This week was full of rain and vending machine snacks and foraying into the world of high-priced juices but most of all, realizing that there are a handful of jobs I would have been so perfect for, if only I had been at the right place at the right time. And I'm not talking about, like, penning a dumbed down version of Lean In, because I couldn't even figure out how to get the UPS guy to re-deliver it until he magically showed up for a fourth time on my doorstep at 8:45pm Wednesday night. I mean, there were some writing gems I totally screwed the pooch on, and they're all swirling around my brainscape reminding me of how I should have been born a lot earlier or figured it out much quicker in many varied respects. It's like discovering you're good at basketball when you're 42, or trying to make a go of being a style blogger, like, next month — you missed your shot, and your opportunities have gone to shit. And here's all three of the ones I missy-messed up:
God Damnit, '90s Style: Clarissa Explains It All
My own personal teenage dream, obviously. I was pretty much going steady with this show as a child — the killer bedroom? The whackadoo video games? THE CUTOFFS!? — but I thought this was one of those '90s relics, along with hyper-stressed Legends of The Hidden Temple plastic monkey statue-building and the joy of Gak that disappeared as we grew old with age and undereye wrinkles. I mean, I no joke stole these shorts in purple from my mom's accidental '80s archive while home last week, so saying Miss Darling taught me nearly everything I know (including how to romance someone with a mushroom cut) is no exaggeration.
So, earlier this week, when news broke that Clarissa Darling's creator was going to release a mother fuckin' book about Clarissa's Carrie-esque journey of navigating through New York City like a boss, I may have soft doodied just a bit at the thought of it. My life-long hero, releasing a memoir on living in Nueva York as a 23-year-old a few years beyond the time period when I could have actually used it, and a handful before I'd have enough know-how to pen it myself?! I can't even imagine the golden stuff this book's gonna have. Dating a Trader Joe's cashier whom she met by him complimenting her Doc Martens while ringing up a brown bag full of semi-firm tofu? Giving a to-the-camera monologue while shaking her head at the girl who just got cuffed for shoplifting at Beacon's Closet? Calling up her college-age baby bro Ferguson, who steps outside of his frat to kindly coach her through how to build an Ikea bedside table?! Fucking literary gold. But, then, I scrolled a little bit down the post and discovered a commenter who tipped me off to this:
THERE WAS A CLARISSA REBOOT. THERE WAS A SEQUEL, IN NEW YORK, WITH HER, AS A JOURNALIST, AT A NEWSPAPER, BRADSHAWING IT UP LIKE NOBODY'S BUSINESS.
But, before you get as excited as I clearly was, let me tell you - it's fucking tragic. It's like The Carrie Diaries, but somehow shittier? I'm not sure. All I'm really trying to say is that this homie messed it up with the television re-do — clearly, she'd be a better fit as a social media whiz at a no-nonsense crazy-cool start-up that lets you play arcade games via easy, simple websites — and I wish I would be able to throw him ideas for the next one. Because, please, if Candace Bushnell and every article in Vogue has ever proved anything, it's that we all still want the artsy-fartsy girl to end up with the busy-but-kind financier who's loving, more handsome than we realized and totally understanding of her kooky ways. Which, of course, would totally be the modern-day Harrison. God, is there somewhere I can write fan fiction for this show's potential other spinoffs? Hot damn, I've got some ideas. Na, na, na na naaaa....
God Damnit, Children Held Accountable Edition: The Babysitters Club
Oh, BSC. What after school activity could be more fun than befriending diabetics and hoping you don't drop someone else's baby? Answer: nothing. Or, possibly, pretending you're writing about it.
Ann M. Martin, patron saint of cutesy childhood money-making schemes,apparently only wrote 60-80 of the best-selling books, and hired the rest out to ghostwriters. Meaning, I could have lived out my Charlize Theron days of terrorizing high school exes and befriending Patton Oswalt Young Adult-style, if only the decades had lined up correctly. This homie, Peter Lerangis, supposedly wrote the rest of them which, I'm sorry, I don't think is appropriate. I'm not sure how far I read into the depths of Mallory's issues and how Dawn comforted Mary-Ann when she cried, like, always since I didn't dive into the later books in the series, but I'm fairly sure a grown man writing about teenage girls arguing and falling love and having cramps from bleeding from the bottom of their torsos — and imaginary girls, at that — is kinda sorta inappropriate. Time machine, take me back to when I can meet Annie M, convince her to let me pen a tale about Logan being as hot as we all imagined he was, and make all my life's dreams come true. And speaking of muscles...
God Damnit, You All Up On That Fitness: Twilight
Now, I have to say straight off the bat that I've never seen the series. But, as these things usually work, I've seen enough. The incessant OnDemand trailers, the YouTube pre roll, the any-excuse-to-put-a-young-boy's-torso-onscreen TV segments — I know it all. There's a lot of slo-mo, everyone's just as pale as I am, that guy with the big hair glitters from time to time and everyone animorphs into different animals which go to war end-of-Harry-Potter style. Oh, and of course, one other massively defined thing: Jacob Whatever-his-face has CrAzY abs.
But see, that's the thing - all I retain about this billion dollar shit show is that Whatshisname Usedtodatesomeegirl has insane-o core strength. Really, is he in the movie for anything besides taking his shirt off? As far as I know, no, as as far as all of you should know, he shouldn't be, because no one should have seen movies about inter-species vampire dating multiple times and feel confident about admitting it.
Which brings me to my real point: why is there no Twilight with some actual fucking in it? And why — why — has no one thought to combine them with 50 Shades of Grey for one colossally weird, hyper-sexual movie that would give everyone something to watch and leave the rest of us normals to see things we care about, like James Franco with cornrows and Ashley Benson in a bikini? (For those of you who are all True Blood! True Blood!, I say NAY, that show is scary as shit and inappropriate for all human audiences. I'm talking add in the sex, but not with True Blood's eating your flesh alive and tying you to a ceiling so you can't escape type a' shit I saw during my one experience flipping it on and never, ever going back to it again.)
So, alright, this isn't one I'd categorically something I'd want to pen myself, but hot damn why no one ever introduced Stephenie Meyer and E.L. James is beyond my scope of reason. If we can wrap horse meat in a Doritos Cool Ranch-flavored taco and sell compartmentalized everything on QVC, you'd think we could suss this one out. Only request: so much more glitter. Everything's better when it's as shimmery as a cat toy.