Is I dog, or is I kangaroo?
The New York Times profiles a real SVU unit in New Haven, and it’s as hard to read and draining as you might expect it to be, so decide what kind of day you’re having before you click:
Cuddy shared an office with her partner, Detective Joe Landisio, their two desks facing each other and pushed together, edge to edge. The room was crowded with two printers, a table, another small desk and a huge file cabinet filled with old homicide cases that no one had bothered to move when the units switched offices. The bathroom was next door, so you could hear toilets flushing all day. When she walked into the office, she felt like going straight to sleep. The mother had been so distraught, and Cuddy couldn’t make a dent in that. ‘‘You know what this office needs?’’ she asked as she sat down at her desk, letting out a huge sigh. ‘‘A bar.’’
This piece and accompanying video about a low bridge that constantly scrapes off the tops of ambitious trucks is a true delight (the WSJ commenters were incapable of actually reading it, hence all the suggestions to lower the roadbed WHICH IS IMPOSSIBLE BC OF FACTORS MENTIONED IN THE STORY):
Local rental companies alert drivers to it when they hand over truck keys, especially because insurance generally doesn’t cover the overhead damage. “We warn people all the time to avoid that area,” says a spokesman for Avis Budget Group Inc.’s area office.
Penske Corp. is “well aware of the issues with this low train trestle and the website,” says a spokesman for the company, whose rental trucks star in some of Mr. Henn’s videos.
Penske’s truck heights are visible from the driver’s seats, and the local office informs customers about the underpass. “If drivers are paying attention to their surroundings,” the spokesman says, “they should never hit it.”
Black Nerd Problems (which is a fabulous, fabulous site that makes me laugh uproariously/think deeply at least once a week) has a fab piece by Nicole Homer on looking for her origin story:
Rae Dawn Chong is forced to help Schwarzenegger after being harassed (had her phone call listened to, followed to her car, and being called a whore for not being responsive to sexual advances) by one of the men that kidnapped Commando’s daughter. And, obviously, that is the start to a great love story. It may seem minor, but that is the first time I saw any “family” that looked like mine in a movie. And, no, my dad wasn’t dropping hilarious one-liners or killing people (that I know of), but it was black(ish) and white love. And I was glad to get those scraps. Because other than that, I had white buffonery as backdrop every time a family like mine was on TV. Let’s be clear that I’m not losing any sleep or spilling any tears or blood over white representation in the media. We all already know that history (and by history, I mean other white people) have been kind to white people in the media.
Elisabeth French on confronting the doctor who missed her cancer:
He sits back in his chair and takes a deep breath. I point to the scans, reminding him how my story started, then I tell him how it ends. For one brief moment, his eyes betray him; he’s stunned silent. Then, a switch flips. He spouts vague legal terminology at me until I sign on dotted lines, agreeing that I won’t sue him—that I’m just there to talk. I spend the next hour shooting questions at him, rapid-fire: “Knowing what we know now, is there any evidence of chondrosarcoma in my previous scans?” “How else might my cancer have revealed itself: Blood work? Bone density tests? Further investigation of my family’s cancer history?”
I have every intention of asking him why, out of all the people he saved, he failed to save me. But that answer is finally clear: You can’t save someone you insist doesn’t need saving.
We sit in painful, protracted silence as I stare at his perfectly tanned, inscrutable face. I’m hoping he’ll say something, anything to make me feel better. He cocks his head to the side: “You seem angry…”
As you gaze at Sansa’s majestic largeness, let’s #TBT to exactly one month ago:
Jaya and I are Drynuary-ing together, complete with supportive backchannel emails, so I truly enjoyed this guide to being polite about Drynuary (I personally love all portmanteaus, for the record):
Do not compare this to actual addiction and recovery. I have no idea about actual statistics, but I’m sure there have been some people who have tried Drynuary, had a really hard time, and it made them realize maybe they had more of an alcohol dependence than they realize and they sought help. It’s good when people seek help for addiction. The rest of us will likely be returning to a lifestyle that involves consuming alcohol come February 1, so do not act like giving up alcohol for a month is akin to entering rehab or some huge trial.
The Hairpin re-shared my old piece about how you should end your bad relationship, and pointed out that it contains outdated Jon Hamm/Jennifer Westfeldt information, so now I think love is a lie and all is ashes in my mouth (HOLDING DOWN FOR NICK OFFERMAN AND MEGAN MULLALLY THO):
One year, two year relationships are not that much work, or, at least, they shouldn’t be. Thirty year marriages seem to be hard work, based on the grim expressions. Look, if you’re not stranded on a desert island with one other person, and you find that your relationship is a stressor in your life, just end it. You’ll find someone else, and, if you don’t, ever, at least you’re not in a terrible relationship. When you genuinely enjoy someone and feel like, to quote my best friend’s grandmother, they are a radiator and not a drain, it’s the place you go to to escape your terrible job, or your aggravating family. It’s supposed to be your home.
If I were writing that piece today, I would include that sometimes your relationship sucks because both of you are awesome, but not in ways that gel, btw.
Yes, it was very long and condescending and I didn’t like it:
