My two favorite holidays are the 4th of July and Thanksgiving; 4th of July because you can wear an American flag thong bathing suit and chase vodka shots with Otter Pops, and Thanksgiving for more meaningful reasons.
Here’s what I know about Thanksgiving: I know that I can go out in Denver on a Wednesday night and know every person downtown. I know I’ll run into people I went to kindergarten with and people I haven’t seen since high school. I know that I’ll inevitably get carried away taking shots at the bar with long lost friends and wake up hung over on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll somehow find the resolve to go running in the park behind my parents’ house with my mom.
I know that my dad will almost persuade me to go waterskiing with him and his friends on Thanksgiving morning, but I’ll always chicken out at the last minute. I know that we’ll turn on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade while we’re cooking, even though we all hate it. (There’s nothing creepier than a giant Charlie Brown float. Period.) I know that I’ll lose my enthusiasm for peeling potatoes after the third one but I’ll have to do at least 30, and my hand will be sore from using this weird potato masher we have, and I’ll use at least a box of butter before I’m finished, but it’s OK because mashed potatoes are a Thanksgiving staple and the people are depending on me for god’s sake!!
I know that my grandparents will show up two hours early—in earlier years, it was so that we could all go for a bike ride, but now it’s mainly because they’re too excited to wait until 4:00. I know I love cooking with my grandma(s) and can’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them. I know Courtney gets to make the gravy because I always help my dad carve the turkey. I know someone will inevitably personify the turkey, calling him “Tom Turkey”, and I’ll roll my eyes, because why is that necessary? I know no one really likes dark meat. I know that people will always take some sweet potatoes for courtesy’s sake, but they don’t hold a candle to the mashed potatoes. (“By all means, get seconds! I made enough to feed an army!”) And I know people WILL get seconds because Thanksgiving is the one day people go hog wild and don’t feel bad about it. (The average American consumes 4500 calories and 229 grams of fat on Thanksgiving. 215 of them are from my mashed potatoes. You’re welcome.)
I know everyone ends up in the kitchen, no matter how many hors d’ourves we put out to lure them into the family room. I know that on this one day, everyone likes football, or at least pretends to. (This year, Orton better power through that pansy-ass ankle injury and show me something. We’re on a slippery slope here Kyle, don’t let us down.) I know that we’ll drink Bloody Mary’s to start, but we’ll blow through several bottles of wine as the night progresses. (People say it’s the L-tryptophan in the turkey that makes everyone tired—it’s obviously the 8 glasses of wine. Also, people never know how to pronounce L-tryptophan. It’s el-trip-teh-fan. Again, you’re welcome.)
Mostly, I know how easy it is to take things for granted. It’s so easy to get caught up in trivial things and forget to count your blessings. So between the best mashed potatoes you’ve ever had (“Please, stop thanking me, I know they’re good but I hardly did anything, really!”) and the questionable side dish (“Jamie, this pheasant side dish is… different!”), I always pause to think about two things: how truly fortunate I am, and how truly excited I am for leftovers.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Playthings of the '90s
Last night at dinner club, we started talking about how great it was growing up in the ‘90s. Not just because we were approaching the dawn of a new millennium or because Hannah Montana wasn’t “being Miley” yet, but because the absolute BEST toys came out in the ‘90s, and we were at the perfect, ripe age to enjoy them.
Arguably the most high-maintenance ‘90s toy was the Tamagotchi. I had it clipped to my backpack to ensure easy accessibility, and I absolutely fussed over it all day. You can’t blame me though; I had the neediest little virtual pet on the planet. I’d feed it, clean up after it had disgusting accidents right in the middle of the screen, and feel a surge of maternal pride when it would hatch into something new. It was all fun and games until it hatched into Bill Clinton once, which was far from the mystical Japanese creature I had been awaiting with baited breath, and I let it die.
I’m convinced that childhood obesity was lower when we were growing up purely because of another unforgettable ‘90s toy: the Skip-It. I used to Skip-It on my driveway until it was too dark to read the counter, which by the way, was absolute magic. How did it know how many times I’d Skip’d-It? It was technology at its finest, and I was pushing it to the limits. I made it to 999 several times and was horrified when it would reset to 0. There goes a whole after-school afternoon. Great. I could have been chatting with a friend on my landline.
GAK was a great '90s toy, if you can even call it that. I honestly don’t know how to categorize GAK. First of all, it was made by Nickelodeon, which was weird. And was it a solid? A liquid? Did it cause Cancer? Could you eat it? Who knows, and honestly, who cares. I used to goop it around in my hands for hours, allowing myself to just get lost in its questionable composition. I have a vague memory of blowing bubbles with GAK, which had to be an absolute germfest, because let's face it: if you brought GAK to school, you could count on at least 9 elementary kids fingering it with their grubby little monkey bar hands.
Two words: Polly Pocket. Polly lived the most awesome life in her pocket-sized world. There wasn’t a whole lot you could do with her other than move her two inches to the other side of her case and marvel at how pretty she was, but that was OK, because a tiny person was living in a tiny universe in my cubby. I always wondered what she was doing in there while I was in class. (Obviously I read Indian in the Cupboard too many times…)
Puppy Surprise was a hilarious '90s toy. You bought a pregnant stuffed dog with a Velcro stomach and basically just prayed it had a nice healthy litter inside. The ultimate let down was tearing into that mama dog’s uterus and finding one lousy puppy. No one wanted the worthless runt, and this scenario often resulted in Puppy Surprise being abandoned in favor of Baby Alive, who would pee or poop her diaper without fail every time. At least kids of the ‘90s could count on something.
You know what was an absurd 90’s phenomenon? Toy crazes. The fanaticism over Beanie Babies may be the best example, but let us not forget about Tickle Me Elmo and Furby (which, by the way, were both absolutely terrifying with their alien voices and predator-like movements). Moms would literally beat each other DOWN over $20 toys, and it was always fun to see the K-Mart carnage on the news, especially during the holidays.
If I'm honest, I feel bad for Millennium babies. Nickelodeon hasn’t produced a carcinogenic substance in years. And how are little four-year-old girls supposed to practice their mothering skills if their dolls don’t even soil their diapers anymore? Don’t even get me started on how many children would probably just keel over and die of exhaustion if the prehistoric counter on the Skip-It was replaced with a digital one. No, my friends, we made it out of childhood just in the nick of time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go feed my Tamagotchi. It’s been alive for 12 days and I think it’s about to win a Nobel Peace Prize.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Fall: Leather Jackets and Cranberries CDs Allowed
I look forward to Fall’s arrival for many reasons. Besides the obvious (stunning color changes, small children divebombing in piles of leaves, leather jackets being acceptable/not pervy for a few short months), I like the fact that people stop putting so much emphasis on the goddamn weather. During summertime, if it unexpectedly rains or gets cloudy, people lose their shit. “I WANTED TO GO TO THE POOL TODAY!!!” In the Fall, you just expect it to be damp, dark and emo, and you’re cool with it.
Why does it have to be sunny every day anyways? Granted, I live in a state where it is sunny 300 days a year, so a cloudy day is like a fun event. When it’s cloudy and cold, we all drink tea and put on like 30 layers and feel cool walking around with an umbrella. You’re allowed to feel feelings and write in a journal and listen to The Cranberries in your car. Someone inevitably wants a Starbucks to tote around when we’re out and about, more for the look than the actual beverage.
It does get a little ridiculous how many things people use the cold as an excuse for. Any cloudy day is automatically 2 things: a great movie day and a great day for baking. When it’s cold, people simply hate being productive. “I was gonna go for a run, but it’s so icky out!!” Ok, but that doesn’t mean you can eat cookie dough in bed all day like a fatass. No wonder people gain weight in the winter. Likewise, just because it’s cold doesn’t give you the green light to wear disgusting sweatpants or flannel PJ bottoms in public. Pulling on a pair of jeans doesn’t require that much extra effort, I promise.
Something I really hate is when people act like they’re the only one affected by the weather.
“I just feel so blah today. Must be the weather.”
“I wish I was still snuggled up in bed instead of here at work.”
“It took me 20 extra minutes to get here today because the roads were so bad. (Dramatic sigh)”
Or how about people who bitch about the weather when they choose to live in a place that gets cold?
“Man, I should move back to Cali!!” Then go, bro!
When it starts getting cold, I like getting all of my winter clothes out of storage. It’s like Christmas comes early, only better because it’s free. My change of emotion towards my cold-weather garments is funny, because when I put them away last spring, I despised them. They were homely and mundane. Now, seeing them again for the first time in months, they are delightful and full of potential. I lovingly hang them in my closet while I stuff my disgusting summer clothes into boxes. See you next year, you haggard rags.
Also, two words: CROCKPOT COMEBACK. My favorite kitchen accessory sat on a shelf all summer looking pathetic because chili and stew somehow didn’t sound too good when it was 97 degrees. As soon as the temp drops below 60 though, it’s on. There is nothing quite as rewarding as knowing that the raw chicken and random canned goods you dumped in the CP standing in your towel at 6am will be the greatest kitchen creation of all time when you get home. It almost feels like cheating.
You may think me a simpleton for enjoying these things so much; SO BE IT. Let me have these fleeting days of pleasure, because come March, my “trendy” winter clothes and my “fun” cloudy days and my “tantalizing” Crockpot creations will all send me into an emo rage that will make me want to end it. I won’t though, because spring will be near, and I’ll have another blog to write. Mark your calendars.
Why does it have to be sunny every day anyways? Granted, I live in a state where it is sunny 300 days a year, so a cloudy day is like a fun event. When it’s cloudy and cold, we all drink tea and put on like 30 layers and feel cool walking around with an umbrella. You’re allowed to feel feelings and write in a journal and listen to The Cranberries in your car. Someone inevitably wants a Starbucks to tote around when we’re out and about, more for the look than the actual beverage.
It does get a little ridiculous how many things people use the cold as an excuse for. Any cloudy day is automatically 2 things: a great movie day and a great day for baking. When it’s cold, people simply hate being productive. “I was gonna go for a run, but it’s so icky out!!” Ok, but that doesn’t mean you can eat cookie dough in bed all day like a fatass. No wonder people gain weight in the winter. Likewise, just because it’s cold doesn’t give you the green light to wear disgusting sweatpants or flannel PJ bottoms in public. Pulling on a pair of jeans doesn’t require that much extra effort, I promise.
Something I really hate is when people act like they’re the only one affected by the weather.
“I just feel so blah today. Must be the weather.”
“I wish I was still snuggled up in bed instead of here at work.”
“It took me 20 extra minutes to get here today because the roads were so bad. (Dramatic sigh)”
Or how about people who bitch about the weather when they choose to live in a place that gets cold?
“Man, I should move back to Cali!!” Then go, bro!
When it starts getting cold, I like getting all of my winter clothes out of storage. It’s like Christmas comes early, only better because it’s free. My change of emotion towards my cold-weather garments is funny, because when I put them away last spring, I despised them. They were homely and mundane. Now, seeing them again for the first time in months, they are delightful and full of potential. I lovingly hang them in my closet while I stuff my disgusting summer clothes into boxes. See you next year, you haggard rags.
Also, two words: CROCKPOT COMEBACK. My favorite kitchen accessory sat on a shelf all summer looking pathetic because chili and stew somehow didn’t sound too good when it was 97 degrees. As soon as the temp drops below 60 though, it’s on. There is nothing quite as rewarding as knowing that the raw chicken and random canned goods you dumped in the CP standing in your towel at 6am will be the greatest kitchen creation of all time when you get home. It almost feels like cheating.
You may think me a simpleton for enjoying these things so much; SO BE IT. Let me have these fleeting days of pleasure, because come March, my “trendy” winter clothes and my “fun” cloudy days and my “tantalizing” Crockpot creations will all send me into an emo rage that will make me want to end it. I won’t though, because spring will be near, and I’ll have another blog to write. Mark your calendars.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Next Stop: Womanhood
In several ancient Native American societies, entire villages celebrated a girl’s first period to mark the beginning of her transition into womanhood. In Spanish speaking communities, una quinceañera commemorates the day a girl becomes eligible for more womanly responsibilities, such as work and marriage. In America, you know a girl is well on her way when she can successfully plan a menu, shop for it, cook it and simultaneously entertain a large group of people. This rite of passage is known simply as the cocktail party, and I had my first last night.
It all started when some beloved family members of mine were in town from New York and mentioned that they’d like to see my place. “I’ll have everyone over for a cocktail party!!!” I naively volunteered, not wholly understanding the implications of my offer. Just like that, I was committed. I had made BIG promises to my BIG family, and I knew I had my work cut out for me. I also knew I couldn’t do it alone. So I asked Michelle if she wanted to make it a roommate cocktail party, she agreed, and suddenly I had an accomplice. Things were looking up.
That weekend, when Michelle and I were hung over and wandering around Target for two hours as we often do on Saturdays, we decided to buy some invitations for our soirée. (When you’re at Target, everything sounds like a great purchase. Waffle makers, fake eyelashes, a new pillow… party invitations were the most logical thing in our basket.) We chose some simple invites that vomited gold glitter all over the place but somehow also oozed elegance and sophistication. We exchanged a glance that said it all: “Let’s do this”.
Before we knew it, it was menu-planning time. We emailed, texted, and had a number of serious conversations before we agreed on several hors d’ouerves. Some were family favorites, some were new challenges. That’s when it hit me. There was no meat on the menu. We needed a meat! PEOPLE LIKE MEAT! That initiated a whole new conversation:
“Fish?”
“ Too hard to cook.”
“ Beef?”
“ Too bloody.”
“ Pork?”
“ Too mysterious and creepy.”
That left poultry, always a safe bet. Chicken skewers with peanut sauce it was.
Nexxxt it was grocery shopping. I made my first trip to Taco Soopers (hilariously named by us for its “urban” local and extensive selection of authentic Mexican products) on Sunday. In my hand I had a color-coded, elaborate shopping list that ironically neglected to mention most of the essential ingredients. That’s why I was back at Taco Soopers on Monday, Tuesday (food stamp day) and Wednesday.
Michelle also had a tough time shopping. I would get frantic texts from her, like “WHERE DO I FIND THE WASABI??” and “WHAT ISLE ARE THE RICE CRACKERS ON?” (For your reference, there’s a reason we didn’t name it “Eggroll Soopers”—Taco Soopers has a pathetic selection of Asian foods, and didn’t have either of the aforementioned items.)
We were finally ready for action. We grated cheese. We toasted almonds. We mashed cream cheese up with our hands. We skewered chicken and fried bacon. We rolled out cookie dough and sliced kiwis. We cried from chopping onions and laughed when we realized (too late) that the tomatoes actually did have to be seeded. We drank a lot of wine.
We. Were. Exhausted.
On the day of the party, we were feeling pretty organized. At work, I made a pre-party list that looked like this:
It all started when some beloved family members of mine were in town from New York and mentioned that they’d like to see my place. “I’ll have everyone over for a cocktail party!!!” I naively volunteered, not wholly understanding the implications of my offer. Just like that, I was committed. I had made BIG promises to my BIG family, and I knew I had my work cut out for me. I also knew I couldn’t do it alone. So I asked Michelle if she wanted to make it a roommate cocktail party, she agreed, and suddenly I had an accomplice. Things were looking up.
That weekend, when Michelle and I were hung over and wandering around Target for two hours as we often do on Saturdays, we decided to buy some invitations for our soirée. (When you’re at Target, everything sounds like a great purchase. Waffle makers, fake eyelashes, a new pillow… party invitations were the most logical thing in our basket.) We chose some simple invites that vomited gold glitter all over the place but somehow also oozed elegance and sophistication. We exchanged a glance that said it all: “Let’s do this”.
Before we knew it, it was menu-planning time. We emailed, texted, and had a number of serious conversations before we agreed on several hors d’ouerves. Some were family favorites, some were new challenges. That’s when it hit me. There was no meat on the menu. We needed a meat! PEOPLE LIKE MEAT! That initiated a whole new conversation:
“Fish?”
“ Too hard to cook.”
“ Beef?”
“ Too bloody.”
“ Pork?”
“ Too mysterious and creepy.”
That left poultry, always a safe bet. Chicken skewers with peanut sauce it was.
Nexxxt it was grocery shopping. I made my first trip to Taco Soopers (hilariously named by us for its “urban” local and extensive selection of authentic Mexican products) on Sunday. In my hand I had a color-coded, elaborate shopping list that ironically neglected to mention most of the essential ingredients. That’s why I was back at Taco Soopers on Monday, Tuesday (food stamp day) and Wednesday.
Michelle also had a tough time shopping. I would get frantic texts from her, like “WHERE DO I FIND THE WASABI??” and “WHAT ISLE ARE THE RICE CRACKERS ON?” (For your reference, there’s a reason we didn’t name it “Eggroll Soopers”—Taco Soopers has a pathetic selection of Asian foods, and didn’t have either of the aforementioned items.)
We were finally ready for action. We grated cheese. We toasted almonds. We mashed cream cheese up with our hands. We skewered chicken and fried bacon. We rolled out cookie dough and sliced kiwis. We cried from chopping onions and laughed when we realized (too late) that the tomatoes actually did have to be seeded. We drank a lot of wine.
We. Were. Exhausted.
On the day of the party, we were feeling pretty organized. At work, I made a pre-party list that looked like this:
- SLICE FRUIT FOR FRUIT PIZZA
- MARINATE/SKEWER/COOK CHICKEN AND MAKE SAUCE
- HEAT ALMOND DIP
- GET WINE-LOTS OF WINE
- CLEAN BATHROOM
- PUT SINATRA ON IPOD
- VACUUM
- PUT SOME MAKEUP ON
- BRUSH YOUR HAIR
Considering that 7 minutes before the guests arrived I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the bathroom floor in my party dress, the event went remarkably well. (Unless you count my aunt Pamela writing her name in the dust on one of our side tables...woops, missed a spot…) To our delight, the guests really enjoyed the hors d’ourves! The Rockies won! Everyone was rip-roaring drunk!
And after 3 hours, it was over. The people, food and wine were gone. Even the dishes weren’t that horrible to do; we merrily washed and dried. And before we called it a night, we high-fived, because we knew womanhood was not only present, it was thriving.Thursday, August 20, 2009
"Ohmmmm"
The art of yoga has long been celebrated for its positive effects on the mind, body and spirit. From the obvious (improved flexibility, muscle tone, relaxation) to the not-so obvious (massaging of internal organs, increased awareness of an impending disease, certain sexual benefits), it’s allllll good. I, myself, have become quite addicted to the ancient art, and in my trips to the Petri dish of humanity we call the yoga studio, I’ve made some observations.
If anyone has denied that yoga is blatantly sexual, they’re blatantly lying to you. Scantily clad, athletic people sweating and moaning and contorting their bodies into compromising positions? Umm, yeah. Sexual. So naturally, your mind often wanders to “extracurricular activities” while you’re in class. I always wonder (no homo) about the lucky guy who gets to marry a yoga instructor—she always has a huge rock on her finger, which makes sense, because if she can’t land a husband, there’s simply no hope for the rest of us.
Though yoga class is composed predominantly of females, there are always a few token guys that show up. I’ve learned that there are two types of male yoga-goers: the one who genuinely wants to advance his practice and the one who genuinely wants to look at girls in erotic positions. The first is adorable because he doesn’t know he’s horrible at yoga. His endearing preparedness, eagerness to learn and undulating obedience to the teacher have no bearing; his hip flexors are not flexible and never will be. His facial expressions are priceless, however. For a full two hours he might as well be a victim from Saw III. Doesn’t faze him though, because he’ll be back on Thursday, God love him.
The second guy has grown wise to the aforementioned sexual nature and overwhelming amount of flexible females in yoga. He will inevitably plant himself directly behind the cutest girl in the class, and his eyes aren’t “gazing upward to the sky” as they should be; they’re gazing directly at her ass. As much as I applaud his resourcefulness, I don’t want him behind me. My head is between my legs, idiot, I can see you ogling my downward dog.
Type-two guy isn’t the only one you want to stay away from. In fact, where you lay your mat has a lot of impact on how your class is going to go. You definitely don’t want to be next to the moaner. She sees every exhale as an opportunity to unleash the stress of her day in the form of loud, high-pitched, Mariah Carey-esque vocals. The teacher always praises her though, in the hopes that more students will just let go and surrender to the flow. There’s also the really advanced student that will make you look bad if you sit next to her. She’s the one in the headstand while everyone else struggles to balance on one foot. It’s like, we get it, yoga’s your thing. Why are you in this class anyways if you’re so amazing? Careful though: you don’t want to sit next to someone who’s never done yoga before because they will be looking at you for direction the whole time, so you’ll probably mistake them for a type-two guy or a lesbian pulling a type-two guy, which would be the ultimate trick.
For the most part though, yoga’s great. You essentially relax for two hours, sweat your ass off and feel like you get a good workout. Plus, it’s the only fitness class that ends with you laying down on the ground and sleeping. I think all exercise classes should end in shavasana. You leave feeling rejuvenated…. tingly…. ready to conquer another day at the office (or, if you’re lucky, a night in the bedroom).
Ahhh yoga, I dig you. Welcome to my life.
Namaste.
If anyone has denied that yoga is blatantly sexual, they’re blatantly lying to you. Scantily clad, athletic people sweating and moaning and contorting their bodies into compromising positions? Umm, yeah. Sexual. So naturally, your mind often wanders to “extracurricular activities” while you’re in class. I always wonder (no homo) about the lucky guy who gets to marry a yoga instructor—she always has a huge rock on her finger, which makes sense, because if she can’t land a husband, there’s simply no hope for the rest of us.
Though yoga class is composed predominantly of females, there are always a few token guys that show up. I’ve learned that there are two types of male yoga-goers: the one who genuinely wants to advance his practice and the one who genuinely wants to look at girls in erotic positions. The first is adorable because he doesn’t know he’s horrible at yoga. His endearing preparedness, eagerness to learn and undulating obedience to the teacher have no bearing; his hip flexors are not flexible and never will be. His facial expressions are priceless, however. For a full two hours he might as well be a victim from Saw III. Doesn’t faze him though, because he’ll be back on Thursday, God love him.
The second guy has grown wise to the aforementioned sexual nature and overwhelming amount of flexible females in yoga. He will inevitably plant himself directly behind the cutest girl in the class, and his eyes aren’t “gazing upward to the sky” as they should be; they’re gazing directly at her ass. As much as I applaud his resourcefulness, I don’t want him behind me. My head is between my legs, idiot, I can see you ogling my downward dog.
Type-two guy isn’t the only one you want to stay away from. In fact, where you lay your mat has a lot of impact on how your class is going to go. You definitely don’t want to be next to the moaner. She sees every exhale as an opportunity to unleash the stress of her day in the form of loud, high-pitched, Mariah Carey-esque vocals. The teacher always praises her though, in the hopes that more students will just let go and surrender to the flow. There’s also the really advanced student that will make you look bad if you sit next to her. She’s the one in the headstand while everyone else struggles to balance on one foot. It’s like, we get it, yoga’s your thing. Why are you in this class anyways if you’re so amazing? Careful though: you don’t want to sit next to someone who’s never done yoga before because they will be looking at you for direction the whole time, so you’ll probably mistake them for a type-two guy or a lesbian pulling a type-two guy, which would be the ultimate trick.
For the most part though, yoga’s great. You essentially relax for two hours, sweat your ass off and feel like you get a good workout. Plus, it’s the only fitness class that ends with you laying down on the ground and sleeping. I think all exercise classes should end in shavasana. You leave feeling rejuvenated…. tingly…. ready to conquer another day at the office (or, if you’re lucky, a night in the bedroom).
Ahhh yoga, I dig you. Welcome to my life.
Namaste.
"More to Love"? Ehh...
Like the inability to look away from a bad car crash, I watched ABC’s new series More To Love last night. Let’s dive in, shall we?
As the husky, eligible bachelor awaited his princesses with baited breath, the debonair white limo pulled up the drive and came to a dramatic halt. Then the fun began, as the robust beauties unload one-by-one, eager to get their first look at their handsome prince. It didn’t take long for the absolute fragility of the women to become apparent. First came the awkward introduction, then came the teary profession of love. (“I’d marry him, I would!!”) Not a normal sequence of events. It actually made me dread the elimination ceremony because I wasn’t sure these women could handle the rejection. I didn’t want to hang around to see it unfold, but by some inexplicable force of nature, I did.
I watched in awe as the women simultaneously embraced (one woman’s embarrassing first words to the bachelor were, “What’s your favorite food?”) and then resented their weight; they were on a virtual rollercoaster of emotions for a full primetime hour. One minute they’re on the interview set blubbering and carrying on about all of the things their weight has prevented them from accomplishing, and the next they’re wolfing down meat skewers (“I loooove me some good meat on a stick!!”, one exclaimed). Girl, you don’t get pity and meat sticks. Pick one.
Why was ABC providing meat sticks in the first place? They didn’t do that on the regular Bachelor. And as if these women weren’t humiliated enough, did they really have to display their exact weights? I watched in horror as a woman devoured artichoke dip and the words “Amanda, Waitress, 279” lit up the bottom of the screen. In case you couldn’t tell she was obese. Unnecessary ABC, unnecessary.
Look, I don’t want to sound insensitive. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that looks are radically over-glorified in our society. There’s a misconception that physical beauty and happiness go hand-in-hand—I don’t believe that for a second. I know way too many skinny, gorgeous girls that are absolutely miserable with themselves. In reality, I don’t think the proverbial “secret to happiness” is a secret at all-just have a good heart and feel good about who you are.
Ok, back to the hour of my life I wasted last night. I’m sure there are women on the show who are comfortable with themselves, and to them, I tip my hat. Don’t go changin’. Keep on keepin’ on. The ones that kill me are the women who perpetuate their unhappiness by playing the victim because they’re overweight. If your weight is ruining your life, lose it. Go on a diet. Go for a run. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, because I for one have made it a priority my entire life to stay in shape. There are days when I’d rather donate my ovaries than go to the gym, but I do it anyways because I know I’ll feel good about it afterwards.
I don’t mean to sound like a total biatch. I just think people should pony-up and do what it takes to make them happy. If you ask me, life’s too short to be battling 29 other women for one man on national television, especially if you hate yourself while doing it.
As the husky, eligible bachelor awaited his princesses with baited breath, the debonair white limo pulled up the drive and came to a dramatic halt. Then the fun began, as the robust beauties unload one-by-one, eager to get their first look at their handsome prince. It didn’t take long for the absolute fragility of the women to become apparent. First came the awkward introduction, then came the teary profession of love. (“I’d marry him, I would!!”) Not a normal sequence of events. It actually made me dread the elimination ceremony because I wasn’t sure these women could handle the rejection. I didn’t want to hang around to see it unfold, but by some inexplicable force of nature, I did.
I watched in awe as the women simultaneously embraced (one woman’s embarrassing first words to the bachelor were, “What’s your favorite food?”) and then resented their weight; they were on a virtual rollercoaster of emotions for a full primetime hour. One minute they’re on the interview set blubbering and carrying on about all of the things their weight has prevented them from accomplishing, and the next they’re wolfing down meat skewers (“I loooove me some good meat on a stick!!”, one exclaimed). Girl, you don’t get pity and meat sticks. Pick one.
Why was ABC providing meat sticks in the first place? They didn’t do that on the regular Bachelor. And as if these women weren’t humiliated enough, did they really have to display their exact weights? I watched in horror as a woman devoured artichoke dip and the words “Amanda, Waitress, 279” lit up the bottom of the screen. In case you couldn’t tell she was obese. Unnecessary ABC, unnecessary.
Look, I don’t want to sound insensitive. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that looks are radically over-glorified in our society. There’s a misconception that physical beauty and happiness go hand-in-hand—I don’t believe that for a second. I know way too many skinny, gorgeous girls that are absolutely miserable with themselves. In reality, I don’t think the proverbial “secret to happiness” is a secret at all-just have a good heart and feel good about who you are.
Ok, back to the hour of my life I wasted last night. I’m sure there are women on the show who are comfortable with themselves, and to them, I tip my hat. Don’t go changin’. Keep on keepin’ on. The ones that kill me are the women who perpetuate their unhappiness by playing the victim because they’re overweight. If your weight is ruining your life, lose it. Go on a diet. Go for a run. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, because I for one have made it a priority my entire life to stay in shape. There are days when I’d rather donate my ovaries than go to the gym, but I do it anyways because I know I’ll feel good about it afterwards.
I don’t mean to sound like a total biatch. I just think people should pony-up and do what it takes to make them happy. If you ask me, life’s too short to be battling 29 other women for one man on national television, especially if you hate yourself while doing it.
Disturbing Facebook
Facebook is on a slippery slope to hell. Disagree? Lend me your ears, child.
Dumb Notifications. It’s always fun to see that someone has given me a Corvette or slapped me with a donkey. What does that even mean? And just because you like playing Oregon Trail during the summer like a total dweeb doesn’t mean I want to join your dumb wagon. Why can’t there be good notifications, like “[insert hot babe] left you a dirty message on your wall”. Or, “[insert different fly baby] gave you a hickey”. Now THAT would deserve exclamation points.
“You have received a SpeedDate match!” EXCLAMATION POINT! Like I should be sooo excited. Without fail, I get this bitch of a notification each and every morning. Huh, I don’t remember signing up for SpeedDate, but OK. What kinds of creepers are populating their information into the Facebook SpeedDate database anyways? Surely no one I care to meet. Recently, SpeedDate upped their ante when they actually started listing the names of my SpeedDate suitors. Dannyboy624, 25, from Chattanooga, TN. SpaceMan, 32, from Baltimore. ToddlerLuv, 25, from San Antonio. Wow… look at that. Not even 7am and I’ve already got a redneck, a nerd and a pedophile vying for my attention. Today is going to rock!
What’s the deal with Facebook Ads using peoples’ pictures now? We didn’t even get a personal note from Marc Zuckerberg months in advance telling us it was coming! They’re just going to implement a blatant invasion of privacy like that and hope no one notices? God bless you, random kid from my Weather Lab, for updating your status and walking me through the steps to avoid that death trap. Imagine signing in one day and seeing a picture of yourself in Vegas on a stripper pole (not that I have one…) with an ad for the Morning-After Pill below it. Or a shot of your friend looking haggard with a phone number for the Colorado Meth Project below it. Low blow Facebook. Low blow.
Status Updates. Yes, I’ve been known to update my status on occasion, but it’s either because I’m being hilarious or doing something cool. No one cares that you’re “going to the dentist (ugh!), then to the post office, then to lunch with your bestie and finally to the POOL!!!” That’s not like a newsworthy day. In fact more than half of your day sounds horrible. And spare me the emo statuses that makes me think you’re about to end it. “Lonely… can anyone hear me? Does anyone care?” Get real. If you want attention go to a poetry slam or something. How about the people who write a status, accidentally omitting or misspelling a word, and then proceed to re-type it, generously leaving the original up for us to look at and laugh at. What a dumbass!
I had an accident on Facebook today and I’m still feeling pretty weird about it. Bored at work, I was innocently perusing my homepage when my mouse got tripped up at a sticky spot on my desk where my grapefruit had oozed earlier in the day. To my horror, I realized I had clicked the “Thumbs Up!” button on THE most random girl’s status, which happened to say, “Leaving on a jetplane! Thailand in 3 days!” There is absolutely no excuse for me to give a thumbs-up to that post. I haven’t talked to this girl since we awkwardly made up a Spice Girls dance at drama camp and then had a weird falling out. I’ve never been to Thailand and could really care less that she’s going. Flustered, I tried undoing my mistake, but the damage was done. I can imagine her face next time she logs in and sees that “Stephany likes your status!” She’ll probably think it’s so weird, and then wonder if I’m a lesbian now or something.
I feel like the “thumbs-up” is really personal. I’m not going to hit it unless I really feel passionate about what you’re saying. They should give you a second chance before you reach the point of no return: “Are you SURE you want to express your overwhelming support of this person’s status?” in which case I would have selected ‘ NO’, been thankful that a crisis was averted and moved on with my day.
I guess the case I’m making is that Facebook is sucking lately. It’s making me feel way more pervy and out of control than ever before. If this continues, I will have no choice but to check out match.com. It can’t be as sketchy as Facebook, right?
Dumb Notifications. It’s always fun to see that someone has given me a Corvette or slapped me with a donkey. What does that even mean? And just because you like playing Oregon Trail during the summer like a total dweeb doesn’t mean I want to join your dumb wagon. Why can’t there be good notifications, like “[insert hot babe] left you a dirty message on your wall”. Or, “[insert different fly baby] gave you a hickey”. Now THAT would deserve exclamation points.
“You have received a SpeedDate match!” EXCLAMATION POINT! Like I should be sooo excited. Without fail, I get this bitch of a notification each and every morning. Huh, I don’t remember signing up for SpeedDate, but OK. What kinds of creepers are populating their information into the Facebook SpeedDate database anyways? Surely no one I care to meet. Recently, SpeedDate upped their ante when they actually started listing the names of my SpeedDate suitors. Dannyboy624, 25, from Chattanooga, TN. SpaceMan, 32, from Baltimore. ToddlerLuv, 25, from San Antonio. Wow… look at that. Not even 7am and I’ve already got a redneck, a nerd and a pedophile vying for my attention. Today is going to rock!
What’s the deal with Facebook Ads using peoples’ pictures now? We didn’t even get a personal note from Marc Zuckerberg months in advance telling us it was coming! They’re just going to implement a blatant invasion of privacy like that and hope no one notices? God bless you, random kid from my Weather Lab, for updating your status and walking me through the steps to avoid that death trap. Imagine signing in one day and seeing a picture of yourself in Vegas on a stripper pole (not that I have one…) with an ad for the Morning-After Pill below it. Or a shot of your friend looking haggard with a phone number for the Colorado Meth Project below it. Low blow Facebook. Low blow.
Status Updates. Yes, I’ve been known to update my status on occasion, but it’s either because I’m being hilarious or doing something cool. No one cares that you’re “going to the dentist (ugh!), then to the post office, then to lunch with your bestie and finally to the POOL!!!” That’s not like a newsworthy day. In fact more than half of your day sounds horrible. And spare me the emo statuses that makes me think you’re about to end it. “Lonely… can anyone hear me? Does anyone care?” Get real. If you want attention go to a poetry slam or something. How about the people who write a status, accidentally omitting or misspelling a word, and then proceed to re-type it, generously leaving the original up for us to look at and laugh at. What a dumbass!
I had an accident on Facebook today and I’m still feeling pretty weird about it. Bored at work, I was innocently perusing my homepage when my mouse got tripped up at a sticky spot on my desk where my grapefruit had oozed earlier in the day. To my horror, I realized I had clicked the “Thumbs Up!” button on THE most random girl’s status, which happened to say, “Leaving on a jetplane! Thailand in 3 days!” There is absolutely no excuse for me to give a thumbs-up to that post. I haven’t talked to this girl since we awkwardly made up a Spice Girls dance at drama camp and then had a weird falling out. I’ve never been to Thailand and could really care less that she’s going. Flustered, I tried undoing my mistake, but the damage was done. I can imagine her face next time she logs in and sees that “Stephany likes your status!” She’ll probably think it’s so weird, and then wonder if I’m a lesbian now or something.
I feel like the “thumbs-up” is really personal. I’m not going to hit it unless I really feel passionate about what you’re saying. They should give you a second chance before you reach the point of no return: “Are you SURE you want to express your overwhelming support of this person’s status?” in which case I would have selected ‘ NO’, been thankful that a crisis was averted and moved on with my day.
I guess the case I’m making is that Facebook is sucking lately. It’s making me feel way more pervy and out of control than ever before. If this continues, I will have no choice but to check out match.com. It can’t be as sketchy as Facebook, right?
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