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...
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
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.
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