Or, in the alternative, a heartfelt letter to Cosmo.
Dearest Cosmo,
We've been together a long, long time. I'm confident that I can't even count the number of hours I've spent curled up with you under a blanket to a backdrop of some terrible show on Bravo or another equally appalling channel. We've laughed together. We've cried together (well, no. We actually haven't done that...because that's just sad.) And throughout our history, you've had some pretty ridiculous advice and social commentary...most of which I won't go into here because no one needs to have the internet offend their delicate sensibilities.
Regardless, though, I really needed to comment on your advice to women in this month's edition, in which you urged them that men overwhelmingly frown upon having their bums spanked with spatulas during sex.
...as if this was really an issue.
...
...is this really an issue?
No...really Cosmo. Are there that many women out there who think to themselves while cooking dinner or baking dessert, "My what a sexy spatula. Not only does it look incredible while it seductively scrapes my brownie batter bowl, I think it'd really get me going if I could smack it across hubby's bum?" And is it such a raging epidemic that you need to issue a PSA against it? Because I'm not okay with that.
So.
Not.
Okay with that.
So Cosmo, I guess what I'm really trying to say is that you need to go back to basics that will really help women. You know. Like advising them on which boots will get them laid the fastest by drunken frat boys in dive bars and which eyeshadow they should use the following morning to hide dark under eye circles and self loathing. Please stop relating kitchen equipment to sex. It's just not okay. Spatulas belong in the kitchen basket, not in the boudoir.
With kind regards,
Me
Friday, August 19, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
One. Two. Three. Fourteen.
After many years of unsuccessful attempts to procure U2 tickets, I finally saw them this week through the aid of one very generous gift from one very awesome boyfriend and his very awesome family (and this, friends, is why it rocks to be a Jew on Christmas.) The show was amazing. The set was amazing. The band…was amazing.*
But Bono is an asshat.
And here’s why:
There was a time when Bono had long greasy hair and wore a lot of flannel. Of course, in the 90s, a lot of guys had long greasy hair. And wore a lot of flannel. And back then, most of these guys didn’t really pretend to care about social consciousness or rock with a conscience or any other silly terms annoying people with pamphlets and clipboards like to toss around as they terrorize you in event parking lots. And life was good.
But somewhere down the line, Bono cut his hair, lost his flannel, donned a pair of dark shades, and decided that he was the saviour reborn, strategically sent from above as a gift to all mankind.
And here’s the kicker: I’m so not even remotely exaggerating.
The concert was peppered with references to places and people that I’m wholly confident at least 99.7% of those in attendance had never heard of in what I guess was an attempt to encourage us all to live as one and smile on our brothers and weave rainbows into blankets for orphans. Or as fodder for Bono’s daily spank session in the mirror. Because I am SURE this man wanks it to his own image.
Anyway, this particular concert focused on freeing Burma. Even though I thought Bono’s main campaign was helping African AIDS babies. Or endangered rhinos. Or the fund to buy himself another pair of designer shades. Any one of these crusades is fine if you’re staffing the awareness tent at Mountain Jam or picketing a whaling vessel or wanking it in Bono’s magic mirror. But at a stadium concert? That’s so un-rockstar. And so unnecessary. Especially in a venue where parking is $25.00 per car with base tickets topping over $100.00 a piece.
*Disclaimer: I love U2. I think they are an incredible band. This is by far one of the most rocking concerts I’ve ever attended. I just hate Bono because he’s a self-obsessed tool that pretends to care about the world while he goes home to a mansion and probably swims in vats of his millions while his Burmese slave polishes his line of designer blackout shades.
But Bono is an asshat.
And here’s why:
There was a time when Bono had long greasy hair and wore a lot of flannel. Of course, in the 90s, a lot of guys had long greasy hair. And wore a lot of flannel. And back then, most of these guys didn’t really pretend to care about social consciousness or rock with a conscience or any other silly terms annoying people with pamphlets and clipboards like to toss around as they terrorize you in event parking lots. And life was good.
But somewhere down the line, Bono cut his hair, lost his flannel, donned a pair of dark shades, and decided that he was the saviour reborn, strategically sent from above as a gift to all mankind.
And here’s the kicker: I’m so not even remotely exaggerating.
The concert was peppered with references to places and people that I’m wholly confident at least 99.7% of those in attendance had never heard of in what I guess was an attempt to encourage us all to live as one and smile on our brothers and weave rainbows into blankets for orphans. Or as fodder for Bono’s daily spank session in the mirror. Because I am SURE this man wanks it to his own image.
Anyway, this particular concert focused on freeing Burma. Even though I thought Bono’s main campaign was helping African AIDS babies. Or endangered rhinos. Or the fund to buy himself another pair of designer shades. Any one of these crusades is fine if you’re staffing the awareness tent at Mountain Jam or picketing a whaling vessel or wanking it in Bono’s magic mirror. But at a stadium concert? That’s so un-rockstar. And so unnecessary. Especially in a venue where parking is $25.00 per car with base tickets topping over $100.00 a piece.
*Disclaimer: I love U2. I think they are an incredible band. This is by far one of the most rocking concerts I’ve ever attended. I just hate Bono because he’s a self-obsessed tool that pretends to care about the world while he goes home to a mansion and probably swims in vats of his millions while his Burmese slave polishes his line of designer blackout shades.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Frailty, thy name is PMS
There are many perks to being a woman. We got off the Titanic first. Boys hold doors and build things for us. Professors raise our grades because we agree to look at their rock collections (no judgments, Rutgers geology department. I'm sure that's how it works at every university...) And we can wear makeup publicly without being relegated to one of "those" bars in which I'm constantly singing karaoke.
There are also many things that flat out suck about being female. Our hair rarely looks just right. Boobs get heavy. And no amount of tactful persuasion will EVER convince me that high heels get more comfortable the more often you wear them. What's more, though, is that we have a little friendly visitor who feels compelled to pop in every few weeks just to check up on us.
This, friends, I could do without. More importantly, I could forgo the accompanying symptoms that make it impossible to leave the kitchen without consuming everything not tied down. It's even worse when you find yourself cruising the Cadbury site as others cruise :ahem: adult entertainment forums. Did you know Cadbury makes a bar of fudge covered in milk chocolate? Because I do...
There are also many things that flat out suck about being female. Our hair rarely looks just right. Boobs get heavy. And no amount of tactful persuasion will EVER convince me that high heels get more comfortable the more often you wear them. What's more, though, is that we have a little friendly visitor who feels compelled to pop in every few weeks just to check up on us.
This, friends, I could do without. More importantly, I could forgo the accompanying symptoms that make it impossible to leave the kitchen without consuming everything not tied down. It's even worse when you find yourself cruising the Cadbury site as others cruise :ahem: adult entertainment forums. Did you know Cadbury makes a bar of fudge covered in milk chocolate? Because I do...
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Death of Tact, Essay II, or, Don’t Touch the Boots
Friends, I pickup where I left you but moments ago. As previously mentioned, they didn't shut up. Literally. It was two dude forms of Six from Blossom (which may be an antiquated reference, but I refuse to part with the 90s. I JUST REFUSE.) And that's never okay.
It turns out that the bald one was half-Honduran. Or something. And from California. Or something. Because strangers often feel compelled to share with me their life stories. And I often feel compelled not to care. So he spoke to me in Spanish. A LOT. He kept telling me that I spoke Spanish really well. I kept telling him that yes, that tends to happen when you're fluent. And then he'd tell me how well I spoke it. Again. I guess "fluent" is one of those words that is easily lost in translation. Or stupidity.
Either way, he then proceeded to attempt to unzip my boot, asking why "all you New York women wear boots." Well, compadre, here are some facts that might help you:
1) It's November. Flip-flops aren't generally practical footwear for 40 degree nights in a city.
2) I'm not from New York. I'm from Jersey. You're lucky I just smacked your hand away and said "Don't touch the boots." I could have gone native style and told to "Get your fucking hand off the fucking boots before I have Uncle Vito make YOU a new pair of boots. Of concrete." I don't really have an Uncle Vito. But it's New Jersey. I'm sure someone in a 10 mile radius does.
3) You're an idiot.
And then, we left. The moral of this story is that men are idiots and tact is dead. And more importantly, don't touch my fucking boot.
Fin.
It turns out that the bald one was half-Honduran. Or something. And from California. Or something. Because strangers often feel compelled to share with me their life stories. And I often feel compelled not to care. So he spoke to me in Spanish. A LOT. He kept telling me that I spoke Spanish really well. I kept telling him that yes, that tends to happen when you're fluent. And then he'd tell me how well I spoke it. Again. I guess "fluent" is one of those words that is easily lost in translation. Or stupidity.
Either way, he then proceeded to attempt to unzip my boot, asking why "all you New York women wear boots." Well, compadre, here are some facts that might help you:
1) It's November. Flip-flops aren't generally practical footwear for 40 degree nights in a city.
2) I'm not from New York. I'm from Jersey. You're lucky I just smacked your hand away and said "Don't touch the boots." I could have gone native style and told to "Get your fucking hand off the fucking boots before I have Uncle Vito make YOU a new pair of boots. Of concrete." I don't really have an Uncle Vito. But it's New Jersey. I'm sure someone in a 10 mile radius does.
3) You're an idiot.
And then, we left. The moral of this story is that men are idiots and tact is dead. And more importantly, don't touch my fucking boot.
Fin.
The Death of Tact, Essay I
So I spent the weekend in the city with Roomie. Which usually translates to eating too much, spending too much, and watching hobos sing Livin’ on a Prayer in the park. It’s basically the perfect weekend, peppered with a hint of British comedy.
The background to this post is that the two of us have finally found a bar that doesn’t charge a cover on Friday or Saturday nights (which is the Village equivalent of finding Jimmy Hoffa holding the Holy Grail. I digress.) Anyway, this time we brought along a friend to have some drinks, listen to some music, and shake a thang or two. Or three. There were we, in our own little corner clusterfuck, singing our hearts out to Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, when who should arrive in our presence, but two ugly dudes pushing 40.
Now, I generally have nothing against men in their 40s. Or 50s. Or 60s. If you know me, you’ve probably taken a look at my celebrity crushes and realized that the mean age is somewhere around 65. And I’m cool with that. But unfamous, ugly, 40 something dudes, one of them balding, with no tact, I’m sorry. I’m just not “down” as the kiddies are calling it these days.
Regardless, there they came. Trying to talk to us. For hours. And hours. And hours. It didn’t matter that we all have boyfriends (well, at least that’s what we told them.) And it didn’t matter that we were very specifically having a girls’ night out. They made it their issue to spark up conversation, opening with, “Here’s our attempt at a really bad pickup line: How are you girls tonight?” Well, at least they realize their own faults.
The background to this post is that the two of us have finally found a bar that doesn’t charge a cover on Friday or Saturday nights (which is the Village equivalent of finding Jimmy Hoffa holding the Holy Grail. I digress.) Anyway, this time we brought along a friend to have some drinks, listen to some music, and shake a thang or two. Or three. There were we, in our own little corner clusterfuck, singing our hearts out to Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, when who should arrive in our presence, but two ugly dudes pushing 40.
Now, I generally have nothing against men in their 40s. Or 50s. Or 60s. If you know me, you’ve probably taken a look at my celebrity crushes and realized that the mean age is somewhere around 65. And I’m cool with that. But unfamous, ugly, 40 something dudes, one of them balding, with no tact, I’m sorry. I’m just not “down” as the kiddies are calling it these days.
Regardless, there they came. Trying to talk to us. For hours. And hours. And hours. It didn’t matter that we all have boyfriends (well, at least that’s what we told them.) And it didn’t matter that we were very specifically having a girls’ night out. They made it their issue to spark up conversation, opening with, “Here’s our attempt at a really bad pickup line: How are you girls tonight?” Well, at least they realize their own faults.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
My Favorite Beatles Moment
It's been far too long since I've put something new up here. It's also been far too long since I've worshiped the Beatles in a public arena. Therefore, I bring you:
MY FAVORITE BEATLES MOMENT
It's kind of like those "What I Did on my Summer Vacation" papers we all had to write in school basically every year. Only it's not tedious. It's not boring. And unlike school (says the future teacher), people actually care about The Beatles.
Anyway, it all started at a little thing called Mountain Jam. Mountain Jam is basically where all the hippies get together and pay exorbitant amounts of money to get molested by security, sleep in tents, have those tents leak, and dance around in mud for three scorching days and three blisteringly cold nights. Admittedly, I wouldn't trade the experience for the world.
This year was no exception. Here we were, dust-laden hippies, twirling to the sounds of Michael Franti, when all of a sudden a booming voice comes over the loudspeaker (Is that you, G-d?): It looks like we're going to get a little rain.
In all of its Woodstock-esque glory, the voice was right. We all looked to the left of the field and saw a huge black wall coming ever-so-quickly in our direction. As the roadies scrambled desperately to cover the hoards of electronic equipment poised on stage, each its own little metal lighting rod, the hippies scampered to the woods (which is technically their natural habitat, anyway) and began to huddle as the monsoon rained all its monsoon glory down.
It was strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hands. Or rather, strangers clinging to strangers under a grove of trees because we were all convinced branches are waterproof.
PS. They're not.
Regardless, the storm soon passed and we all crawled out from our forest-y covers. As we made it back to the muddy field, a familiar intro began playing over the speakers, quietly then at full freaking blast: Here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright.
It was the single most perfect Beatles moment of my life. Here I was, twirling in the mud with my favorite hippie, to my favorite band, surrounded by others who understand that the real essence of life, no matter what your age, is learning to splash in the mud puddles after you all almost get electrocuted.
Well, maybe not electrocuted. But certainly wet as shit.
Therefore, if you've taken the time to read this, you should probably stop what you're doing, even if only for a moment, put on your favorite Beatles song, and bask in the glory of the best band ever. I promise you won't be disappointed.
MY FAVORITE BEATLES MOMENT
It's kind of like those "What I Did on my Summer Vacation" papers we all had to write in school basically every year. Only it's not tedious. It's not boring. And unlike school (says the future teacher), people actually care about The Beatles.
Anyway, it all started at a little thing called Mountain Jam. Mountain Jam is basically where all the hippies get together and pay exorbitant amounts of money to get molested by security, sleep in tents, have those tents leak, and dance around in mud for three scorching days and three blisteringly cold nights. Admittedly, I wouldn't trade the experience for the world.
This year was no exception. Here we were, dust-laden hippies, twirling to the sounds of Michael Franti, when all of a sudden a booming voice comes over the loudspeaker (Is that you, G-d?): It looks like we're going to get a little rain.
In all of its Woodstock-esque glory, the voice was right. We all looked to the left of the field and saw a huge black wall coming ever-so-quickly in our direction. As the roadies scrambled desperately to cover the hoards of electronic equipment poised on stage, each its own little metal lighting rod, the hippies scampered to the woods (which is technically their natural habitat, anyway) and began to huddle as the monsoon rained all its monsoon glory down.
It was strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hands. Or rather, strangers clinging to strangers under a grove of trees because we were all convinced branches are waterproof.
PS. They're not.
Regardless, the storm soon passed and we all crawled out from our forest-y covers. As we made it back to the muddy field, a familiar intro began playing over the speakers, quietly then at full freaking blast: Here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright.
It was the single most perfect Beatles moment of my life. Here I was, twirling in the mud with my favorite hippie, to my favorite band, surrounded by others who understand that the real essence of life, no matter what your age, is learning to splash in the mud puddles after you all almost get electrocuted.
Well, maybe not electrocuted. But certainly wet as shit.
Therefore, if you've taken the time to read this, you should probably stop what you're doing, even if only for a moment, put on your favorite Beatles song, and bask in the glory of the best band ever. I promise you won't be disappointed.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Little Sportscar, Littler Winky.
I hate people. I hate them near and far. I hate them out at bars. But at the risk of sounding like Dr. Seuss' bitter, jaded, red-headed stepchild that the family doesn't talk about, I'll suffice it to say I hate them most in cars. Really though, few things aggravate me more on the road than winky-less jackasses who drive tiny little sports cars yet can't figure out how to put them in gear on the highway. I'm from the tri-state. I huff, I puff, and I get super pissed when I've got somewhere to be and you can't figure out how to go from neutral to fifth gear in fewer than five minutes because you have a penis the size of a runt cocktail weenie and to compensate you bought a car you can't drive. However, I'm amused by the fact that yes, asshole, I drive stick better than you. And yes, I'm a girl. And yes, I'm pretty confident my non-existent man part is bigger than yours, too.
Blarg. I'm going to go sit my snarky self under my imaginary basking lamp since it's raining and I'm only going to get crankier. Is 9:18AM too early for cocktails?
Blarg. I'm going to go sit my snarky self under my imaginary basking lamp since it's raining and I'm only going to get crankier. Is 9:18AM too early for cocktails?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)