Maggie Mason - Plinky Answers

Danity Kane will get my back

2009-05-08T16:28:27-06:00

Danity Kane
When I need to assemble a gang of street toughs, and I need to do it fast, I turn to professionals. As usual, Sean "P. Diddy" Combs has anticipated a market for frenzied, murderous song-and-dance crews, and has conveniently assembled Danity Kane.

These girls have it all -- doe eyes, gams that go all the way up, and a volatile helping of latent rage. Plus, they already have matching silver-lamé cutout leotards. So, timesaver.

I know what you're thinking; the ladies can't exactly dance. But what they lack in dance talent, they make up for in heart. And the desire to bathe in your arterial blood.

Zombies! An Eight-Step Plan

2009-03-26T12:32:00-06:00

1. Twitter.
2. Crowdsource a Costco takeover.
3. Secure entrances.
4. Neutralize Costco undead in increasingly cinematic ways, using only products at hand.
5. Clean off that food processor. We might want to use it later.
6. Set up Wifi.
7. Update Facebook status.
8. Organize a yoga class.

It's almost always Sexy

2009-03-25T18:24:23-06:00

I was having a drink on the patio in the tourist district of Boston, watching the wildlife with a guy friend. Every girl who passed us was kitted out in spike heels, clingwrap skirts, smokey eyes. It was a Saturday-night sea of sex.

Then a girl passed by who looked refreshing.

"What's going on there?" I said.
"You mean how she doesn't look like she's advertising?" he replied.
"Yeah. I mean, you can practically see her underwear in that skirt, and her cleavage is hanging out. Why doesn't she look slutty?"
"She's wearing flats," he said.
"Oh my god. She's comfortable."
"Yep."

Wear whatever you want, ladies, but be at ease. If you're tugging at your skirt, worrying about being judged, or limping up the street, you're hobbled. Now, hobbled girls may get laid, but only because they're the weakest ones in the herd.

First Kiss At the Junior High Dance

2009-03-24T15:10:29-06:00

We were eleven. He was born on the same day as me, at the same hospital, delivered by the same doctor. When we finally met, I was the anxious new girl in his eighth grade homeroom.

He was shorter than me, a lot shorter, like all the boys back then, and neither one of us was cool. Apparently I was a little less cool than him, because we'd been meeting at a neighborhood park for a while, and he wanted to keep it a secret.

We were at a school dance, and it was the last song -- a saxophone-laden ballad by George Michael. We'd been hugging at the end of every slow song, so I was confused when he pushed me back a little and then leaned toward me.

His kiss landed on my cheek, on the soft skin just below my eye and above my cheekbone. He barely touched me; half my face lit up.

Walking out to the car where my mom was waiting, I could feel that spot glowing. Mom took me to the McDonald's drive-thru for soft-serve butterscotch sundaes with crushed peanuts on top. I was uncharacteristically silent, every bit of me was distilled into that one point where his lips had brushed me. Lovely.

My bucket list starts with: Be conversational in seven languages.

2009-03-23T17:57:38-06:00

I have a life list with a hundred items, which you'll find in the left sidebar if you're reading this on Mighty Girl. Here's a handful of them:

Be conversational in seven languages.
For one, this is just a badass, super-spy thing to do. Nothing is hotter than the pasty redhead who surprises you by speaking Mandarin with the cab driver. (Except maybe the busty blonde who surprises you by speaking Mandarin with the cab driver. We'll have to settle this with mud wrestling.)

Anyway, when I learned Spanish it changed how I thought. I had less access to irony and sarcasm, a greater tolerance for old-fashioned romance. It's hard to sound cheesy in Spanish.

Language shapes our perception so fundamentally that we don't even know it's happening. Learning a new language teaches you another point of view, one that's been honed over thousands of years by millions of people. It's the deepest way to access another culture.

Go on a multi-day biking trip.
Like many writers, I don't consider myself athletic. I was the kid picked last at kickball, the kid who never played soccer, the kid who died a little on dodgeball days.

So screw that. I never tried, which makes for an automatic fail. Now seems like a good time to put down the book and get off my ass. And I like bikes.

Do a "10 Things You Don't Know About Women" feature for Esquire
Are they even doing these any more? I just realized that this month's issue doesn't have one, and I can't remember seeing one for the last few months either. Shit.

Give $100 to a violin-playing busker.
Mostly, buskers irritate me. But if I hear a violin when I step off the train, it makes my whole day. I got $100 worth of two-dollar bills at the bank for just this purpose. Now I just need to spend a few days on the subway.

Lemonade on the front porch swing, warm summer night.
I can't believe I've never done this. Friends, that's no way to go.

Things I Sometimes Imagine Against My Will

2009-03-03T14:19:02-06:00

This is my version of a genius list Zan did a few days ago.

Things I sometimes imagine against my will:

Feeling someone's breath on my ear, and looking up in the bathroom mirror to see a ghost behind me.

Being pushed onto the subway tracks by an insane person.

Dead people sleeping in the basement, until they hear me descending the stairs, whereupon they scuttle to their hiding places.

A hand shooting out from underneath my parked car (my bed, a low table, the basement crawl space) to grab my ankle.

Prison guards pulling Hank from my arms while he yells my name.

Having one of those surgeries where they think the anesthesia is working, but it isn't.

It turns out the robots want to enslave us.

Internet Baby Steps, and Eve Astrid Andersson

2009-02-05T17:13:19-06:00

I didn't own a computer in college, so my freshman year I hunkered in the labs for hours messing around on IRC and reading personal websites.

There were far fewer women with sites then, and I was excited to find Eve Astrid Andersson. (I can't believe I still remember her name.) Anyway, she had this little dancing gif of her as an alien, she was green and lightening bolts shot out of her antennae. She's pretty much the reason I learned HTML.

And here she is now! Whoa. Hi, Eve. Good to see you again.

My first job: Whistleblower in Hotpants

2009-01-29T14:05:49-06:00

My first real job was as a file clerk for the school district office, where my friend was stealing time. I'm the kind of person who feels a German level of discomfort about littering, so you can imagine me as a righteous, dismayed fifteen year old.

The clerks eventually told management about our suspicions. Did they not find it odd that she would sit in back with us for fifteen minutes, but mark six hours on her time sheet? They watched her for a week, pulled her aside to chat with her, and then never mentioned it again.

She continued to steal, in a slightly less dramatic fashion, and a few weeks later I was reprimanded for wearing cut-off shorts to the office.

Plus, Fanta Posse Sounds Vaguely Erotic

2009-01-23T16:03:29-06:00

The Fanta Girls Are My Hip-Hop Posse
Say I'm too busy working on my streetwear line to find a posse. Enter the Fantanas, a pre-cast set of hot multi-ethnic chicks, ready to follow me around to parties. They're never too exhausted to dance on the bar in my stead, and I'm pretty sure they never need to be fed or use the bathroom. That being the case, you may wonder why I wouldn't call on the arguably more talented and media-savvy Pussycat Dolls. But I think someone is forgetting about the bottomless supply of second-rate mixers.