Last night I couldn’t sleep. You kept insisting on climbing in my bed and then snoring in my ear, so I would put you back in your own bed. This was on ten minute-long programmatic repeat all night- until 3am. It was at that point that I just didn’t give a shit anymore if you would sustain lifelong sleep struggles due to sleeping in bed with me as a toddler. Instead I gave up on the idea of sleep and instead began having some scary thoughts, most likely incited by the idea that snow was accumulating outside the window for the 3,000th time this year, paired with the idea that I may never sleep a full eight hours ever again.
For some reason, I just couldn’t stop thinking about whether the Madame Tussaud’s version of Joan Rivers would ultimately look more human than the living version (RIP, Joan). This naturally segued into an internal dialogue about the different ways in which Joan Rivers would have “Roasted” Rosie O’Donnell: the possibilities ran so deep that I became deeply shocked at the thought that such a Roast had never taken place. Then it hit me: Joan and Rosie were probably friends. They were probably friends because though Joan would most likely ask Rosie why she was wearing her a$$ on her face, and Rosie would in turn ask Joan why she would pay money to so closely resemble the Grim Reaper, they would still respect each other. They would respect each other because they both took no bullsh&t from men at a time when men ruled the world like Nero ruled Rome. They would tolerate each other because their skin was as thick as plexiglass (ok, Joan’s may have literally been plexiglass). And their admiration for each other’s wit would run deeper than their disgust for their differences. Joan and Rosie were both friends with Howard Stern, for god’s sake. Now what could bring two women together better than that?
New York. New York is a force stronger than Howard, and both Joan and Rosie epitomize(d) the spirit of the city and its I-don’t-give-a-f*ck-what-you-think mantra. It was the energy of this great city that took Rosie and Joan to the high echelons of celebrity. It was their New Yorkness that defined their character and inspired awe and admiration amongst the men they trampled on to get to the top. It was the tenor of the city that resonated in their crass monologue, leaving their listeners itching to know what the f*ck they would say next.
Neither Joan nor Rosie were ever America’s sweethearts. Joan valued her blond hair and “boobies” (as you say, Eva) on a deeply problematic level while Rosie has spent most of her career sabotaging the sanctity of the Republican’s little “tea parties” with her gruff opinions and lesbian identity. And that’s why, Eva, that at approximately 3:32am on Thursday, March 5th, I decided that Joan and Rosie, with all their grit and pompous glory, make the perfect pair of role models for a young New Yorker such as yourself. And for all of you readers that find this motherly suggestion strange: I don’t give a flying f*ck (additionally, my father had me listening to Howard Stern religiously from age five on, so would you expect anything less of me?….and, yes, I am too old for you to call CPA on him).
Oh, and Eva. If some d-bag “ex-pat” from Idaho tries to authenticate their “New Yorkness” by attempting to deny yours, first feel sorry for them because it’s pathetic. Then remind them that Rosie is from Huntington. And Joan hails from Larchmont.
For the Love of God: Stop Snoring,