some kind of action, I am compelled instead to devour the entire website in one sitting. It’s only been around for a month (how did it take us so long to find it?) so the archives aren’t too deep—it’s averaging about a post a day. The post preceding the one about me is the one that calls Rel racist. “The stereotypes she perpetuates about people of color are so awful,” our hate blogger wrote, “I can’t believe that Tina agrees to work with her.” But then she adds, “Too bad Tina’s too dumb to protest.”
I even make myself watch the infamous Causing Treble performance, which was posted last week, without comment. The earnestness in my little face as I head-bang to the extended bridge in “Bohemian Rhapsody” is nearly heartbreaking. I move on quickly to the photo of Tina from high school (it’s not that bad) and see that the hate blogger has also posted an anonymous e-mail from one of Tina’s ex-coworkers. Before Tina was a freelance stylist, she worked under Rosie Stevenson, one of the most famous stylists in the fashion business. You might know her from her little-seen reality show, Ro’s Guide to Style . “When she first started working here, Tina thought that French-tipped manicures were cutting-edge. I don’t know if you can sue someone for intellectual theft for stealing your style, but Ro should lawyer up.”
I see the posts shaming Rel for her drug-laced past and a couple more about specific things we’ve written. (Our blogger does not take kindly to our blanket coverage of every Real Housewives iteration—“These are not the kinds of women the Chickies should be promoting with their considerable platform.”) And then I see something that makes me take a sharp breath.
It’s a scanned-in clipping of a Connecticut newspaper story from 1992. The article is about the local reaction to brand-new first lady Hillary Clinton. It has a photograph of me, along with a quote: “I love Hillary Clinton. I think it is super neat that she is out being a lawyer and not home baking cookies.”
I was obviously parroting back something I overheard my notoriously non-cookie-baking mother say. I recall her gathering her fellow teachers in our living room to make phone calls on behalf of Bill. I helped her seal envelopes asking for campaign donations because, always the teacher, she wanted me to learn about civic involvement. I remember watching her dark hair shine under our kitchen lamp as she stayed up late decorating placards. Whatever I feel about everything that Hillary has gone through in the intervening twenty years—and I have a lot of feelings about that one—that has remained a fond and private memory of a special time spent with my mom.
Until now.
The headline on that post is simply “How Did This Bright Little Girl Become Such a Raging Bitch?”
It’s a mindfuck to see a photograph of your vulnerable small self on the Internet, posted for the purpose of making you feel like a jerk. Furthermore, it’s immediately clear to me that our hate blogger is someone who knows me personally. There’s no other explanation for why she would have included such a seemingly random image—or how she would have found it.
I start trying to catalogue all the people I may have wronged in the past twenty-five years. Maybe it was that girl in college whose boyfriend I made out with on my twenty-first birthday. Or that guy who always hated me because I beat him in high school debate.
I’m on the verge of a sweaty panic attack when I realize that the little IM bar I’ve minimized is blinking angrily in the lower left-hand corner of my laptop screen. Moira. Shit.
MoiraPoira (11:45:01): Where are you?
MoiraPoira (11:46:32): Hello?
MoiraPoira (12:01:04): It’s almost the end of the month and let’s just say your traffic numbers are not what they should be. Molly is eager to write on Selena Gomez pole dancing if you’re not up to the challenge of posting today.
Alex182 (12:02:56): I’m
I even make myself watch the infamous Causing Treble performance, which was posted last week, without comment. The earnestness in my little face as I head-bang to the extended bridge in “Bohemian Rhapsody” is nearly heartbreaking. I move on quickly to the photo of Tina from high school (it’s not that bad) and see that the hate blogger has also posted an anonymous e-mail from one of Tina’s ex-coworkers. Before Tina was a freelance stylist, she worked under Rosie Stevenson, one of the most famous stylists in the fashion business. You might know her from her little-seen reality show, Ro’s Guide to Style . “When she first started working here, Tina thought that French-tipped manicures were cutting-edge. I don’t know if you can sue someone for intellectual theft for stealing your style, but Ro should lawyer up.”
I see the posts shaming Rel for her drug-laced past and a couple more about specific things we’ve written. (Our blogger does not take kindly to our blanket coverage of every Real Housewives iteration—“These are not the kinds of women the Chickies should be promoting with their considerable platform.”) And then I see something that makes me take a sharp breath.
It’s a scanned-in clipping of a Connecticut newspaper story from 1992. The article is about the local reaction to brand-new first lady Hillary Clinton. It has a photograph of me, along with a quote: “I love Hillary Clinton. I think it is super neat that she is out being a lawyer and not home baking cookies.”
I was obviously parroting back something I overheard my notoriously non-cookie-baking mother say. I recall her gathering her fellow teachers in our living room to make phone calls on behalf of Bill. I helped her seal envelopes asking for campaign donations because, always the teacher, she wanted me to learn about civic involvement. I remember watching her dark hair shine under our kitchen lamp as she stayed up late decorating placards. Whatever I feel about everything that Hillary has gone through in the intervening twenty years—and I have a lot of feelings about that one—that has remained a fond and private memory of a special time spent with my mom.
Until now.
The headline on that post is simply “How Did This Bright Little Girl Become Such a Raging Bitch?”
It’s a mindfuck to see a photograph of your vulnerable small self on the Internet, posted for the purpose of making you feel like a jerk. Furthermore, it’s immediately clear to me that our hate blogger is someone who knows me personally. There’s no other explanation for why she would have included such a seemingly random image—or how she would have found it.
I start trying to catalogue all the people I may have wronged in the past twenty-five years. Maybe it was that girl in college whose boyfriend I made out with on my twenty-first birthday. Or that guy who always hated me because I beat him in high school debate.
I’m on the verge of a sweaty panic attack when I realize that the little IM bar I’ve minimized is blinking angrily in the lower left-hand corner of my laptop screen. Moira. Shit.
MoiraPoira (11:45:01): Where are you?
MoiraPoira (11:46:32): Hello?
MoiraPoira (12:01:04): It’s almost the end of the month and let’s just say your traffic numbers are not what they should be. Molly is eager to write on Selena Gomez pole dancing if you’re not up to the challenge of posting today.
Alex182 (12:02:56): I’m
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