Mother. Wife. Sister. Human. Warrior. Falcon. Yardstick. Turban. Cabbage.

If you call Twitter "The Twitter" unironically, you probably have no idea who Rob Delaney is.* If you tweet, or have loved ones who do, you have probably read, retweeted, faved, hugged, molested, laser cut, or put into escrow one of his hilarious tweets.**

He was in especially fine form during the 2012 elections, when he tormented Mitt Romney incessantly. Glory days! That's when I started following him, and he's proven to be a delicious creamy middle between the depressing low of real-life news twitter accounts (I've never been more informed or horrified) and the uncomfortable yet oddly hilarious highs of super absurd weird twitter. He's funny, and weird, don't get me wrong - but he also feels like a real person you could have over for dinner without fearing for your life/sanity.

If I like something I generally like more of that same thing (I currently have a 3.5lb bag of sour patch kids in my kitchen), so, surprise, I loved the book. It's basically a memoir, and Delaney has had some epic misadventures. Almost dying via acts of youthful stupidity is a common theme, and provides a nice counter-point to the more serious but no less compelling stories about his struggles with mental illness and his alcoholism.

Also,  I can honestly say I have never before laughed out loud at a story involving a drowned baby. So, there's that.

4 unflattering green speedos out of 5.

*And if you call it "The Twitter" ironically, you are the worst. 

**I've told my mom these are all things you can do to tweets. Sometimes I like to confuse her. "Honey, how do I hug one of your tweets?" I'm a bad person, she is lovely. 

As I Am

I had never heard of Patricia Neal before I picked up her autobiography after reading about it on The Hairpin, but now that I've read her life story I can say that, definitively, Patricia Neal was the Jennifer Lawrence of her time.

Any by that I mean that reading this book made me want to travel back to the 1930s, invent the internet, start Buzzfeed, and churn out posts like "The 25 Best Patricia Neal quotes of 1958", "The 16 Most Epic Faces Patricia Neal made on Oscar Night", "Examples of Patricia Neal being Funny and Cute," and, most importantly "Patricia Neal tells Ryan Seacrest She's 'Starving' on the Red Carpet" (Because he is really an immortal vampire and the world needs to KNOW).

Ahem.

Basically, what I am trying to say is that after reading her life story you will imagine that you and Patricia Neal could have been BFFS. You would have laughed over dinner about the time she booked her first play and bought a new bra with cut-out nipples to celebrate (?!), and then had to promptly strip down to her underwear for a costume fitting. You would have brought over a bottle of wine to help her drink away the pain of her forbidden love affair with Gary Cooper. You would have contemplated an intervention behind her back with her other good friends when she decided to marry Roald Dahl (who was actually a *huge* asshole - this book may ruin Charlie & the Chocolate Factory/The BFG/Matilda for you...but it's worth it).

In between the Hollywood gossip and ill-fated romances there are some crazy sad personal tragedies, some moving redemptions and victories, and enough unflinching honesty to make you almost feel intrusive for eating it all up with a spoon and asking for seconds.

P.Neal, I am now your #1 fan, and I mean it: when I googled you and found out you died 3 years ago, I was bummed. RIP.

5 surprisingly saucy 1950s brassieres out of 5!

After the Apocalypse

I have definitely crafted an apocalypse survival plan with a few people ("you get the guns, I'll get the cans - we make our way north and rendezvous at my parent's cottage in Nova Scotia where we can seal off the only road onto the island.") But if zombies *actually* happened I would probably be caught wearing impractical high heels, ignore the warnings, and get taken down within the first 10 minutes while standing in line for an iced coffee.

We all think we're much more heroic and resourceful than we really are, and it's easy to picture ourselves rising from the ashes, the demise of processed food finally helping us sculpt some wicked abs, which we display at all times while wielding a machete and scavenging for supplies like a warrior princess (No? Just my daydreams? Cool). Maureen F. McHugh's nine stories, all set in some sort of post-apocalypse or dystopian future (those pesky zombies, dirty bomb attacks, economic depression, drought), immerse you in stories that feel much more realistic and more raw than those found in most end of the world dramas. There's nothing glossy or cartoonish about a resentful mother dragging her whiny teenager through a starving America, or a Mad Cow-like illness infecting the chicken nugget supply and damning a generation to a slow, paralyzing dementia. It would all be really, really depressing if it wasn't such a breath of fresh air in what can admittedly be a somewhat stagnant genre.

4 death-dealing processed nuggets out of 5! That is probably the way we're all going to go out, actually.