Unless you have been living under a rock or perhaps in Iraq you know that "New Moon," the second book in the "Twilight Saga" to become a movie, is all the world seems to be talking about. Even those who refuse to see the movies or read the book know what Team Edward and Team Jacob are (besides stupid). I am not a fan of "Twilight." Not only am I not a fan, I abhor it. When I first read the books, I was excited about them. Then I let them sink in a little bit, then I saw the first movie. I couldn't believe how I missed the undertones of domestic violence--I must have been preoccupied with that whole abstinence thing.
As a card-carrying womanist with a BA in women's and gender studies (and awesomeness), I've gone on many a rant to whomever will listen about my feelings toward the unhealthy relationships displayed in Stephenie Meyer's novels. In a recent email to my young teenage cousin, I said that the "Twilight" craze made me crazy, she asked if I had even read the books. "They're so romantic!" she explained. I was compelled to write back, explaining to her why Bella and Edward's relationship is anything but romantic, except for romanticizing domestic abuse. Here's what I wrote to her:
Friday, December 4, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Am I crazy...
...or is Robert Pattinson the inspiration for James Cameron's sparkly blue tiger people?
I'm just saying.
I'm just saying.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Facebook, where everyone sees everything.
It's been way too long since I've blogged. My apologies to my one reader who follows me on Twitter anyway.
I have a new job, far away from chlorine and angry parents. So far it's been great. A daily commute to NYC is hardly ideal, but I'd be foolish and childish to complain. One of my responsibilities at the new job is to monitor the Facebook account of my show. So Facebook and I are pretty tight. When I come home at night, the last thing I should want to do is get on the computer and spend even MORE time on Facebook and Twitter, but of course I do it anyway.
Tonight as I was clicking through the tubes and stalking on ye olde FB, I came across a picture that both horrified and delighted me. My friend was "highlighted" by getting tagged in an album posted by a work friend of hers. Because the work friend didn't mark her pictures as private, I was able to click through the entire album.
Now, why would I want to do that? you ask. I wish I knew. I only knew one person in the entire album. She was in a grand total of 10 (out of 80+) pictures. Yet I kept clicking through. Then I found this beauty:
I have a new job, far away from chlorine and angry parents. So far it's been great. A daily commute to NYC is hardly ideal, but I'd be foolish and childish to complain. One of my responsibilities at the new job is to monitor the Facebook account of my show. So Facebook and I are pretty tight. When I come home at night, the last thing I should want to do is get on the computer and spend even MORE time on Facebook and Twitter, but of course I do it anyway.
Tonight as I was clicking through the tubes and stalking on ye olde FB, I came across a picture that both horrified and delighted me. My friend was "highlighted" by getting tagged in an album posted by a work friend of hers. Because the work friend didn't mark her pictures as private, I was able to click through the entire album.
Now, why would I want to do that? you ask. I wish I knew. I only knew one person in the entire album. She was in a grand total of 10 (out of 80+) pictures. Yet I kept clicking through. Then I found this beauty:
Saturday, May 16, 2009
My twousandth.
I am celebrating my 1,000 tweet on Twitter by a blog post to express the emotions I could not constrain to 140 characters. And yes, in response to Tiffany Leigh, if it weren't obvious by now I do attach more significance to a nice round number.
SO my twousandth (word play!) is dedicated to why I loathe, detest and despise Megan Fox.
Megan Fox is hot. Annoyingly so. But she knows that. When women are that attractive, it does something to their brain. They have a hugely false sense of entitlement, which we occasionally fall victim to without realizing what we're doing. But like I said, she's hot. So, it's not entirely her fault and in some instances, her behavior is forgiven. When someone who falls between a 4 and a 7 (I'm being nice with the 7) acts like that, it's entirely unacceptable.
Megan Fox also talks about things as though she's the expert, when really she probably wouldn't know her ass from her elbow. For example, earlier this week when she was talking about getting a sleeve tattooed from her elbow to her shoulder, Fox mentioned Ewan McGregor's sleeves. Well there's a little bit of justice on that one.
Fox is also a bitch. She's the kind of girl who lies about everything unnecessarily, just to make herself seem cooler. Poor thing doesn't realize that if she'd probably be pretty cool if she hadn't been doing that her whole life. Megan Fox is the kind of girl that always complains about not having any good friends while acting like a victim the whole time. She doesn't have friends because she's a bitch and treats people like shit.
Megan Fox always sleeps with the people you like. Even if you said a long time ago, "hey I'm kind of into Brian Austin Green, so if you would please not sleep with him, I'd super appreciate it," she'll go out of her way to do it to Brian Austin Green.
Also, Megan Fox has bad tattoos. She thinks they make her cool. They do not make her cool. Finally, she'll complain about how she can never get a date, yet every other night she's on her back with her knees by her ears.
Hey, Megan Fox! YOUR TATTOOS ARE UGLY AND YOU ALWAYS LOOK LIKE SOMETHING SMELLS LIKE DIRTY LITTER BOX.
SO my twousandth (word play!) is dedicated to why I loathe, detest and despise Megan Fox.
Megan Fox is hot. Annoyingly so. But she knows that. When women are that attractive, it does something to their brain. They have a hugely false sense of entitlement, which we occasionally fall victim to without realizing what we're doing. But like I said, she's hot. So, it's not entirely her fault and in some instances, her behavior is forgiven. When someone who falls between a 4 and a 7 (I'm being nice with the 7) acts like that, it's entirely unacceptable.
Megan Fox also talks about things as though she's the expert, when really she probably wouldn't know her ass from her elbow. For example, earlier this week when she was talking about getting a sleeve tattooed from her elbow to her shoulder, Fox mentioned Ewan McGregor's sleeves. Well there's a little bit of justice on that one.
Fox is also a bitch. She's the kind of girl who lies about everything unnecessarily, just to make herself seem cooler. Poor thing doesn't realize that if she'd probably be pretty cool if she hadn't been doing that her whole life. Megan Fox is the kind of girl that always complains about not having any good friends while acting like a victim the whole time. She doesn't have friends because she's a bitch and treats people like shit.
Megan Fox always sleeps with the people you like. Even if you said a long time ago, "hey I'm kind of into Brian Austin Green, so if you would please not sleep with him, I'd super appreciate it," she'll go out of her way to do it to Brian Austin Green.
Also, Megan Fox has bad tattoos. She thinks they make her cool. They do not make her cool. Finally, she'll complain about how she can never get a date, yet every other night she's on her back with her knees by her ears.
Hey, Megan Fox! YOUR TATTOOS ARE UGLY AND YOU ALWAYS LOOK LIKE SOMETHING SMELLS LIKE DIRTY LITTER BOX.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Twitter-less
A week or so ago, I decided that I was over-tweeting, the cyber version of over-sharing. As much as I love Twitter (follow me bitches), I am fully aware of its ridiculousness. It's absurd to tweet every single thought one has, but I was doing it. So, as a test I thought I would start writing down everything I was tempted to post to Twitter.
Most of the thoughts that came out were just as inane and worthless as my other tweets, so I am glad I didn't post them. Even though I agree with Tom's column about keeping tweets uncensored, I do edit myself--as we all should. We don't go around blurting out everything we think. Although today, I did scream at a car as it sped down College Avenue. "THAT WAS A CROSSWALK ASSHOLE!"
Regardless, I try to avoid tweeting a.) my emo self-loathing thoughts, b.) my frivolous annoyances with my roommates and c.) anything to do with whomever I have a crush on. Here's why:
a.) No one likes a Debbie Downer, especially me. I'm not going to broadcast to my 80 or so followers that I'm having a "fat day." Because even though it's Twitter--who effing cares that I feel ugly on any given day, that's fishing for @-replies of people saying "no, you're beautiful." Which I wouldn't receive anyway, thus making me feel even worse.
b.) Both of my roommates are on Twitter, even though one of them forgot she had an account. To post stupid frustrations about the hand towels not being folded the way I like, or the Brita pitcher being too close to empty for my preference comes across as passive-aggressive. I am fully aware that when things like the direction of the toilet paper roll frustrate me, it has less to do with the toilet paper than my general mood. So, I leave those out of my tweets.
c.) I also don't like tweeting about love interests, because it's also another passive-aggressive type thing to do. Also, it ain't your business.
Even though I shy away from those subject matters in the first place, the other tweets that make it into my updates could still use a second glance before I tweet away. That is where my experiment comes in. I'll be honest, I wasn't entirely tweet-free for the whole week, but nearly time I reached for my phone to text a tweet, I jotted it down instead.
Here I provide you with the transcribed highlights of my non-tweeting adventures over the past few days.
Most of the thoughts that came out were just as inane and worthless as my other tweets, so I am glad I didn't post them. Even though I agree with Tom's column about keeping tweets uncensored, I do edit myself--as we all should. We don't go around blurting out everything we think. Although today, I did scream at a car as it sped down College Avenue. "THAT WAS A CROSSWALK ASSHOLE!"
Regardless, I try to avoid tweeting a.) my emo self-loathing thoughts, b.) my frivolous annoyances with my roommates and c.) anything to do with whomever I have a crush on. Here's why:
a.) No one likes a Debbie Downer, especially me. I'm not going to broadcast to my 80 or so followers that I'm having a "fat day." Because even though it's Twitter--who effing cares that I feel ugly on any given day, that's fishing for @-replies of people saying "no, you're beautiful." Which I wouldn't receive anyway, thus making me feel even worse.
b.) Both of my roommates are on Twitter, even though one of them forgot she had an account. To post stupid frustrations about the hand towels not being folded the way I like, or the Brita pitcher being too close to empty for my preference comes across as passive-aggressive. I am fully aware that when things like the direction of the toilet paper roll frustrate me, it has less to do with the toilet paper than my general mood. So, I leave those out of my tweets.
c.) I also don't like tweeting about love interests, because it's also another passive-aggressive type thing to do. Also, it ain't your business.
Even though I shy away from those subject matters in the first place, the other tweets that make it into my updates could still use a second glance before I tweet away. That is where my experiment comes in. I'll be honest, I wasn't entirely tweet-free for the whole week, but nearly time I reached for my phone to text a tweet, I jotted it down instead.
Here I provide you with the transcribed highlights of my non-tweeting adventures over the past few days.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
In-Depth Analysis: Kia Soul Commercial
The other hamsters are running on their wheels, going nowhere. But the three other hamsters who have the Kia Soul can go anywhere. Judging by the way they're jamming to "Fort Knox" by Goldfish, they have soul on the inside, too.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
On Cheese and Za
In the past week and a half, I've been called out twice for calling pizza without toppings "cheese." According to Tom and a 6-year-old it's called "plain" pizza. I followed Tom's logic to a degree: "all pizza is cheese." The 6-year-old just said, "no it's called plain, why are you calling it cheese?"
His authority on life quickly lost credibility however. I was babysitting him and his younger brother when he asked me took me over to a children's website designed to help kids under 10 learn to read. When describing myself, after designating my gender (the socially constructed one), skin color, mouth shape (laughing) and hair color ("I would say orange. No, no, yellow," said the little boy calling me a ginger) I had the chance to pick out the shape of my eyes and add face accessories. He then asked me to wear a mask. The only two options are glasses or a mask. I didn't think twice about it until an hour later.
After playing with Lincoln Logs, coloring and eating pizza, the older brother said to me that I should wear heels. I said sorry and pointed my Chucks under the kitchen table, "I only have those, buddy." He then suggested I wear his mother's.
I refused, saying that his mother's shoes would be too small for me. Although I do have freakishly small feet and probably could have fit into her pumps even if she is about 5 inches shorter than me. No, my first thought was "ew, OMG, what if someone tried on MY shoes when I wasn't around?" Because that is CREEPY.
The little bugger kept pushing it, and came to me with a pair of open-toed heels. He then asked me to take off my socks and put the shoes on. That's when I felt the most uncomfortable. I asked him why he'd want me to do that. He looked at his suddenly-pigeoned toes and he pouted, "I like it."
Who can reference me some Freud, because I know he had something to say about that.
So, this kid clearly has some stuff to deal with, and thus he cannot pass any judgement regarding my dialectical anomalies. However, it remains for me to reiterate that it had been little over a week that I was initially criticized for my adjective usage. Am I really that off in what to call pizza without any toppings?
I have lived in North Jersey, Alabama, North Carolina and SEPA (Southeastern Pennsylvania--I've been trying to make it work since I was 17). I was born in Southern California. Also, my mother is Canadian and my father grew up in Philadelphia, so my accent is both neutral and strange. I realize that half of the things that come out of my mouth are ridiculous, and have thus compiled a list of phrases and mispronounced words that frequent my dialogue. I have left out the hoagie/sub and jimmy/sprinkle debate for brevity's sake (because it's hoagie and jimmy, duh).
The moral of the story is that I should either order pepperoni from now on, or eat less pizza.
I leave you with this:
His authority on life quickly lost credibility however. I was babysitting him and his younger brother when he asked me took me over to a children's website designed to help kids under 10 learn to read. When describing myself, after designating my gender (the socially constructed one), skin color, mouth shape (laughing) and hair color ("I would say orange. No, no, yellow," said the little boy calling me a ginger) I had the chance to pick out the shape of my eyes and add face accessories. He then asked me to wear a mask. The only two options are glasses or a mask. I didn't think twice about it until an hour later.
After playing with Lincoln Logs, coloring and eating pizza, the older brother said to me that I should wear heels. I said sorry and pointed my Chucks under the kitchen table, "I only have those, buddy." He then suggested I wear his mother's.
I refused, saying that his mother's shoes would be too small for me. Although I do have freakishly small feet and probably could have fit into her pumps even if she is about 5 inches shorter than me. No, my first thought was "ew, OMG, what if someone tried on MY shoes when I wasn't around?" Because that is CREEPY.
The little bugger kept pushing it, and came to me with a pair of open-toed heels. He then asked me to take off my socks and put the shoes on. That's when I felt the most uncomfortable. I asked him why he'd want me to do that. He looked at his suddenly-pigeoned toes and he pouted, "I like it."
Who can reference me some Freud, because I know he had something to say about that.
So, this kid clearly has some stuff to deal with, and thus he cannot pass any judgement regarding my dialectical anomalies. However, it remains for me to reiterate that it had been little over a week that I was initially criticized for my adjective usage. Am I really that off in what to call pizza without any toppings?
I have lived in North Jersey, Alabama, North Carolina and SEPA (Southeastern Pennsylvania--I've been trying to make it work since I was 17). I was born in Southern California. Also, my mother is Canadian and my father grew up in Philadelphia, so my accent is both neutral and strange. I realize that half of the things that come out of my mouth are ridiculous, and have thus compiled a list of phrases and mispronounced words that frequent my dialogue. I have left out the hoagie/sub and jimmy/sprinkle debate for brevity's sake (because it's hoagie and jimmy, duh).
- Tin foil = aluminum foil
- Melk = milk
- Oatside = outside
- Wooder = water, but mostly referring to water ice
- Hohme = home
- y'all = you all
- crick = creek
The moral of the story is that I should either order pepperoni from now on, or eat less pizza.
I leave you with this:
Friday, March 27, 2009
Vin Diesel is Probably the Coolest Man Ever
Earlier this evening, I convinced a fellow classmate to skip the remainder of our class to take advantage of the free tickets I received for an early showing of Fast and Furious. We got there with negative minutes to spare, and thus had to sit in the second row. Needless to say, I am now paralyzed from the neck down because of the position I had to hold for 93 minutes while watching cars explode and race through drug tunnels.
The movie was as good as was expecting it to be (read: not good). But I was left thinking about how fucking awesome Vin Diesel is, and is quite possibly the coolest man ever. Bear with me:
I told you. COOLEST MAN EVER.
The movie was as good as was expecting it to be (read: not good). But I was left thinking about how fucking awesome Vin Diesel is, and is quite possibly the coolest man ever. Bear with me:
- He was originally cast opposite Ben Affleck in Reindeer Games but left shortly after production started because he was worried about the quality of the screenplay. GENIUS.
- Vin started his own video game company
- He played D&D when he was young (normally, that would be a downgrade, but because he's so freaking badass it's a huge upgrade)
- His bicep is bigger than my entire body
- His name in Vin Diesel. He was born Mark Vincent, but he's just way too cool for such a regular name
- He was in The Pacifier, which I will freely admit to watching repeatedly
- Steven Spielberg started his career. Seriously, Spielberg saw him and said "yeah, I like this guy." Then he cast Diesel in Saving Private Ryan.
- Vin Diesel was the voice of The Iron Giant. Bet you didn't know that. Now you do.
I told you. COOLEST MAN EVER.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wish Granted
When I returned home from the computer lab this evening, a 2'x2'1' package was waiting for me. My mother informed me that a belated birthday gift would soon be arriving, but I thought it would be High School Musical 3 (I'm amazed no one got it for me, it's so obvious). Anyway, I didn't think my mom was going to buy me a couch. Within the box was a giant bag, so big in fact that I could fit inside of it--yes, I actually tried. Within the bag was another box. Inside of that was a case for my sewing machine. Very awesome. However, all the packaging was entirely unnecessary, seeing as the case is indestructible.
Wednesday I got the lucky opportunity to see a taping of "The Daily Show." It was awesome, as was my vegetable mousaka from the little Greek place in Hell's Kitchen. Just as I thought my night couldn't get any better, I saw Keith Olberman in the subway. I was already smiling because I was in an awesome mood, and we made eye contact and he smiled back! Wahoo! 2 Silver Foxes down, 98 to go. My evening was so wonderful that I didn't even care that I spilled my leftover mousaka all over Penn Station trying to catch my train.
Damn, Keith Olberman, Jon Stewart and Tom Selleck all in one day. I am a lucky girl indeed.
Watch Wednesday's episode of "The Daily Show" here. A truly hilarious episode.
Wednesday I got the lucky opportunity to see a taping of "The Daily Show." It was awesome, as was my vegetable mousaka from the little Greek place in Hell's Kitchen. Just as I thought my night couldn't get any better, I saw Keith Olberman in the subway. I was already smiling because I was in an awesome mood, and we made eye contact and he smiled back! Wahoo! 2 Silver Foxes down, 98 to go. My evening was so wonderful that I didn't even care that I spilled my leftover mousaka all over Penn Station trying to catch my train.
Damn, Keith Olberman, Jon Stewart and Tom Selleck all in one day. I am a lucky girl indeed.
Watch Wednesday's episode of "The Daily Show" here. A truly hilarious episode.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
O February, you may be little but you are small!
Last night, I finally finished what is now one of my favorite books of all time: Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins. He perfectly sums up how I've been feeling lately in the following:
Except for the fact that my birthday is in February, I realize that it's a crappy month. As Robbins also points out, there are plenty of "holidays" in February, but they're all pointless. Winter is enjoyable, because the bugs are dead and I prefer being too cold over too hot. However, this winter is dragging on too long. Global warming my ass.
I can't complain about anything, really. Life has been treating me well, even though I can't shake off this cold (which is probably now pneumonia according to WebMD). In exciting news, I saw John Slattery on the subway this week. Intern Friend's misguided attempt to distract us from our excitement was an over-loud discussion about the comic strip "Funky Winkerbean." It didn't work, so needless to say, I didn't breathe from Hudson St. to 14th St. I'll go ahead and say that he is the most handsome man I've ever seen in real life.
Swoon. Also, who knew that a comic strip with such a funny name could be so tragic?
They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong...However more abbreviated that its cousins it may look, February feels longer that any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old...Except the extent that it "tints the buds and swells the leaves within," February is as useless as the extra r in its name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress and contentment at bay.
Except for the fact that my birthday is in February, I realize that it's a crappy month. As Robbins also points out, there are plenty of "holidays" in February, but they're all pointless. Winter is enjoyable, because the bugs are dead and I prefer being too cold over too hot. However, this winter is dragging on too long. Global warming my ass.
I can't complain about anything, really. Life has been treating me well, even though I can't shake off this cold (which is probably now pneumonia according to WebMD). In exciting news, I saw John Slattery on the subway this week. Intern Friend's misguided attempt to distract us from our excitement was an over-loud discussion about the comic strip "Funky Winkerbean." It didn't work, so needless to say, I didn't breathe from Hudson St. to 14th St. I'll go ahead and say that he is the most handsome man I've ever seen in real life.
Swoon. Also, who knew that a comic strip with such a funny name could be so tragic?
Monday, February 16, 2009
Woman you nice, sweet, fantastic
It's been said, and I'll tend to agree: 23 is the new 21.
My birthday was so freaking awesome this year. Twelve of my friends and I played laser tag and had so much fun. First we had to find it, which was difficult. It was in a warehouse in the middle of the woods. Once everyone got there it was kind of like, "hey I actually brought you here to murder you happy birthday to meeee! jk jk roflmao."
So anywhooo we didn't get raped or murdered, thank goodness. We had a total blast, pun definitely intended. The party continued to a little Mexican restaurant, where they had a DJ blasting Mexican music (salsa? lambada?) and flashing, multi-colored disco lights. I was prepared to have the worst experience of my life. However, the DJ came over the intercom and in Spanish, dedicated a song to his amigos quien no hablan español. Imagine my surprise when he played this.
I couldn't breathe for approximately 3 minutes and 50 seconds, or however long the song was. Is that what white, non-Spanish speaking people listen to? Also, I do speak Spanish, that's how I understood that the song was dedicated to us.
About 15 minutes after sitting down, K disappeared and we heard the DJ come onto the loud speaker again and wish me a happy birthday. He then proceeded to play 2 Mexican birthday songs, while wishing me happiness and joy for the year. I'll be honest, I cried a little bit because he was being so nice. For the rest of the night he'd periodically say "Happy Birthday, Air-een." Totes adorable.
One of the waitresses then brought me birthday flan (SWEET). Perhaps they ran out of birthday candles, or don't carry them, because instead of a candle for me to blow out in the birthday flan, I had 6 toothpicks set on fire. It was glorious.
I had so much fun on my birthday, and I'm so grateful to my friends who were there to help me celebrate in style.
Finally, this is for my friends out there who don't speak Spanish. Enjoy:
My birthday was so freaking awesome this year. Twelve of my friends and I played laser tag and had so much fun. First we had to find it, which was difficult. It was in a warehouse in the middle of the woods. Once everyone got there it was kind of like, "hey I actually brought you here to murder you happy birthday to meeee! jk jk roflmao."
So anywhooo we didn't get raped or murdered, thank goodness. We had a total blast, pun definitely intended. The party continued to a little Mexican restaurant, where they had a DJ blasting Mexican music (salsa? lambada?) and flashing, multi-colored disco lights. I was prepared to have the worst experience of my life. However, the DJ came over the intercom and in Spanish, dedicated a song to his amigos quien no hablan español. Imagine my surprise when he played this.
I couldn't breathe for approximately 3 minutes and 50 seconds, or however long the song was. Is that what white, non-Spanish speaking people listen to? Also, I do speak Spanish, that's how I understood that the song was dedicated to us.
About 15 minutes after sitting down, K disappeared and we heard the DJ come onto the loud speaker again and wish me a happy birthday. He then proceeded to play 2 Mexican birthday songs, while wishing me happiness and joy for the year. I'll be honest, I cried a little bit because he was being so nice. For the rest of the night he'd periodically say "Happy Birthday, Air-een." Totes adorable.
One of the waitresses then brought me birthday flan (SWEET). Perhaps they ran out of birthday candles, or don't carry them, because instead of a candle for me to blow out in the birthday flan, I had 6 toothpicks set on fire. It was glorious.
I had so much fun on my birthday, and I'm so grateful to my friends who were there to help me celebrate in style.
Finally, this is for my friends out there who don't speak Spanish. Enjoy:
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Happy Birthtine's Day to Me!
The Worst Things to Do on Valentine’s Day When You’re Single
I love Valentine’s Day. Not only is it my birthday, it’s a chance for me to show my love and appreciation for those around me. V-Day is also a chance for my pathetic attempts to get people to like me by bringing baked goods wherever I go (on today’s menu: red velvet cupcakes with buttercream frosting and red sprinkles). Regardless of the fact that I will always get flowers and cards from my parents, I have been Valentine-less for the majority of my twenty-something Valentine’s Days so I know what the WORST things you can do as a singleton are on Cupid’s day of hearts, love, and all things pink.
1. Drinks with girlfriends. Sure, it sounds like a great idea: “Girl’s night out! Let’s dance!” This might be a good idea if it’s a small group, no more than 3 women. Be careful, because the more estrogen you introduce, the greater the likelihood that someone will a) cry all night in the bar’s dirty bathroom, b) puke chocotinis all night in the bar’s dirty bathroom, or c) contract puss bubbles from Tony (the winner who kept doing jagerbombs while simultaneously groping you, your roommate, and your grandmother) in the bar’s dirty bathroom. It’s quite possible that that someone will be you.
2. Sleep with any of your friends. Unless you actually hate them and you want your friendship to be over anyway. In that case, hump on! Otherwise, realize that it's probably just a pity fuck, as you have mascara all over your face and chocotini vomit running down your chin.
3. Steal a baby. You’ll be a mother when the time is right, or when the condom breaks. But in your desperation for a tiny being that will love you unconditionally, thus fulfilling whatever void your childhood left, avoid taking someone else’s child. Kidnapping is wrong, folks.
4. Watch any of the following movies:
I love Valentine’s Day. Not only is it my birthday, it’s a chance for me to show my love and appreciation for those around me. V-Day is also a chance for my pathetic attempts to get people to like me by bringing baked goods wherever I go (on today’s menu: red velvet cupcakes with buttercream frosting and red sprinkles). Regardless of the fact that I will always get flowers and cards from my parents, I have been Valentine-less for the majority of my twenty-something Valentine’s Days so I know what the WORST things you can do as a singleton are on Cupid’s day of hearts, love, and all things pink.
1. Drinks with girlfriends. Sure, it sounds like a great idea: “Girl’s night out! Let’s dance!” This might be a good idea if it’s a small group, no more than 3 women. Be careful, because the more estrogen you introduce, the greater the likelihood that someone will a) cry all night in the bar’s dirty bathroom, b) puke chocotinis all night in the bar’s dirty bathroom, or c) contract puss bubbles from Tony (the winner who kept doing jagerbombs while simultaneously groping you, your roommate, and your grandmother) in the bar’s dirty bathroom. It’s quite possible that that someone will be you.
2. Sleep with any of your friends. Unless you actually hate them and you want your friendship to be over anyway. In that case, hump on! Otherwise, realize that it's probably just a pity fuck, as you have mascara all over your face and chocotini vomit running down your chin.
3. Steal a baby. You’ll be a mother when the time is right, or when the condom breaks. But in your desperation for a tiny being that will love you unconditionally, thus fulfilling whatever void your childhood left, avoid taking someone else’s child. Kidnapping is wrong, folks.
4. Watch any of the following movies:
- "The Notebook." Why would you even think that this is a good movie to watch when you’re alone and already mopey? Because they die at the end? No. Do not watch this if you are even remotely upset that you don’t have a date tonight; all it will do is remind you that you’ll never meet anyone as hot as Ryan Gosling.
- "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." You’ll just sit in a stew of ex-lovers, simmering in despair of failed relationships, wondering why you two ever broke up, etc. Bad idea, just don't do it, mmmkay?
- "Titanic." This movie is 4 hours of you being single while Leonardo DiCaprio kisses on Kate Winslet. Then she lets go, even though she says she never will, and then drops the necklace into the ocean. Not only will you be alone when the credits roll and Celine’s heart goes on, you’ll be infuriated because that necklace was worth millions.
- "Bridget Jones’ Diary." Although it works in the movie, chubby and batshit nuts won’t find you love.
- Anything with Meg Ryan.
- "I Know Who Killed Me." Don’t watch it on Valentine’s Day or ever, because it sucks.
Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!
Friday, February 6, 2009
There's an elf in my house
A few weeks ago, I cleaned my entire room. I went through plastic containers, emptied drawers, and even rearranged some furniture. While doing this, I lost a pack of nose rings. No big deal, they were the cheapy kind from Claire's but I was upset nonetheless. I even went through all the trash I threw out, to no avail. But I figured, hey, whateves, they were the cheapy kind from Claire's.
Then on Tuesday morning, I decided to put on my new earrings. I took one off the plastic thing it came on and put it on my left ear. I promptly took it off and put it down on my dresser, knowing that I didn't want to have dangle earrings on while I blew dry my hair. When I went to put the earring back on five minutes later, it was gone. Completely, 100% missing. I moved my dresser and went through every single drawer in case in fell in. I ripped my room apart. It dematerialized.
Yesterday, after a 30 minute bus ride from a meeting that was canceled without my knowledge, I came home to even more shitty luck. New Brunswick was bitterly, painfully cold yesterday. So, before going to the grocery store, I decided to come in and put on my headband for my ears. But it was nowhere to be found. I started looking for my other headband, but that was nowhere to be found either.
What the hell is going on? I know I'm not losing my mind. Yes, losing these inconsequential things is affecting me more because there's a lot on my plate right now, but there's no way that I'm just misplacing all of this stuff. So what I'm convinced of is that there is a leprechaun sitting somewhere with my earwarmers wrapped around him, examining the way the light bounces off my jewelry. Or perhaps a goblin is giggling while he runs around my feet, tripping me on purpose and hiding my things to drive me crazy.
Now that I've sufficiently creeped myself out, hopefully this is the goblin wreaking havoc on my life:
And this the leprechaun:
Then on Tuesday morning, I decided to put on my new earrings. I took one off the plastic thing it came on and put it on my left ear. I promptly took it off and put it down on my dresser, knowing that I didn't want to have dangle earrings on while I blew dry my hair. When I went to put the earring back on five minutes later, it was gone. Completely, 100% missing. I moved my dresser and went through every single drawer in case in fell in. I ripped my room apart. It dematerialized.
Yesterday, after a 30 minute bus ride from a meeting that was canceled without my knowledge, I came home to even more shitty luck. New Brunswick was bitterly, painfully cold yesterday. So, before going to the grocery store, I decided to come in and put on my headband for my ears. But it was nowhere to be found. I started looking for my other headband, but that was nowhere to be found either.
What the hell is going on? I know I'm not losing my mind. Yes, losing these inconsequential things is affecting me more because there's a lot on my plate right now, but there's no way that I'm just misplacing all of this stuff. So what I'm convinced of is that there is a leprechaun sitting somewhere with my earwarmers wrapped around him, examining the way the light bounces off my jewelry. Or perhaps a goblin is giggling while he runs around my feet, tripping me on purpose and hiding my things to drive me crazy.
Now that I've sufficiently creeped myself out, hopefully this is the goblin wreaking havoc on my life:
And this the leprechaun:
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Put the chicken fingers down
After my alliterative friend downed 16 Keystones and started his own impromptu dance party while celebrating the outcome of the Superbowl, the roommates and I cleaned up our little party. The one-dimpled friend who brought his beautiful big screen TV in addition to his HD cable box didn't feel like taking it home, so he said he'd come back in a few days to pick it up.
As you may or may not know, today was the season premiere of "Heroes," which is (embarrassingly enough) my favorite show as of late. My Sylar crush is entirely inappropriate and I just want to put Hiro Nakamura in my pocket because he's so damned cute.
To tie my first two paragraphs together, the cable box on loan is a DVR which means I could record "Heroes" while I was at a basement show. I was so excited and when I wrote my schedule for the day, I included coming home to watch "Heroes" on a big screen TV, fast forwarding through the commercials. HOWEVER no such thing took place. Everyone who knew what they were doing told me that it was all set to record at 9/8c. Granted, I don't know how to work these new fangled television sets with their flat screens and high definitions, but I think I know enough to know that there were no genetically superior heroes and villains waiting for me.
So while I was standing awkwardly in a stranger's basement listening to surprisingly good jams, I had the hopes that when I came home and put on my pajajays, I could sit on the couch and marvel in the high-definition large screened goodness that is Monday nights on NBC. Alas, the gods spared me a parking ticket when I parked somewhere before I was allowed to only to take away the one thing that got me out of bed this morning.
The gods have a sick sense of humor.
As you may or may not know, today was the season premiere of "Heroes," which is (embarrassingly enough) my favorite show as of late. My Sylar crush is entirely inappropriate and I just want to put Hiro Nakamura in my pocket because he's so damned cute.
To tie my first two paragraphs together, the cable box on loan is a DVR which means I could record "Heroes" while I was at a basement show. I was so excited and when I wrote my schedule for the day, I included coming home to watch "Heroes" on a big screen TV, fast forwarding through the commercials. HOWEVER no such thing took place. Everyone who knew what they were doing told me that it was all set to record at 9/8c. Granted, I don't know how to work these new fangled television sets with their flat screens and high definitions, but I think I know enough to know that there were no genetically superior heroes and villains waiting for me.
So while I was standing awkwardly in a stranger's basement listening to surprisingly good jams, I had the hopes that when I came home and put on my pajajays, I could sit on the couch and marvel in the high-definition large screened goodness that is Monday nights on NBC. Alas, the gods spared me a parking ticket when I parked somewhere before I was allowed to only to take away the one thing that got me out of bed this morning.
The gods have a sick sense of humor.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Best Day Ever
I'm not even going to apologize for the bad pun, because today really was the best day ever! Everything went really well and I'm so super stoked about my awesome internship. I'm proud of myself, and I am really grateful that I have this opportunity. Hooray! But I have to start packing a lunch because $8.64 for a panini I couldn't even finish is borderline obscene.
Also be sure to vote for bestweekever.tv for the 2009 Bloggies (along with all of your other favorites).
Also be sure to vote for bestweekever.tv for the 2009 Bloggies (along with all of your other favorites).
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Mommy wow! I'm a big kid now.
I'm back in America, which is pretty exciting. I did get a little verklempt when the plane was landing and I saw Lady Liberty welcoming me home. Then, I had to wait 30 minutes at passport control which promptly made me want to go back to the EU.
However, I had my internship to look forward to so I stayed. Today was my orientation. After a bus ride that took 30 minutes to go three miles, I hopped on a train, then a subway to make it to my meeting. I was 10 minutes early, and went straight up to the 37th floor. Turns out I went 30 floors too high, so I wound up being 10 minutes late. Go figure.
I got my ID, in which my hair is enormous but that's to be expected with me. I feel so official and cool, although I really hope my nervous nightmares come to an end after my real first day tomorrow. Last night I dreamt that I was assigned to manage and do maintenance on a bunch of different pools. Someone said to me, "okay, now you have to take care of the XC241, the HT99, the PP491," as though there were model numbers for different kinds of pools. Also, this internship is not related to aquatics! I woke up around 2am with an extreme tummy ache. It was the kind where you don't have to throw up but you feel like if you did, you'd feel better. I was pretty sure I was going to die. After lying prostrate on my floor for about 10 minutes, reminding myself that being nervous is good ("it means you care, E, that you're going to work hard!") I also reminded myself that I had Chinese for dinner. I felt better after that.
So tomorrow is the first day. Wish me luck!
However, I had my internship to look forward to so I stayed. Today was my orientation. After a bus ride that took 30 minutes to go three miles, I hopped on a train, then a subway to make it to my meeting. I was 10 minutes early, and went straight up to the 37th floor. Turns out I went 30 floors too high, so I wound up being 10 minutes late. Go figure.
I got my ID, in which my hair is enormous but that's to be expected with me. I feel so official and cool, although I really hope my nervous nightmares come to an end after my real first day tomorrow. Last night I dreamt that I was assigned to manage and do maintenance on a bunch of different pools. Someone said to me, "okay, now you have to take care of the XC241, the HT99, the PP491," as though there were model numbers for different kinds of pools. Also, this internship is not related to aquatics! I woke up around 2am with an extreme tummy ache. It was the kind where you don't have to throw up but you feel like if you did, you'd feel better. I was pretty sure I was going to die. After lying prostrate on my floor for about 10 minutes, reminding myself that being nervous is good ("it means you care, E, that you're going to work hard!") I also reminded myself that I had Chinese for dinner. I felt better after that.
So tomorrow is the first day. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Saga Continues...
Lil D and I took a trip to NBPA to get the boot off of her car. We paid the parking tickets online, then went to the boot release window (it has its own window). Before we could get the boot released, in addition to paying off the tickets, there was a $50 boot release fee. When the credit card came out, the woman said: "Cash only."
Of course.
As we walked down the stairs out of the office, I kicked the door open Sparta-style and yelled "Fuck the Parking Authority!"
We walked down the street to the ATM, then returned. I had to walk across the hall from the boot release window to the payment window and presented the $60 from the "quick cash" option of the ATM. The other woman then said: "Exact change only."
Of course.
Since none of the stores on the street would just break a $20, we bought a candy bar that I didn't even enjoy. The third time was indeed the charm, so finally the first woman put in the call to release the boot. As we walked out, to release my final rage, I ripped the framed poster directing people upstairs about 3/4 off the wall, then nervously tried to fix it, then ran away. I told Lil D, "You can really tell who a person is once you've seen them deal with the parking authority. I hope you still want to be my friend."
Thankfully she does and even said, "if possible, I want to be your friend even more." Cute! Although failing to flirt with the kind of cute boot release boy, Lil D did learn some crucial information about our arch nemesis, P Francis: his first name is Paul. Paul Francis, meet your worst nightmares.
Also, I'm in Germany. So far, the adventure has been good. I went to a chocolate factory on the very day girls need chocolate the most, so I am happy. Keep a lookout for more Germany adventures, I have a feeling this is going to be a wild trip!
This is so weird.
Of course.
As we walked down the stairs out of the office, I kicked the door open Sparta-style and yelled "Fuck the Parking Authority!"
We walked down the street to the ATM, then returned. I had to walk across the hall from the boot release window to the payment window and presented the $60 from the "quick cash" option of the ATM. The other woman then said: "Exact change only."
Of course.
Since none of the stores on the street would just break a $20, we bought a candy bar that I didn't even enjoy. The third time was indeed the charm, so finally the first woman put in the call to release the boot. As we walked out, to release my final rage, I ripped the framed poster directing people upstairs about 3/4 off the wall, then nervously tried to fix it, then ran away. I told Lil D, "You can really tell who a person is once you've seen them deal with the parking authority. I hope you still want to be my friend."
Thankfully she does and even said, "if possible, I want to be your friend even more." Cute! Although failing to flirt with the kind of cute boot release boy, Lil D did learn some crucial information about our arch nemesis, P Francis: his first name is Paul. Paul Francis, meet your worst nightmares.
Also, I'm in Germany. So far, the adventure has been good. I went to a chocolate factory on the very day girls need chocolate the most, so I am happy. Keep a lookout for more Germany adventures, I have a feeling this is going to be a wild trip!
This is so weird.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Hooray!
I got the internship! I am so very excited to get coffee for the people who work at my favorite place in the world. As I was chatting with a couple of girlfriends, we discussed that I should start dating someone in the city. Of course, I wouldn't date someone from my floor because that is just silly and very faux pas. However, there are many floors in the building where I will be working and so I have come up with a pro and con list for dating amongst the different floors:
MTV:
Pro-He will be hip to the latest jive
Con-His pants will be tighter than mine.
Comedy Central:
Pro-He'll be funny
Con-He might think Carlos Mencia is funny
Spike TV:
Pro-He'll be a man's man
Con-Everything will be XTREME
TV Land:
Pro-He'll understand my "I Love Lucy" references
Con-He'll understand my "I Love Lucy" references
Nickelodeon:
Pro-He'll love kids
Con-He'll slime me
MTV:
Pro-He will be hip to the latest jive
Con-His pants will be tighter than mine.
Comedy Central:
Pro-He'll be funny
Con-He might think Carlos Mencia is funny
Spike TV:
Pro-He'll be a man's man
Con-Everything will be XTREME
TV Land:
Pro-He'll understand my "I Love Lucy" references
Con-He'll understand my "I Love Lucy" references
Nickelodeon:
Pro-He'll love kids
Con-He'll slime me
Saturday, January 10, 2009
SO many things upset me about this.
The first time I saw this commercial, my friends and I discussed the ridiculousity of naming a company after the Russian secret service. We're in America, dammit! But for reals, you can't just steal an acronym that's been previously established.
But then I saw the commercial again, right before watching Robot Chicken. Then the woman said something that resulted in me yelling and throwing the remote and coughing because I'm sick. When the interview man asked the interviewing woman what the best cheesesteak in Philly is, she replied "Geno's." Geno's? GENO'S?!? No, no, no, no, no, no, WRONG. The best cheesesteak comes from Pat's King of Steaks. I don't get if you get with, with whiz or without, with provolone (like me), Pat's is the best cheesesteak in Philly. Jimmy's comes in a close second, and I will argue that most cheesteaks in Philly are edible, solely because that's where cheesesteaks should be eaten. However, Geno's is not only less than delectable, they serve up an attitude that I do not appreciate.
Back to the conversation at hand, I do not know what KGB is or what it's trying to sell me. All I know is that I will never in my life buy it, because everything they have said and done has been rendered totally unreliable. Besides, the amount of Syrian hamsters stacked from here to the moon is clearly only 2,282,764,987. I don't know where she's getting that extra hamster and a half.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Something-est Day Ever/...and the Oscar goes to:
Today was, in a word, huge. I had an interview in NYC for an internship. I've wanted to work there ever since I've known it existed and I would give Kevin Federline custody of my children if that what it takes to work there. I met my idol without having a panic attack. My palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy, vomit on my sweater already--mom's spaghetti (Sorry, sometimes I break out into Eminem). Actually, my palms were only slightly damp and I don't think my shaking was too visible. I think it went well; even if they don't take me, it was a good experience and I got to meet some really awesome people.
Anywho, I got on the train back to the Dirty Jerz to conduct a couple of interviews of my own. The man behind me was coughing up some sort of disgusting, so after Secaucus I had to move. I got to the office, did my thing, then got in the car to drive Dreads home. Lil D came running up to me as I was pulling out of the parking lot with tears pouring down her face and paperwork in her hands. New Brunswick Parking Authority aka Satan put a boot on her car (seriously P Francis, if I ever meet you face to face you will pay for that ticket you gave me when I was in my driveway with the hazards on...you will pay). Turns out, she had 14 outstanding tickets. Granted, I am not one to talk. But my tickets are at least on the single digits side of town. Anyway, talk about lesson learned. Before she can get the boot removed she has to pay all of the tickets, plus a $50 boot removal fee. If you've never understood the concept of adding insult to injury, herein lies a perfect example.
To help Lil D out, I called the number listed, and then the number that the recording I reached told me to call. Whoever picked up had some sort of crush on my voice, so I milked it for all it was worth. I got pretty serious with his supervisor, not even gonna lie. I wound up going to NBPA (lucky for P Francis s/he wasn't there) to take care of everything in person. The man I talked to on the phone was so happy to meet me and took me directly to the person who deals with boot removal. I pretended to be Lil D. I think I got it down, except for the "lil" part seeing as I am approximately a person larger than she is.
I argued, I plead, I cried, I begged. The boot is still on, but I convinced him to release the boot tomorrow even though they don't usually do weekend releases. It worked out well, because I said everything Lil D said without getting emotional.
Currently, I am exhausted and feel the pangs of sinus pressure welcoming a winter cold. Awesome.
Next time: bar fights and prostitutes.
Anywho, I got on the train back to the Dirty Jerz to conduct a couple of interviews of my own. The man behind me was coughing up some sort of disgusting, so after Secaucus I had to move. I got to the office, did my thing, then got in the car to drive Dreads home. Lil D came running up to me as I was pulling out of the parking lot with tears pouring down her face and paperwork in her hands. New Brunswick Parking Authority aka Satan put a boot on her car (seriously P Francis, if I ever meet you face to face you will pay for that ticket you gave me when I was in my driveway with the hazards on...you will pay). Turns out, she had 14 outstanding tickets. Granted, I am not one to talk. But my tickets are at least on the single digits side of town. Anyway, talk about lesson learned. Before she can get the boot removed she has to pay all of the tickets, plus a $50 boot removal fee. If you've never understood the concept of adding insult to injury, herein lies a perfect example.
To help Lil D out, I called the number listed, and then the number that the recording I reached told me to call. Whoever picked up had some sort of crush on my voice, so I milked it for all it was worth. I got pretty serious with his supervisor, not even gonna lie. I wound up going to NBPA (lucky for P Francis s/he wasn't there) to take care of everything in person. The man I talked to on the phone was so happy to meet me and took me directly to the person who deals with boot removal. I pretended to be Lil D. I think I got it down, except for the "lil" part seeing as I am approximately a person larger than she is.
I argued, I plead, I cried, I begged. The boot is still on, but I convinced him to release the boot tomorrow even though they don't usually do weekend releases. It worked out well, because I said everything Lil D said without getting emotional.
Currently, I am exhausted and feel the pangs of sinus pressure welcoming a winter cold. Awesome.
Next time: bar fights and prostitutes.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
King of Beers? Kiss my ass.
Last night was one of the best New Year's Eves on record; however, that isn't saying too much. I had a lovely dinner with AP and Lil D, then I went over to M's for celebrations. I didn't know a soul besides M and J and a former employee whom I left shaking in his boots (I didn't know I was so scary). Midnight arrived while I was in the attic with 10 strangers. We wished each other a happy 2009 and continued on our merry way. My plan was to leave around 12:30am, but the following rant on Budweiser kept me a half hour longer.
I didn't catch his name, but a young man that was at the party who was related to the boyfriend of someone's cousin began a hilarious soliloquy on the piss-water that is Budweiser beer. He stood only an inch or two taller than me, with dark jeans and a grey hoodie under his navy peacoat. He wore a red plaid scarf around his neck and his skullcap remained on his head for the duration of the party because it was so damn cold last night. He was not sober, so his dark brown eyes were not entirely in focus and his words were slightly slurred as they rolled off his cocoa mouth. He had a bottle of Budweiser in his hand and after a particularly long sip, he looked at it and said, "this tastes like water!"
M's adorable photography editor housemate walked by and said, "everyone is starting to think their alcohol is water, welcome to the new year!" I tried not to swoon too obviously, that kid is just so damn cute. Apologies for my digression.
"No seriously, this shit tastes like water. Give me a real beer, dammit. Guinness, Heineken, Corona, anything other than Budweiser." He took another sip, smacked his lips and looked at the bottle. "Really, it tastes like funny water. It tastes like project water. You know when sometimes the water goes bad in the projects?"
I looked at who he was talking to: a 19yo white girl from Ohio, a 22yo white guy from Jersey, and me, a 20something white girl from the suburbs of Philly. So, it was a good thing he continued with the story, rather than waiting for a response to whether or not we know what bad project water tastes like, because clearly none of us knew.
"Now why on earth would I pay to drink funny project water when I can visit my family and get it for free? Budweiser, is this really the best you can do? King of Beers? Kiss my ass. This shit ain't king of anything."
His bottle was empty at this point, so he excused himself to get another.
I didn't catch his name, but a young man that was at the party who was related to the boyfriend of someone's cousin began a hilarious soliloquy on the piss-water that is Budweiser beer. He stood only an inch or two taller than me, with dark jeans and a grey hoodie under his navy peacoat. He wore a red plaid scarf around his neck and his skullcap remained on his head for the duration of the party because it was so damn cold last night. He was not sober, so his dark brown eyes were not entirely in focus and his words were slightly slurred as they rolled off his cocoa mouth. He had a bottle of Budweiser in his hand and after a particularly long sip, he looked at it and said, "this tastes like water!"
M's adorable photography editor housemate walked by and said, "everyone is starting to think their alcohol is water, welcome to the new year!" I tried not to swoon too obviously, that kid is just so damn cute. Apologies for my digression.
"No seriously, this shit tastes like water. Give me a real beer, dammit. Guinness, Heineken, Corona, anything other than Budweiser." He took another sip, smacked his lips and looked at the bottle. "Really, it tastes like funny water. It tastes like project water. You know when sometimes the water goes bad in the projects?"
I looked at who he was talking to: a 19yo white girl from Ohio, a 22yo white guy from Jersey, and me, a 20something white girl from the suburbs of Philly. So, it was a good thing he continued with the story, rather than waiting for a response to whether or not we know what bad project water tastes like, because clearly none of us knew.
"Now why on earth would I pay to drink funny project water when I can visit my family and get it for free? Budweiser, is this really the best you can do? King of Beers? Kiss my ass. This shit ain't king of anything."
His bottle was empty at this point, so he excused himself to get another.
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