The TueDo List: FBoys + Swedish Death Cleaning + RIP Olivia
And a box set of John Hughes movie songs. #ohhhhyeahhhh
THIS WEEK
📖 READ: Serena Williams’ farewell to tennis, on her own terms and in her own words.The case for skipping the beach, because a more physically strenuous vacation has serious mental health benefits. Real talk about what it’s like to get a facelift and yikes, no thanks. Helping my 80-year-old mom make friends. Forget blondes: In 2022, mid-lifers have more fun.
👀 LOOK: 30 glorious old photos of Olivia Newton-John. And that time, three years ago, she was on CBS Sunday Morning and living her best life. Gray hair is so popular with younger generations that there are whole articles about how to “get the look.” BRB registering for adult camp.
🎧 LISTEN: Beyoncé's “Break My Soul” remix, with “Queen Mother Madonna,” name checks some of our favorite artists. “Thoughts and Prayers,” a new ditty from Randy Rainbow. Plus a new Pixies song.
🤣 LOL: Word problems for working women of color. Woman suffers panic attack trying to pack week’s worth of relaxing into one Sunday. A 99-year-old woman requested — and got — a giant penis on her grave.
🛒 ADD TO CART: Preorder Life Moves Pretty Fast, the epic John Hughes soundtrack compilation.
📺 WATCH
Friday: Diane Keaton stars in Mack & Rita (Theaters). The reboot of A League Of Their Own (Prime). Season 3 of Never Have I Ever (Netflix). Five Days At Memorial, a medical drama about the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Katrina (Apple TV+).
Saturday: The Princess, a documentary about Diana (HBO Max).
OBSESSED: FBoy Island
By Brooke Bizzell Stachyra
Two brunettes and a blonde walk on a tropical beach amid a sea of hunky guys. No, it’s not the beginning of a bad joke, it’s a scene from one of my guiltiest pleasures: HBOMax’s reality dating/game show FBoy Island. When my husband walked in on me glued to the TV, watching a bunch of scantily clad millennials, he asked me what the f*** I was watching.
Half an hour later, he was also hooked.
The term FBoy (pronounced “eff-boy”) is current slang for a guy considered a romantic “player.” It’s not part of my Gen-X vocabulary, but I can certainly relate, having had my share of experiences with cads. I’ve had two incarnations as a single woman, the first in my twenties before my first marriage, the second in my forties after my divorce. It wasn’t until I publicly declared on social media that I was giving up on romance four years ago, that I sat next to my now husband (and very nice guy) on a crowed commuter train.
Hilariously hosted by comedian Nikki Glaser, FBoy Island presents three beautiful single women looking for love and trying to figure out which of the two dozen eligible bachelors are “Nice Guys” and not “FBoys.” If a contestant chooses a Nice Guy, she also wins $100,000.
What keeps me watching — and distinguishes FBoy Island from other reality dating shows — is that in addition to the typical cocktail of unlucky-in-love bachelorettes and testosterone-fueled suitors, there’s also a lot of deception. My husband and I love trying to figure out who’s naughty or nice, and discovering if we predicted correctly. Some of the reveals are shocking, while others are obvious. It’s even more interesting to watch as some of these women, who claim to be looking for a committed relationship, choose to stand by their now exposed beasts.
What’s not to love about a show with a lot of PDA, a “douche tank,” challenges like “Truth or Burn” (using ghost peppers), and “shut the F up and listen” Broga (yoga) pose? Ultimately, the F in FBoy Island stands for fun. So pop some popcorn and a bottle of bubbly, and lean back and enjoy your island escape!
STORY: The Case for Swedish Death Cleaning
By Diane di Costanzo
In her final years, if you handed Grandma Howard a birthday card, she’d say “oh, how nice” and shove it in the trash. After she passed, my mother and three sisters roamed the house looking for possessions to deal with—to split among us, say, or to give to the Salvation Army. The closets and cabinets were echo chambers. There was one coffee mug and a pair of nylon bedroom slippers.
Grandma Lilly, on the hand, was what we’d now call a hoarder. A housecleaner—ironically—she owned a circa-1920s bungalow that was jammed with stuff her clients gave her: hip-high stacks of National Geographic, sofas on the porch, broken appliances, a thicket of hand lotion bottles with just a dab left in each one. She was a tiny woman who wore three dresses at once and, on one skinny wrist, several watches.
“Well, none of them work,” she’d say, if you asked about them.
Well-a well-a well-a huh, TueNighters!
