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?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Doombots and Prostitots: The Story of Islands of Adventure
Having exhausted all opportunities in Disney's own parks over the past two weeks, yesterday we adventured to Universal's Islands of Adventure (bee tee dubble ewe, if you find that you've got 90 dollars just burning a hole in your pocket that you plan on paper shredding or flushing, kick it up a notch. Adventure to this park. It's basically the same thing...only this version comes with 3 hour lines per attraction.)
...but that's not the point of today's post. More importantly, I'd like to issue an 80s style PSA regarding parents and their choices of clothing (or...rather...lack thereof) for their little girls. Letting your child walk around in a see through training bra while you carry her shirt doesn't constitute good parenting. It makes you look like a careless dolt and your daughter look like a pre-pubescent, pre-adolescent trollop. Even less sexy is allowing your 4 year old to strut about in a "bikini" top comprised of two teensie tiny triangles (high five for alliteration!) showing off the goodies she won't develop for another 8-10 years. Finally, letting your 8-9 year old daughter walk around TOPLESS in a crowded park (not Islands of Adventure per se...this was encountered on today's Blizzard Beach adventure) should garner you jail time. If not jail time, then at least a swift kick in the teeth. And if that still isn't possible...at least know that I'm currently brandishing my fist at you. You deserve it for turning your baby girl into a pedophile's wet dream.
...Whew. I'm tired. And yes, I just flew the "The More You Know" star over my head.
...but that's not the point of today's post. More importantly, I'd like to issue an 80s style PSA regarding parents and their choices of clothing (or...rather...lack thereof) for their little girls. Letting your child walk around in a see through training bra while you carry her shirt doesn't constitute good parenting. It makes you look like a careless dolt and your daughter look like a pre-pubescent, pre-adolescent trollop. Even less sexy is allowing your 4 year old to strut about in a "bikini" top comprised of two teensie tiny triangles (high five for alliteration!) showing off the goodies she won't develop for another 8-10 years. Finally, letting your 8-9 year old daughter walk around TOPLESS in a crowded park (not Islands of Adventure per se...this was encountered on today's Blizzard Beach adventure) should garner you jail time. If not jail time, then at least a swift kick in the teeth. And if that still isn't possible...at least know that I'm currently brandishing my fist at you. You deserve it for turning your baby girl into a pedophile's wet dream.
...Whew. I'm tired. And yes, I just flew the "The More You Know" star over my head.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Best. Shirt. EVER.
To preface, this post is for those of you who remember the 90s. A simpler time. A magical time. A time when we played hopscotch instead of Xbox. A time when we had real friends in real life that we had actually met...not creepy old men who knew a friend of a friend of a friend of a great aunt of a kid who may or may not have sat next to us in one class in junior high...who was just lucky enough to rekindle our :ahem: deep friendship through Facebook's "people you may know" stalker button. A time when caffeine addiction was running rampant through California high schools. A time when said addiction was documented by one ridiculously attractive fake blonde boy and his cell phone which was roughly the size of my arm.
Which brings me to the best shirt ever, the inspiration for this very post. I happened to be in Epcot a few nights ago trolling the grounds between one side of the World Showcase and the other. As I was crossing the bridge between France (BOO Frenchies!) and England (YAY Brits!), there it was...the BEST.SHIRT.EVER.
I was momentarily shocked and awed by the beauty standing before me. Simplistic in its design, the shirt featured nothing more than a bottle of caffeine pills surrounded by the words "I'm so excited. I'm so SCARED." Immediately, I was in love, and transported back to the time when 7 year olds didn't weigh 145 pounds. It was like sex...only 90s-er.
With that, I conclude this post. I hope it managed to transport you all back to a better time. A simpler time. A time when Jessie Spano went to rehab for caffeine pills.
Cheers.
Which brings me to the best shirt ever, the inspiration for this very post. I happened to be in Epcot a few nights ago trolling the grounds between one side of the World Showcase and the other. As I was crossing the bridge between France (BOO Frenchies!) and England (YAY Brits!), there it was...the BEST.SHIRT.EVER.
I was momentarily shocked and awed by the beauty standing before me. Simplistic in its design, the shirt featured nothing more than a bottle of caffeine pills surrounded by the words "I'm so excited. I'm so SCARED." Immediately, I was in love, and transported back to the time when 7 year olds didn't weigh 145 pounds. It was like sex...only 90s-er.
With that, I conclude this post. I hope it managed to transport you all back to a better time. A simpler time. A time when Jessie Spano went to rehab for caffeine pills.
Cheers.
Friday, July 23, 2010
I Am My Own Darwin Award.
If we've known each other for over five minutes, or if you've ever had a conversation with me, it's pretty likely that you've heard me utter the phrase "I'm the dumbest smart person ever" or something to that effect. In fact, you've probably heard it on a regular basis because, well, I'm the dumbest smart person ever.
What brought this on in blog form, you might ask, given that this is coming from the lady who once managed to cut herself on bread. Why now? Why this day? Well, while vacuuming my room two days ago I somehow managed to wham my outer calf into my bed post and now I'm sporting a super sexy bright blue bruise just in time for vacation. Granted, this probably doesn't seem out of the ordinary...a lot of people smack into their bedposts. However, my bed post is only 4 inches off the floor on a good day. And since I'm taller than 3'9", there's really no physiological reason I should have managed to whack my calf into my midget...er..."little person" bed. Now I just look like I'm dating an abusive Keebler Elf who is six inches tall and views calf abuse as his only way out of his dead end job, nagging mother, alcohol problem, and calf kid he's about to father.
Sigh. (Yes, I just threw a sigh in there for good measure.) I may be bruised, but at least my grammar is flawless.
What brought this on in blog form, you might ask, given that this is coming from the lady who once managed to cut herself on bread. Why now? Why this day? Well, while vacuuming my room two days ago I somehow managed to wham my outer calf into my bed post and now I'm sporting a super sexy bright blue bruise just in time for vacation. Granted, this probably doesn't seem out of the ordinary...a lot of people smack into their bedposts. However, my bed post is only 4 inches off the floor on a good day. And since I'm taller than 3'9", there's really no physiological reason I should have managed to whack my calf into my midget...er..."little person" bed. Now I just look like I'm dating an abusive Keebler Elf who is six inches tall and views calf abuse as his only way out of his dead end job, nagging mother, alcohol problem, and calf kid he's about to father.
Sigh. (Yes, I just threw a sigh in there for good measure.) I may be bruised, but at least my grammar is flawless.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
An Open Letter to Guys with Facial Hair.
Dear Guys with Facial Hair,*
*This includes all of you with beards, goatees, sideburns, moustaches, or some weird yet sexy combination of the latter two like Joe Cocker rocked circa 1969. This excludes all you with unibrows and freaky chin pubes. Those aren't facial hair. Those are just scary.
Disclaimer aside, and inspired by Steppenwolf (the band, not the book, because really, who reads when there's classic rock to be had), I wanted to thank you. With the plague of Justin Biebers and other pre-pubescent looking, hairless boys masquerading as males, it's time to thank you for stepping up to the plate, spitting in the face of femnazis (lest they steal your hair in addition to your balls), and growing your manly man hair, just as nature and Grizzly Addams intended.
I'm not sure when it got cool for men to no longer look like men. Once upon a time, facial hair was revered. Cavemen had it. General Grant had it. And then the 60s happened... and everyone had it. And it was good. And men looked like men.
Then, somewhere down the line, it was decided that men should be as clean shaven and hairless as their lady counterparts. Even the Brawny Man was unceremoniously stripped of his man fur. And that was sad, because, well... beards are sexy and moustaches are neat and sideburns are basically the coolest thing ever. Unless they're on the face of that one chick I went to high school with.
So, rather than do my annotated bibliographies for work, I decided I'd applaud you manly men. Be fruitful and multiply, and fur-ify, and spread your furry man love throughout the land.
Thanks guys,
<3 Me
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Cookie Monster, Fred Durst, and Everything in Between
Recently I became fixated with a dress I saw in JC Penney's. Now, understand that I don't typically fixate on a single article of clothing- especially in our modern world of skank-and-ho couture. However, this dress stood apart from the others. It was cute. It was black and white. It was on sale. It was not in my size. Disappointed, I decided to troll New Jersey for this magical dress. Four Penney's-es later, I finally found it.
The above really has nothing to do with the rest of this post. I just really like that dress.
Adult-onset ADD aside, as I was trolling said Penney's aisles, I came across a shirt in the juniors department that said "I did it all for the cookie" and featured the one, the only, the Cookie Monster, dressed head to toe as Fred Durst.
As I stood, staring, as one stares at a four car pileup or train derailment, I wondered to myself...was the target audience of this shirt even BORN when Fred Durst was doing it all for the... [(cookie - c) + n]? (She CAN do math!) And was Nookie REALLY that much of a cultural epiphany that we're still shirting about it 11 years later? And have I mentioned how much I LOVE my new dress?
Now I'm not saying the juniors department is reserved solely for the prostitot crowd (it's also a marvelous option for midgets like me who just never felt compelled to grow into the size of normal adults who can wear normal adult clothes)...but a Cookie Monster Fred Durst? Come the fuck on.
The above really has nothing to do with the rest of this post. I just really like that dress.
Adult-onset ADD aside, as I was trolling said Penney's aisles, I came across a shirt in the juniors department that said "I did it all for the cookie" and featured the one, the only, the Cookie Monster, dressed head to toe as Fred Durst.
As I stood, staring, as one stares at a four car pileup or train derailment, I wondered to myself...was the target audience of this shirt even BORN when Fred Durst was doing it all for the... [(cookie - c) + n]? (She CAN do math!) And was Nookie REALLY that much of a cultural epiphany that we're still shirting about it 11 years later? And have I mentioned how much I LOVE my new dress?
Now I'm not saying the juniors department is reserved solely for the prostitot crowd (it's also a marvelous option for midgets like me who just never felt compelled to grow into the size of normal adults who can wear normal adult clothes)...but a Cookie Monster Fred Durst? Come the fuck on.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Baby Got Black: The Sequel
This afternoon, I almost stole a black baby from a local burger joint. Now now, I know what you're all thinking: "Didn't she almost steal a black baby from a city bus once? What in G-d's good name is wrong with this girl?" Before I get pegged as a crazy would-be baby thieveress, let me reiterate my dislike of children. Further, I didn't ACTUALLY almost steal him. I would never thieve a child (a pan of fresh baked Ghiradelli brownies, maybe. But that is another story for another day when I finally give up on my arteries.) In fact, 99.9% of them annoy the crap out of me. It just happens that Montclair is apparently populated with hoards of the most adorable black babies the world has ever seen.
Today's baby was named Bishop (which begs the question of who ACTUALLY names their child "Bishop"...you know...like the chess piece? I guess? But I digress) and he was one year old (strangers also like to tell me the life stories of themselves and their children; it happens at least 5 times each day.) He was walking around the burger joint with his mom as his dad got their food ready (go ahead, everyone have a good laugh that the vegetarian was in a burger joint, because no one has yet realized that veggie burgers have been around for at least fifteen years. Hardy har har), and then tried to sit across from me at my table. The determination on his face was priceless...until his mom yanked him away, apologized, and took him back to their table.
It was mildly heartbreaking. But still not as much as when they discontinued all-banana Tootsie Roll pops.
Today's baby was named Bishop (which begs the question of who ACTUALLY names their child "Bishop"...you know...like the chess piece? I guess? But I digress) and he was one year old (strangers also like to tell me the life stories of themselves and their children; it happens at least 5 times each day.) He was walking around the burger joint with his mom as his dad got their food ready (go ahead, everyone have a good laugh that the vegetarian was in a burger joint, because no one has yet realized that veggie burgers have been around for at least fifteen years. Hardy har har), and then tried to sit across from me at my table. The determination on his face was priceless...until his mom yanked him away, apologized, and took him back to their table.
It was mildly heartbreaking. But still not as much as when they discontinued all-banana Tootsie Roll pops.
Monday, February 22, 2010
And Now for Something Completely Different.
Like snow. To that end, I've decided to petition Ms. Nature for a redress of grievances (a.k.a. let's send the mother of all mothers a bitchy rambling piece of brain trash composed as the clock approached midnight):
I have to hand it to you, Mother Nature. You've really gotten all sorts of creative this winter. We've had blizzards, on top of sleet, on top of dustings, on top of more blizzards. I have to tell you, I'm not thrilled. You see, dear Mother Nature, I'm really not a fan of this mayhem you've chosen to unleash on our fair state. I understand that it's New Jersey and if I hate snow, I should move south. But, Mother Nature, what you don't seem to realize is that I'm scared of the following things: palmetto bugs; fatback; and kissing cousins. I just don't think I'd last too long in those states we should have just let secede.
Furthermore, I understand that snow is good because it blah blah blah something about global warming. In the interest of being fully candid, though, I must tell you that your behavior this season is really just making me want to drink from disposable plastic water bottles while driving the new SUV I'm going to purchase just to spite you.
Bitter? I wouldn't call it bitter. I'd call it time for sunshine before I crawl into a hole and don't emerge until June, when it will be time for Mountain Jam, and my soul will no longer be weeping.
Mother Nature, please just stop. Save the snow for those polar bears who really need it, and give me back my 70 degree Februaries.
Slowly losing it,
Me.
I have to hand it to you, Mother Nature. You've really gotten all sorts of creative this winter. We've had blizzards, on top of sleet, on top of dustings, on top of more blizzards. I have to tell you, I'm not thrilled. You see, dear Mother Nature, I'm really not a fan of this mayhem you've chosen to unleash on our fair state. I understand that it's New Jersey and if I hate snow, I should move south. But, Mother Nature, what you don't seem to realize is that I'm scared of the following things: palmetto bugs; fatback; and kissing cousins. I just don't think I'd last too long in those states we should have just let secede.
Furthermore, I understand that snow is good because it blah blah blah something about global warming. In the interest of being fully candid, though, I must tell you that your behavior this season is really just making me want to drink from disposable plastic water bottles while driving the new SUV I'm going to purchase just to spite you.
Bitter? I wouldn't call it bitter. I'd call it time for sunshine before I crawl into a hole and don't emerge until June, when it will be time for Mountain Jam, and my soul will no longer be weeping.
Mother Nature, please just stop. Save the snow for those polar bears who really need it, and give me back my 70 degree Februaries.
Slowly losing it,
Me.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Ode to My Fat Jeans
Fat jeans
My fat jeans
I love you so
You let my ass grow
And grow
...and grow
I don't care that you're faded
And ripped
And tattered
You let me eat veggies
Not steamed
But beer-battered
While my skinny jeans would mock me
And make me feel awful
You'd encourage that extra waffle
Fat jeans
My fat jeans
I love you so
You let my ass grow.
You let my ass grow.
My fat jeans
I love you so
You let my ass grow
And grow
...and grow
I don't care that you're faded
And ripped
And tattered
You let me eat veggies
Not steamed
But beer-battered
While my skinny jeans would mock me
And make me feel awful
You'd encourage that extra waffle
Fat jeans
My fat jeans
I love you so
You let my ass grow.
You let my ass grow.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Biblical Grace of the Bathroom Wall
Written in a stall of the bathroom located on the History Department's floor is the following conversation (contained hereunder within brackets for easy identification):
[Root Statement: "Love thy neighbor."
Reply to Root Statement: "God is Everywhere."
Reply to Reply: "Amen"
Reply to Amen: "Especially when you masturbate."]
...
....
.....
...And let us say, "Amen."
[Root Statement: "Love thy neighbor."
Reply to Root Statement: "God is Everywhere."
Reply to Reply: "Amen"
Reply to Amen: "Especially when you masturbate."]
...
....
.....
...And let us say, "Amen."
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Baby, You Can Drive My Bus
I love The Beatles (in case you didn't catch the oh-so-subtle tribute to them in tonight's title, I'll just state it outright.) I do not love creepy store clerks who hit on me while selling me my monthly bus pass. As you may already know, public transit has become a really important part of my life. Part of it is because it gets me from my apartment to my campus and back again. Part of it is just so I can lovingly remember the days of being crammed between a fat drunk kid about to vomit and a couple who may or may not be having sex on my way to stats class. (By the way Rutgers, stay classy.)
So last week, as I bid January a fond farewell, I made my way to the nearest vendor of monthly bus passes, located in the train station-turned-mini-mall near my apartment. I was really proud of myself for being on top of things and purchasing my ticket before the months even changed. I was also really cold and badly in need of chocolate. (Which, as usual, bears no pertinence to the story at hand. But it seemed like I should mention it for all the fellow cold-hating chocolate lovers out there.) I go up to the window and clearly request a one-zone monthly pass. The man behind the window smiles creepily and says something to the effect of, "You don't want me to give it to you, two zones?"
...Well, golly. If I weren't already taken, that offer would have swept me off my feet for sure. Nothing gets me going quite like a dash of badly-orchestrated sexual innuendo surrounding a bus ticket purchase.
I already knew it was going to be a special day. I looked at him and said, "No. I just need a bus pass for one zone. That's 49 [dollars], right?"
"Ohhh you want it, 49 zones?!" Now, I'm no master of anatomy. In fact when it comes to science, I'm that kid that is perpetually riding the little bus. But I'm pretty sure that's not even humanly possible.
Anyway, he must have eventually realized I wasn't feeling it. I paid, took my bus pass, and left, to start yet another strange day in the city I'm currently calling home. Cheers, Mr.Creepy. Cheers.
So last week, as I bid January a fond farewell, I made my way to the nearest vendor of monthly bus passes, located in the train station-turned-mini-mall near my apartment. I was really proud of myself for being on top of things and purchasing my ticket before the months even changed. I was also really cold and badly in need of chocolate. (Which, as usual, bears no pertinence to the story at hand. But it seemed like I should mention it for all the fellow cold-hating chocolate lovers out there.) I go up to the window and clearly request a one-zone monthly pass. The man behind the window smiles creepily and says something to the effect of, "You don't want me to give it to you, two zones?"
...Well, golly. If I weren't already taken, that offer would have swept me off my feet for sure. Nothing gets me going quite like a dash of badly-orchestrated sexual innuendo surrounding a bus ticket purchase.
I already knew it was going to be a special day. I looked at him and said, "No. I just need a bus pass for one zone. That's 49 [dollars], right?"
"Ohhh you want it, 49 zones?!" Now, I'm no master of anatomy. In fact when it comes to science, I'm that kid that is perpetually riding the little bus. But I'm pretty sure that's not even humanly possible.
Anyway, he must have eventually realized I wasn't feeling it. I paid, took my bus pass, and left, to start yet another strange day in the city I'm currently calling home. Cheers, Mr.Creepy. Cheers.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Is This the Laptop Line?
I have little patience for stupidity. Actually, that's an understatement. I think stupidity should be punishable by public flogging. I constantly find myself wondering how 98% of the population has made it this far. Similarly, and ironically, I find that the highest concentrations of absolute dolts seem to reside on college campuses.
(Here is some pertinent background information in which I'm positive no one is interested: For my current job, I spend hours upon hours in the library's dungeon reading and transcribing reels of microfilm tax logs that are pushing the ripe old age of 150. To facilitate this, I require but a few, wee simple contraptions:
1) REALLY ancient microfilm scanner that is about as stable as a PMSing woman who has just had both her chocolate and Midol stolen; and
2) A laptop.
Once I've procured my film from our dear MSU history department (LOVE THEM!), I trot across the way to resume my post as subterranean library troll. Usually, this is the highlight of my day. I actually look forward to work because the only people I have to listen to are the members of The Dead as they resonate through my headphones. However, today was not going to be one of those days.)
I arrived at the library only to find that the laptop checkout line was stretching halfway through the lobby. Stupendous. I get on line, and proceed to wait patiently while trendy-tortured-huffy-artist-girl-with-giant portfolio holder brushes past everyone to demand that she go first because she wanted a Mac, not a PC (She would!). I continue to wait, stare at the backs of my counterparts, and calculate the number of minutes in line that I will never get back in life. I listen halfheartedly as tall-chunky-creeper with a beard proceeds to hit on each member of the laptop staff. And then I feel someone tap me on the shoulder: "Is This the Laptop Line?"
It's not that there were a bunch of students waiting under a sign clearly marked "LAPTOP." It's not even the fact that each student in the line that was previously without a laptop walked away proudly carrying the same. In fact, I'm not sure what it is. Regardless, in my mind, there she went. To the stocks. Without a laptop.
(Here is some pertinent background information in which I'm positive no one is interested: For my current job, I spend hours upon hours in the library's dungeon reading and transcribing reels of microfilm tax logs that are pushing the ripe old age of 150. To facilitate this, I require but a few, wee simple contraptions:
1) REALLY ancient microfilm scanner that is about as stable as a PMSing woman who has just had both her chocolate and Midol stolen; and
2) A laptop.
Once I've procured my film from our dear MSU history department (LOVE THEM!), I trot across the way to resume my post as subterranean library troll. Usually, this is the highlight of my day. I actually look forward to work because the only people I have to listen to are the members of The Dead as they resonate through my headphones. However, today was not going to be one of those days.)
I arrived at the library only to find that the laptop checkout line was stretching halfway through the lobby. Stupendous. I get on line, and proceed to wait patiently while trendy-tortured-huffy-artist-girl-with-giant portfolio holder brushes past everyone to demand that she go first because she wanted a Mac, not a PC (She would!). I continue to wait, stare at the backs of my counterparts, and calculate the number of minutes in line that I will never get back in life. I listen halfheartedly as tall-chunky-creeper with a beard proceeds to hit on each member of the laptop staff. And then I feel someone tap me on the shoulder: "Is This the Laptop Line?"
It's not that there were a bunch of students waiting under a sign clearly marked "LAPTOP." It's not even the fact that each student in the line that was previously without a laptop walked away proudly carrying the same. In fact, I'm not sure what it is. Regardless, in my mind, there she went. To the stocks. Without a laptop.
Friday, January 29, 2010
St. James Pre-school "Can Do Kids"
Choosing a pre-school is a really important step for parents. There are hoards of things to consider- should little Timmy be placed in a more academic or social environment? Will you accept little Janey even though she's pushing 5 and not yet potty trained? Is it a problem that my dear, sweet angel has an affinity for biting, screaming, kicking, and devil-worship? The list goes on. However, as I rode the bus to campus yesterday morning, I passed perhaps the most interesting pre-school sign I've ever seen: "St. James Pre-school 'Can Do Kids.'"
...Wow. If that isn't a trait for which I'd look in a pre-school, I just don't know what is.
I'd like to believe they were going for the opposite of "Can't do kids." Such as those that surrounded me from grades K through, well... I'm in grad school and still haven't found out how to avoid them. Regardless, you'd think with all the controversy surrounding members of the clergy and their fondness for little boys, you'd find a better slogan for your religious school than "Can Do Kids."
...Wow. If that isn't a trait for which I'd look in a pre-school, I just don't know what is.
I'd like to believe they were going for the opposite of "Can't do kids." Such as those that surrounded me from grades K through, well... I'm in grad school and still haven't found out how to avoid them. Regardless, you'd think with all the controversy surrounding members of the clergy and their fondness for little boys, you'd find a better slogan for your religious school than "Can Do Kids."
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