on a layout and whatever sticks is what makes the cut. In other words, they are useless. 

Happy shopping Nillas!

When I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong

In order to fully choke this dead horse of a Dirty Dancing metaphor, I must quote Dr. BabyDaddy Houseman. (Also: the actor who played him was an organ donor and appears on organ donor PSAs in every freakin subway car in Blergistan and every time I see his face I wonder if the doctors who removed his eyeballs named one “Law” and the other “Order.” Really, Jerry Orbach was a hit machine when you think about it…)

Anyhoo. I was in the shower earlier talking to myself about this pickle in Afghanistan. “Schoprah,” I said, “First: that Lady Schick hasn’t been used in awhile. It's a tetanus dispenser at this point. Second: Penny most definitely would’ve been better off without Robbie the creep—the neo-con artists in my metaphor—but Johnny the scrappy hottie with the heart and abs of gold eventually turned his back on her for the lefty educated girl.” Obama, clearly possessing a touch of the Swayze, is Johnny. And is it totally crass to compare Baby to Israel here? I mean...

I continued not shaving waiting for another message from myself:

White House party crashers prove Jenna Moroney right

Liz: How did you get here?
Jenna: Oh Liz, if you dress well and enter with confidence, you can get in anywhere.
Liz: You showed the security guy your boobs didn’t you?
Jenna: Just one, it’s not the White House.

Dirty Dancing: Kandahar Nights

Per usje, I was chatting with Longtime (why don't you just come back already???) about this little pickle in Afghanistan. The words "knock it up" and "see it through" and "she's on a break—SHE NEEDS A BREAK" were used in our conversation when it hit me: Afghanistan, you are Penny. And America, we are Robbie the creep who knocks up Penny.

Oh fiiiine, I know you want a Mathlicious:

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What the world needs now is a touch of Swayze. (When doesn't it?) And a little Baby, too, to be fair. She paid for the "operation" after all... Here's why we can do our kind of dancing to our kind of music:

Dear Diane Savino: Please run for president one day

If you who don't live in New York, you might not know that the our ever-progressive state senate voted to continue to ban gay marriage. Rather than go on a tirade about it, I will present the speech by state senator Diane Savino—a Democrat who represents Staten Island—who speaks perfectly and movingly about the issue:



Also I feel like she is probably related to Tony Danza.

Can you guess which one is wearing Oscar de la Renta?

It's David Patreaus, that clotheshorse. (Thanks for representin' Hillary.)

Putter? I hardly knew her!

Making jokes about Tiger Woods is probably cliche yesterday, but Longtime and I got ourselves snorting at our desks on G-Chat today coming up with the titles to the inevitable string of pornos that will arise [Beavis laughter] from his scandal. Behold our list:

Mathlicious Equation of the Day: Special Why-Isn't-Glee-on-Everyday Gleek Edition

— (minus)

=

Duh duh duh dut, duh duh duh duh duh duh duh dut dut dut dut

So I keep hearing abut Jenny Sanford, the wife (ex-wife...?) of South Carolina govnerd Mark Sanford. I first read an article about her a few weeks ago in a back-issue of Vogue  at the hairdresser's. This is the photo she apparently chose to accompany her interview:

Pretty saucy for a Republican, no? Everyone seems to have advice for Ms. Sanford, a former Wall Street executive and mother of four sons, about how to maximize her new-found fame and questionable political clout in the wake of her creepy ex's scandal. I don't think she needs any help. All I can do is tell her what I'd like to see her family's inevitable future celebrity look like: