Columns – Page 10 – Starshine Roshell

Few Smiles in ‘I Smile Back’

Published on November 17, 2015

It’s the kind of performance you’re dying to see — but can’t bring yourself to watch.
Comedian Sarah Silverman takes a dramatic-as-a-heart-attack turn as a wealthy suburban mom devastated by anxiety and addiction in the new feel-bad movie of the season, I Smile Back.

The role’s got Oscar nod written all over it: See the actress grind on a teddy bear, sleep with strangers, snort cocaine off a bathroom floor, lie right to the face of her saintly husband — and ache with excruciating, visceral love for her still-perfect children. Silverman is 100 percent committed and compelling as Laney, the Shakespearean-tragedy-of-a-mommy so terrified of being abandoned by the people she loves that she systematically, almost willfully, destroys any reason for them to stay.

No One Cares About Your Hymen

Published on November 3, 2015

Tradition deems that a bride should give a few gifts on her wedding day. She might give jewelry to her bridesmaids and chocolates to her guests. She might bestow a monogrammed hankie on her mother, and will likely present her groom with a little sumpn special back at the hotel ifyouknowwhatimsayin.

But here’s a nuptial-day trinket you don’t often see a bride offer up in 2015: a note from her gynecologist to her father avowing that her hymen is thoroughly, virtuously intact. A Maryland bride did just that recently, posing with her dad, a big ole virginal grin, and a physician-signed “certificate of purity.”
Let’s review: Her wedding. Her gyno. Her father. Her hymen. The situation is wrong on so many levels. Here are just four of them.

Best Commenters: My Awards Back Atcha

Published on October 20, 2015

What’s a writer without readers? That is to say, if I write a column in the forest and no one is there to post rude comments after it … did I even make a point?
Wired recently predicted the end of online comments sections, as Bloomberg, the Verge, the Daily Beast, and Motherboard have all eliminated the after-article comments features from their sites. I hope The Independent doesn’t follow suit. I often read the comments posted after my columns there to see what kinds of discussions are fueled, and if I’ve missed an important consideration in my thinking. Mostly, though, I find phrases like “giant turds” and “fat chicks” and comments like this one: “This is so stupid I could vomit.”

Lessons Learned from the Pit

Published on October 6, 2015

It was the second night of the school play. The show was called Crazy for You, a collection of jazzy Gershwin tunes, and I was on drums. I was ready. There was only one problem: I felt sick.

Somewhere in the acidic underbelly of my fleshy bits, my BBQ ribs from lunch churned a little. I excused it as nothing and strode over to my flashy drum set that I got from Drums Dude, in the orchestra pit as the lights dimmed for the beginning of the show. I sat down and felt a little wave of nausea again.

I turned to my orchestra buddy and whispered, “Bro, I feel kinda sick.” He whispered back, “You’d better not throw up on me, man,” and the show began.

Love Makes You Fat. Here’s Proof.

Published on September 8, 2015

“Love makes you fat,” my adage-spouting grandmother always said. Now science proves it.
European researchers discovered earlier this year what anyone with eyeballs and a few married friends could have easily told them: that couples are generally heavier than single people.
It’s been proved before — by a study in 2013 that showed the happier people were in their marriages, the more weight they gained. And by yet another one the year before that.
(Okay, lightweight social scientists, time to find a new subject. Might I suggest 7 Ways That Listicles Are Making Us Stupid or Why Are We Still Talking About Donald Trump?)
So what’s the reason for this now officially undeniable link between mass and matrimony? There’s the obvious answer, of course: that once you’ve found a partner, you stop working so hard on your appearance. You skip a spinning class here and there, stop spending mornings wrestling with your straightening iron and — oh, what the hell — buy your first-ever pair of elastic-waist pants.

Tattooing My Teen in Vegas

Published on August 25, 2015

Dang it, there goes my Mother of the Year Award. Again.
Last week I sent my 16-year-old son to Las Vegas overnight to get a giant black tattoo in a place where he’ll see it every day for maybe 70 years. And I didn’t just let him go; I arranged rides, booked flights, got a hotel, and even pleaded with a reputed Sin City ink slinger to defy his own no-minors policy and scar this child’s otherwise flawless forearm forever.
But I had good reasons. I think.

Tongs for Nothing: My (Latest) Parenting Failure

Published on July 16, 2015

You know that moment when you’re heading out your front door for a big trip and you keep going over that mental list to make sure you’ve taken care of everything?
Dog sitter, mail hold, toothbrush, tickets, directions, deadbolt …
That’s where I am right now as a parent. My oldest is driving, earning paychecks from two jobs, and getting ready to apply to colleges. As he heads toward the front door for the trip of his life, that list keeps ticking through my head. Have I taught him everything he needs to know?

Can Transgender Folks Futz with Pronouns?

Published on July 2, 2015

For me, the issue first came to light while I was staring up the skirt of a drag queen.
Stage-side at a Pride festival with my family one summer, I pointed out a dazzling diva, gasped, and said, “Ooh! Look at her spectacular shoes!” Sheepishly, my son asked me why I referred to her as “her” when her biceps, Adam’s apple, and baritone growl indicated that she was a he. It was a fair question, but before I could craft a careful response, this tumbled out of my mouth:
“Well … I guess because she’s gone to a whole lot of trouble to be perceived as a she … and frankly, what do I care?”
Thus was my position on LGBT pronoun-ing established. Because I truly didn’t care. Why on earth shouldn’t people be called what they want to be called? I’m no us-versus-them gal. I’m a fiendishly tolerant liberal; I don’t give a flying flush who’s allowed into the ladies’ room — and you can’t make me squirm.
… Except that I’ve recently changed my mind. And I’m squirming.

Category: Columns