I recently had to remind a married friend of mine that one should not ask questions of their spouse that they do not want to hear the truth about and I'm afraid that tonight I was forced to eat my words. I made the innocent observation that Garren was very lucky to have gotten out of a local park at night for bird watching without being raped or killed (seriously, don't go to that park at night, ya'll) and the following conversation ensued:
Garren: Well, it's like with bears. If you're with a group of people you just have to be faster than the slowest person running away from the rapist.
Me: Well, yeah if you're with a bunch of people you don't know.
Garren: I don't think that matters.
Me: Well, if it was my short-legged ass you wouldn't just run away...
Garren: (silence)
Me: I SAID... if it was me you wouldn't run away, right?
Garren: Well... probably not no.
Me: PROBABLY? I'm going to need a more definite answer than that...
Garren: Well, I mean I would probably end up using you-
Me: USING ME?! AS WHAT?!
Garren: Well, like... distraction.
Me: YOU WOULD USE ME AS BAIT?!
Garren: NO!
Me: What is using me to distract a bear called?
Garren: I would be APPEASING the bear... not BAITING it...
Me: ....
Garren: What?
Me: I'm just going to be bear appeasement?
Garren: In the very unlikely scenario that we are in the woods together, yeah
(reference the fishing-on-our-anniversary post)
Garren: Anyway, you shouldn't run from a bear, you have to fight the bear.
Me: That's cougars, idiot.
Garren: NO! It's cougars AND bears... bears can run 30 miles an hour.
Me: They might ROLL 30 miles an hour - they don't run 30 damn miles an hour
Garren: Yes they do!
Me: Don't play me for an idiot! I have seen how bears are built, they ain't runnin' for SHIT!
Garren: I'm serious!
Me: I'm sure you are! But the last time I heard you talking about fending off predatory wildlife you were telling me that you were going to lure Big Foot with beef jerky and then kick him in the nuts.
Garren: I STILL INTEND TO!
Then there was the inevitable scenario:
Garren: Well, if it was like, you, me and a fishing buddy I would just take out the guy's kneecap and we could run away.
Me: Well first of all, that's terrible. Second of all, I would hope you would value my life more than your damn fishing buddy.
Garren: (feeling like he's won) Yeah. I would.
Me: Since you got yourself into this shit and started the "whole running away from the bear" situation, you get to answer this horrible no-win question! What if it was me, you and your MOM. Who would you sacrifice.
Garren: Oh, you could outrun my mom.
Me: Wow... You wouldn't sacrifice yourself for me AND your mother? I see where we rate...
I explained to him the following issue in this instance: he could have lied to me and I would never have to know. The answer that I was looking for, of course, was "I would lag behind on the off chance that the bear caught up and I would allow myself to be eaten so that you could be safe." Of course, in practice, this would likely not happen. In all truth and honesty, he probably would use me as bait in order to "buy time so I can find a really big stick! Quit looking at me like that!" BUT. In that case I would only spend the last 30 seconds of my doomed life knowing that my boyfriend is a careless asshole. Instead, I now get to live out the rest of my life knowing that my boyfriend is a careless asshole.
This is, of course, mostly hyperbole. Garren is a loving and wonderful person (as evidenced in most previous posts) but today he learned an important lesson about white lies and relationship happiness. If I never have to know about it in any practical or theoretical sense, lie. Just lie. Instead of going home to write about you on my blog I could instead share with absolutely no one the fact that you would sacrifice yourself to a bear for me... because no one wants to hear that shit... that would be incredibly corny. I think if someone told me that their boyfriend ever admitted to that, I would blink at them awkwardly until they walked away.
And this is why and how men should learn to lie to women. Do it so no one else has to have this argument while screaming at each other with the window down in front of a restaurant with outdoor seating. Where people are wondering what the hell is wrong with you. And why you are both laughing while screaming at each other about bears.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
I'll Make An Awful Wife Someday
My boyfriend, Garren, is a saint among men. Luckily for me he had done shockingly little dating at the time that I met him for being as good looking as he is; he was slowly and carefully conditioned to believe that my unique combination of high maintenance slovenly-ness was actually somewhat normal. If he ever finds out that some women actually cook, clean and do laundry I will be operating on my looks alone.
His mother, however, is about to blow my cover. She called me the other day to ask me what I was bringing to their family's annual summer party. The following conversation ensued:
Kathy: "So... don't get mad at me..."
Me: "OK."
Kathy: "You promise you won't hate me?"
Me: "I promise."
Kathy: "I'm going to make you actually cook something..."
Me: "...Oh! Uh. OK."
This poor woman knows first hand the story of how I almost burnt down our apartment. As someone who has literally screwed up Easy Mac in front of an 8 year old (and unsuccessfully tried to trick her into thinking it was mac and cheese soup) I can tell you that what I was doing hadn't even gotten to what could be called "cooking" yet. I tried to pre-heat the oven to bake pre-made frozen crab rangoons and didn't think to check the oven beforehand to make sure there was nothing in it. Long story short, it ended in me making a frantic call to the fire department while fanning my smoke detector and calling Garren sobbing and screaming "WHO KEEPS PLASTIC IN THE OVEN?!?!"
Once the fire department had cleared out, I had accounted for all my cats and had flopped onto the couch to indulge in a loud cry, Garren's family could be seen out my window running hell-bent for election across my parking lot to save me from what Garren had led them to believe was an all-consuming inferno. They found me in Garren's basketball shorts, a sports bra and mismatched flip flops and it was likely at that moment they knew that I would be dependent on their son forever if I was going to spare myself nearly impossible death from domestic ineptitude. They dutifully cleared out my kitchen and comforted my psycho dog while his Dad finally worked up the courage to ask "So... what were you trying to do in here?"
Against all odds, I am actually pretty good at cleaning but dishes are not my strong suit. My house remains fairly clean most of the time but since Garren and I both hate doing dishes, we constantly have a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. My mother has an adorable pre-diagnosable case of OCD and she loves nothing more than cleaning, so, growing up there was not much left to make chores of, especially dishes. My mother doing dishes or toothbrush-cleaning a sink induces in her a happiness akin to the animals at the end of Splash Mountain. It would be like poaching Brer Rabbit to take those kinds of tasks away from her, though I have never dared test the theory. I have let dishes sit long enough to algae because I am really only half sure that I'm doing it right. I never washed a dish until I moved out of the house, much to the chagrin of my college roommate. She walked in on me putting hand soap on a plate and just running it under water and waiting for the chunks of food to disappear as soon as the water got hot enough. "Where is your sponge?" she asked, taking the plate from me as though helping a house cat out of pants. "This is so awkward, I cannot look at you anymore."
I was rather proud of myself the other day for picking up a rather extensive "dog accident" all by myself. Usually, when these sorts of things happen, I generally pretend to be asleep on the couch when he gets home and when he asks me why I didn't pick it up I say "He must have done that while I was sleeping!" prompting the obvious question of "Why is it cold, then?!" which is when I generally pretend to be asleep again. This instance was unavoidable - it was right inside the front door. I wouldn't have been able to miss it on my way in and I had very clearly dragged the door through it. I was sunk. That and he wouldn't be home for hours and I couldn't confine myself to the back of the house to avoid the smell until he got home - I would have to microwave a corndog eventually and I would have to pass by it again and feel the awful sting of disgust with myself (for leaving the dog shit there, not for eating a corn dog.) I did manage to clean it up; Garren could have done it with three paper towels and a Lysol wipe but it took me an entire roll of paper towels, two trash bags and thirteen Lysol wipes. But. The job got done and isn't that what's important?
If you think the corndogs are bad, you will be disgusted to hear what I usually eat. Garren likes to cook and is very good at it, but I have never really tried. Thus, when he is not home, I eat like a 12 year old boy with the house to himself:
Typical meal when Garren is home: meat/couscous/steamed vegetable or dining out.
Typical meal when I am home alone: PB&J (two bites eaten before it's determined that the ratio was off), deviled eggs, stale tortilla chips, Red Vines and Sprite.
My coworker found out about this the other day and challenged me to cook for a week and I laughed.
Me: "No one actually does that."
Stephanie: "Everyone does that!"
Me: "Well... yeah but..."
Stephanie: "NO MORE STALE TORTILLA CHIPS!"
I am fairly good at laundry but I only had to start doing it myself because Garren made the near-fatal decision of machine washing a silk shirt. I think he may have sacrificed that shirt so he wouldn't have to keep doing my laundry, but I've never confirmed that.
So, in a move usually characteristic of late-December/early-January, I have decided to start actually cooking, doing all the laundry and keeping the house clean. Today I cooked the first thing I have tried to cook since the crab-rangoon-inlaw-rescue: fruit pizza. I basically only made one large Pillsbury sugar cookie, softened some cream cheese and arranged some fruit. When Garren got home and assumed that he would have to hold my hand while I crashed dishes around until he took over a recipe for me, heactually found the pizza already done and in the fridge and he looked at me hopefully. His eyes seemed to say "...But I'm going to have to do the fucking dishes, aren't I?"
His mother, however, is about to blow my cover. She called me the other day to ask me what I was bringing to their family's annual summer party. The following conversation ensued:
Kathy: "So... don't get mad at me..."
Me: "OK."
Kathy: "You promise you won't hate me?"
Me: "I promise."
Kathy: "I'm going to make you actually cook something..."
Me: "...Oh! Uh. OK."
This poor woman knows first hand the story of how I almost burnt down our apartment. As someone who has literally screwed up Easy Mac in front of an 8 year old (and unsuccessfully tried to trick her into thinking it was mac and cheese soup) I can tell you that what I was doing hadn't even gotten to what could be called "cooking" yet. I tried to pre-heat the oven to bake pre-made frozen crab rangoons and didn't think to check the oven beforehand to make sure there was nothing in it. Long story short, it ended in me making a frantic call to the fire department while fanning my smoke detector and calling Garren sobbing and screaming "WHO KEEPS PLASTIC IN THE OVEN?!?!"
Once the fire department had cleared out, I had accounted for all my cats and had flopped onto the couch to indulge in a loud cry, Garren's family could be seen out my window running hell-bent for election across my parking lot to save me from what Garren had led them to believe was an all-consuming inferno. They found me in Garren's basketball shorts, a sports bra and mismatched flip flops and it was likely at that moment they knew that I would be dependent on their son forever if I was going to spare myself nearly impossible death from domestic ineptitude. They dutifully cleared out my kitchen and comforted my psycho dog while his Dad finally worked up the courage to ask "So... what were you trying to do in here?"
Against all odds, I am actually pretty good at cleaning but dishes are not my strong suit. My house remains fairly clean most of the time but since Garren and I both hate doing dishes, we constantly have a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. My mother has an adorable pre-diagnosable case of OCD and she loves nothing more than cleaning, so, growing up there was not much left to make chores of, especially dishes. My mother doing dishes or toothbrush-cleaning a sink induces in her a happiness akin to the animals at the end of Splash Mountain. It would be like poaching Brer Rabbit to take those kinds of tasks away from her, though I have never dared test the theory. I have let dishes sit long enough to algae because I am really only half sure that I'm doing it right. I never washed a dish until I moved out of the house, much to the chagrin of my college roommate. She walked in on me putting hand soap on a plate and just running it under water and waiting for the chunks of food to disappear as soon as the water got hot enough. "Where is your sponge?" she asked, taking the plate from me as though helping a house cat out of pants. "This is so awkward, I cannot look at you anymore."
I was rather proud of myself the other day for picking up a rather extensive "dog accident" all by myself. Usually, when these sorts of things happen, I generally pretend to be asleep on the couch when he gets home and when he asks me why I didn't pick it up I say "He must have done that while I was sleeping!" prompting the obvious question of "Why is it cold, then?!" which is when I generally pretend to be asleep again. This instance was unavoidable - it was right inside the front door. I wouldn't have been able to miss it on my way in and I had very clearly dragged the door through it. I was sunk. That and he wouldn't be home for hours and I couldn't confine myself to the back of the house to avoid the smell until he got home - I would have to microwave a corndog eventually and I would have to pass by it again and feel the awful sting of disgust with myself (for leaving the dog shit there, not for eating a corn dog.) I did manage to clean it up; Garren could have done it with three paper towels and a Lysol wipe but it took me an entire roll of paper towels, two trash bags and thirteen Lysol wipes. But. The job got done and isn't that what's important?
If you think the corndogs are bad, you will be disgusted to hear what I usually eat. Garren likes to cook and is very good at it, but I have never really tried. Thus, when he is not home, I eat like a 12 year old boy with the house to himself:
Typical meal when Garren is home: meat/couscous/steamed vegetable or dining out.
Typical meal when I am home alone: PB&J (two bites eaten before it's determined that the ratio was off), deviled eggs, stale tortilla chips, Red Vines and Sprite.
My coworker found out about this the other day and challenged me to cook for a week and I laughed.
Me: "No one actually does that."
Stephanie: "Everyone does that!"
Me: "Well... yeah but..."
Stephanie: "NO MORE STALE TORTILLA CHIPS!"
I am fairly good at laundry but I only had to start doing it myself because Garren made the near-fatal decision of machine washing a silk shirt. I think he may have sacrificed that shirt so he wouldn't have to keep doing my laundry, but I've never confirmed that.
So, in a move usually characteristic of late-December/early-January, I have decided to start actually cooking, doing all the laundry and keeping the house clean. Today I cooked the first thing I have tried to cook since the crab-rangoon-inlaw-rescue: fruit pizza. I basically only made one large Pillsbury sugar cookie, softened some cream cheese and arranged some fruit. When Garren got home and assumed that he would have to hold my hand while I crashed dishes around until he took over a recipe for me, heactually found the pizza already done and in the fridge and he looked at me hopefully. His eyes seemed to say "...But I'm going to have to do the fucking dishes, aren't I?"
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
My Phone Is A Piece Of Shit
Am I turning into my grandfather? If so, I blame my phone.
How do I always end up getting suckered into this shit? Seriously? I suppose that starts with me doing what I am genetically dispositioned to do, paternally speaking: buying the shittiest model of whatever I can find and trying to pass it off as a "vintage" or "fiscally smart" decision. My father can now laugh all the way to the bank because if I could unearth my first pre-flip-phone 2002 Nokia from my mother's house I would gladly do it. I would use it right in front of my current phone and then make my current phone take pictures of it.
I hate every single thing about my phone. Everything. "Everything?" you ask. "Surely you exaggerate, there must be some distinguishing feature on your phone that you can find value in." No. Also, this is my blog, don't you back sass me. This isn't your mother's dinner table.
Let me take you through a normal day between myself and my phone. Every morning I wake up and if I have forgotten to plug it in the night before it will be dead. I shouldn't say completely, it will turn on long enough to open up a graphic saying "WELCOME TO TMOBILE!" and then immediately afterward "GOODBYE". This is one of many examples of things that it likes to do purely to piss me the hell off. THEN as I type these words it has randomly turned itself off for no reason and now back on. This prompts it to run an app called "I Left My Phone At Home" which eats up 2 minutes of boot up time all by itself. I don't really remember why I downloaded it because I intentionally leave this thing at home all the time, like you would leave an insolent child at home while everyone else goes to get ice cream.
Then... god forbid I'm getting a text message. And even worse, if I am responding to a text message as someone else is trying to write me something. This guarantees me two full minutes of frozen phone that can only be remedied by taking out it's fucking battery and putting it back in and then it only takes about 7 minutes. I save myself 3 minutes but also, usually, break a nail.
Let me take you through a few features that sound awesome but I can assure you are not. I have maybe two apps on this thing because there are not that many available for the system that I use.
1) Internet explorer. Who the hell uses internet explorer anymore?
2) Google Maps. Featuring text almost large enough for you to tell that it is intending to make words. This is really helpful when driving.
3) The music feature! I still have not figured out how this shit works. Usually, after clicking and dragging and saving and cursing I end up with half the songs I intended to transfer and I just call it a draw.
4) Games - I have many full length games based largely upon TV shows my grandfather likes to watch but the only one worth a damn (Tetris) is demo length (letting you only get far enough to level up and then cutting out.)
5)It came with Transformers on it but with all cases of watching anything on this phone, all you can see (if you're lucky enough not to find glare) is every finger print you have ever put on it ever that refuses to wipe itself from the damn face of the thing. If Gary Ridgeway would have touched my phone, rubbed it off vigorously and soaked it in bleach, they STILL would have caught him.
6) Then there is of course the flashlight app - helpful, right? WRONG. You turn it on and there is a delay. It is always juuuuust long enough that I think to myself "Is this thing broken?", flip it over and do so just in time for the thing to BLIND ME.
7) I do like the Next2Me App which uses GPS to tell me what accommodations are by me, but it always seems to think that I am in a part of town that I have never been to. It's a different unfamiliar place every time, but the things there look lovely. I'm pretty sure the app is not US made, however it's always helpful if I want to find, among other things: a "cinema", a "swimming", Wikipedia (like what, their fucking headquarters? Spoiler alert, it's somebody's mom's basement), "fire brigade", a monastery (there are none because the only place this phone doesn't think I am is Tibet), a mosque (there are 8!), a youth hostel or a "guesthouse" which just sounds like a horror move set up. See? This phone is trying to kill me.
I spent a not-modest amount of money on something that I intentionally leave at home because it's just too complicated and maddening for me and some days I just don't want to feel like my grandfather using a Comcast box... (spoiler alert number 2, it looks strangely similar to me using a Comcast box.)
How do I always end up getting suckered into this shit? Seriously? I suppose that starts with me doing what I am genetically dispositioned to do, paternally speaking: buying the shittiest model of whatever I can find and trying to pass it off as a "vintage" or "fiscally smart" decision. My father can now laugh all the way to the bank because if I could unearth my first pre-flip-phone 2002 Nokia from my mother's house I would gladly do it. I would use it right in front of my current phone and then make my current phone take pictures of it.
I hate every single thing about my phone. Everything. "Everything?" you ask. "Surely you exaggerate, there must be some distinguishing feature on your phone that you can find value in." No. Also, this is my blog, don't you back sass me. This isn't your mother's dinner table.
Let me take you through a normal day between myself and my phone. Every morning I wake up and if I have forgotten to plug it in the night before it will be dead. I shouldn't say completely, it will turn on long enough to open up a graphic saying "WELCOME TO TMOBILE!" and then immediately afterward "GOODBYE". This is one of many examples of things that it likes to do purely to piss me the hell off. THEN as I type these words it has randomly turned itself off for no reason and now back on. This prompts it to run an app called "I Left My Phone At Home" which eats up 2 minutes of boot up time all by itself. I don't really remember why I downloaded it because I intentionally leave this thing at home all the time, like you would leave an insolent child at home while everyone else goes to get ice cream.
Then... god forbid I'm getting a text message. And even worse, if I am responding to a text message as someone else is trying to write me something. This guarantees me two full minutes of frozen phone that can only be remedied by taking out it's fucking battery and putting it back in and then it only takes about 7 minutes. I save myself 3 minutes but also, usually, break a nail.
Let me take you through a few features that sound awesome but I can assure you are not. I have maybe two apps on this thing because there are not that many available for the system that I use.
1) Internet explorer. Who the hell uses internet explorer anymore?
2) Google Maps. Featuring text almost large enough for you to tell that it is intending to make words. This is really helpful when driving.
3) The music feature! I still have not figured out how this shit works. Usually, after clicking and dragging and saving and cursing I end up with half the songs I intended to transfer and I just call it a draw.
4) Games - I have many full length games based largely upon TV shows my grandfather likes to watch but the only one worth a damn (Tetris) is demo length (letting you only get far enough to level up and then cutting out.)
5)It came with Transformers on it but with all cases of watching anything on this phone, all you can see (if you're lucky enough not to find glare) is every finger print you have ever put on it ever that refuses to wipe itself from the damn face of the thing. If Gary Ridgeway would have touched my phone, rubbed it off vigorously and soaked it in bleach, they STILL would have caught him.
6) Then there is of course the flashlight app - helpful, right? WRONG. You turn it on and there is a delay. It is always juuuuust long enough that I think to myself "Is this thing broken?", flip it over and do so just in time for the thing to BLIND ME.
7) I do like the Next2Me App which uses GPS to tell me what accommodations are by me, but it always seems to think that I am in a part of town that I have never been to. It's a different unfamiliar place every time, but the things there look lovely. I'm pretty sure the app is not US made, however it's always helpful if I want to find, among other things: a "cinema", a "swimming", Wikipedia (like what, their fucking headquarters? Spoiler alert, it's somebody's mom's basement), "fire brigade", a monastery (there are none because the only place this phone doesn't think I am is Tibet), a mosque (there are 8!), a youth hostel or a "guesthouse" which just sounds like a horror move set up. See? This phone is trying to kill me.
I spent a not-modest amount of money on something that I intentionally leave at home because it's just too complicated and maddening for me and some days I just don't want to feel like my grandfather using a Comcast box... (spoiler alert number 2, it looks strangely similar to me using a Comcast box.)
Monday, February 28, 2011
Oscars Recap
Every year my mom and I watch as many Oscar nominated movies as we can muster and then get together on Oscar Sunday to watch the dresses, cry during the In Memoriam clips and talk shit about all the technical awards recipients who speeches go too damn long. This year we watched The King's Speech, The Kids Are Alright, The Fighter and Toy Story 3 and got together with my friend Julia, her mom and her sister to each pizza and be critical. It was magic.
First of all, my picks on the big categories:
Best Picture: The King's Speech
If I had a nickel for every Oscar nominated movie that made me feel uplifted, I would now be the proud owner of five friggin' cents. Everything was amazing - Colin Firth, Geoffrey Rush, Helena Bonham Carter, the coats, the shoes, the story, the samples of the speeches... I was riveted the whole time. It was, above all, WATCHABLE. There was not one moment that made me want to cringe and look away or feel uncomfortable that I was watching it with my mom. I was thinking about that movie for days afterward... LOVED it.
The Fighter was a very close second, though I completely understand why Mark Wahlberg was not nominated for Best Actor. He was great, but he hasn't done his time. There was very little I didn't like about the movie. It had something for everyone.
The Kids Are Alright had absolutely no redeeming qualities for me. None. I didn't care about a single one of those characters. I thought the message of the movie was frankly a little offensive (all lesbians are secretly bisexual?) If you are going to show the real ups and downs of a long term lesbian relationship, don't ignore the fact that they have the same every day stupid problems everyone else does. There's no need for their sexuality to be a bone (pardon the pun) of contention... is it for straight couples? The acting was shit. I love Annette Bening and Julianne Moore and I thought the casting was beyond sloppy and ill thought out. I could go on and on about the shit I hated about this movie. It is literally the worst movie I have ever seen and the buzz surrounding this movie shocks the hell out of me.
Best Actor: Colin Firth, The King's Speech
To be fair this is the only actor that I saw in a leading role that was nominated, but I don't really think anyone else had a chance in hell. He had a great, noble, flawed and inspiring character to play not to mention that the British Royal Family is highly en vogue right now given all the wedding shit. His stammer was so painful to watch... he starts to speak and you just want to hug him and feed him a cookie and tell him everything is going to be OK. It takes a lot for me to feel that about a character. OK maybe not, I felt the same way when Bender was trapped in the closet by the principal in the Breakfast Club... But when you find out why King George VI stammers in the first place you just want to break down and cry right there. Then he busts out swearing and you want to applaud and break into a scandalized giggle all at once. It's masterful... I don't care how close to fact it really is, it was movie magic and Colin Firth absolutely MADE that movie.
Best Actress: Anyone But Annette Bening
That's how much I hated that movie. Plus everyone know Natalie Portman had this shit on lockdown. That role was gold... I heard the movie was absolute shit though so I'm glad it didn't win. I have no interest in seeing it, that's how much terrible shit I've heard. However, I would have almost seen Annette Bening win than have to count down the seconds until Natalie Portman mentioned her pregnancy in her acceptance speech. OK, she's talking about her costars... on to the husband... how glad she was to get the role... it all added up to the most predictable line of the night, her thanking her husband for giving her "the most important role of her life." I'm like "Funny Girl?" If it hadn't have been so calculated, sugary sweet and predictable I might have not given it a second thought.
Best Supporting Actor: Christian Bale for The Fighter
This was a tough one for me, I really liked Geoffrey Rush. However, it's impossible not to like his character. He was a charmingly inspiring speech therapist and best friend to the King. Everything about him is just... well, lovely. Not to say that I play by these rules exclusively, but it was an English gentleman with manners playing an English gentleman with manners. Christian Bale had an accent, a body type and a reputation to overcome in this role. His character is not likeable. Never once do you believe that Dickey will clean up his act. His personality is magnetic and repulsive in equal parts which is confusing and irritating, but Bale pulled it the fuck off. You forget that you are watching someone with all his proper teeth. Not to be cliche, but I believed that I was watching a meth addict boxer. The best part, was when the end of the movie cuts to Mickey and Dickey talking, you are not surprised by either of them. They are exactly, in all ways, what you pictured because the casting and talent was freaking impeccable.
Best Supporting Actress: Amy Adams, The Fighter
To be fair I would have been equally happy to see Helena Bonham Carter win (although screen time wise she didn't have much to work with) and I was really excited to see Melissa Leo take it. Granted, I would have loved to see her (after her role as white trash) make a really dignified speech in that beautiful dress. But! We can't all be Charlize Theron accepting for Monster... There is a reason that they had no choice but to nominate two actresses from the same movie, both of them had a lot to work with and really went for it. But Amy Adams really showed the most range, to me. She got to do sweet, funny, hard, vulnerable, bar fly, devoted girlfriend, all in one movie. She grows, she stands up for Mickey and she's fascinating to watch. Melissa Leo's character does not change. It's tragic to watch her favor her fuck up son and watch the other one flounder and she does it the whole movie. There is no growth at all, and that makes it less watchable for me. But! She completely NAILS the character even in her state of near stagnation.
Costume and Art Direction I would have LOVED to see go to Harry Potter, but I have to give it to Alice in Wonderland... it was the deserving pick. Plus I really think next year will be Harry's year... I want to see those films get the recognition they deserve, if for nothing else than the artistic contributions. After seeing those costumes in person, I can tell you film doesn't do them justice. Just know that someone in costuming LOVED Snape... his robes read drab and weird, but in real life they are a beautiful, regal and shimmery blue that are structured yet man-elegant. I want it to win something, but I know why they're waiting for next year.
Also... I thought it was kind of awesome that Trent Reznor won for Best Score. First of all, he's the man behind Nine Inch Nails... he ain't known for elegance or subtlety, really. But what I liked is for anyone who didn't know who he was, he looked like every other slightly-awkward Joe up there winning one of the more "invisible" awards. That was a moment...
Now, on to the awards show itself. Let's just get this out of the way, Franco was high. Trust me. Notice how he kept looking up and to the side and squinting a bit... somoene in the balcony had a bag of Cheetos. I would bet a paycheck on it. I adore Anne Hathaway. Bitch looked fierce all night (except from her last dress and the Black Swan call out updo.) I like that they tried to pander to a younger crowd, but the Oscars are not a night for "whooo!"ing and marijuana - they are about dignified elegance and decorum. It was too stilted for the young crowd and too lackadaisical for the older crowd... and I think both would be right. When Billy Crystal came out on stage, I kind of wanted to yell at the TV "NO! STAY!"
And now... the fashion.
Best Dressed Female: Cate Blanchett in Givenchy
I really had to put some thought into this. When I first saw the dress, I was in AWE of it! Absolutely gorgeous. When I saw the yellow though, I had to think twice about it. I didn't like the yellow with the silver. It needed a little something else... But I just got a look at the back today and I'm back on the bandwagon. I LOVE this dress. I would have liked to see another color besides yellow, but even with the yellow color that I hate, I have to give it up for this dress. Beautiful.
Worst Accessorizing: Amy Adams
I don't even know what the hell else she was wearing, but I haven't seen a necklace worn over a high neck top/dress since I was 6 years old and trying to make my turtlenecks look less weird. Didn't like it!
Everyone Hated It, I Loved It: Anne Hathaway in Armani Prive
Is it awful that I don't know how anyone couldn't love this dress? I know everyone is talking shit about it today, but I could not take my eyes off this dress - it kind of has it all for me. I am a huge electric/cobalt blue fan, so I might be biased.
Worst Dressed: Gwyneth Paltrow in Calvin Klein
Julia said it best - she was going for gold but it came up beige. This picture actually looks halfway alright, but with the stage lighting her hair was beige, her skin was beige, the dress was beige... I hated it. It just looked like she tried hard only to have it look like she didn't try at all. It was just a big ole' no for me. Plus that song she sang was AWFUL.
Best Dressed, But Only On Her: Mila Kuniz in Elie Saab
This dress was so cute... I just loved it. I could look at this dress all day and still find things I like about it. My favorite though is the lace detailing on the neckline... it was really intricate without looking fussy, which is hard to pull of. It was young enough for her and she's one of the only people that got the full hair/makeup/dress/bag/shoes thing going for me. It all looked great. Very close second for best dressed for me.
Go Big Or Go Home: Helena Bonham Carter in pretty much anything she could find
Seriously?! She promised a disaster, and I felt like even though it was the Oscars, she could have gone hard with it and done some weird shit. Boo... bring it all next time, missy.
Worst Hair: Reese Witherspoon
We couldn't stop talking about this hair... my lord. Really?! This isn't your prom! I adored her dress, her makeup was beautiful - but the hair was just a honky tonk afterthought fuck it... So much no here. So much. But it almost gets half-points for showing off those beautiful earrings.
That's it for this year, ya'll! Comment away!
First of all, my picks on the big categories:
Best Picture: The King's Speech
If I had a nickel for every Oscar nominated movie that made me feel uplifted, I would now be the proud owner of five friggin' cents. Everything was amazing - Colin Firth, Geoffrey Rush, Helena Bonham Carter, the coats, the shoes, the story, the samples of the speeches... I was riveted the whole time. It was, above all, WATCHABLE. There was not one moment that made me want to cringe and look away or feel uncomfortable that I was watching it with my mom. I was thinking about that movie for days afterward... LOVED it.
The Fighter was a very close second, though I completely understand why Mark Wahlberg was not nominated for Best Actor. He was great, but he hasn't done his time. There was very little I didn't like about the movie. It had something for everyone.
The Kids Are Alright had absolutely no redeeming qualities for me. None. I didn't care about a single one of those characters. I thought the message of the movie was frankly a little offensive (all lesbians are secretly bisexual?) If you are going to show the real ups and downs of a long term lesbian relationship, don't ignore the fact that they have the same every day stupid problems everyone else does. There's no need for their sexuality to be a bone (pardon the pun) of contention... is it for straight couples? The acting was shit. I love Annette Bening and Julianne Moore and I thought the casting was beyond sloppy and ill thought out. I could go on and on about the shit I hated about this movie. It is literally the worst movie I have ever seen and the buzz surrounding this movie shocks the hell out of me.
Best Actor: Colin Firth, The King's Speech
To be fair this is the only actor that I saw in a leading role that was nominated, but I don't really think anyone else had a chance in hell. He had a great, noble, flawed and inspiring character to play not to mention that the British Royal Family is highly en vogue right now given all the wedding shit. His stammer was so painful to watch... he starts to speak and you just want to hug him and feed him a cookie and tell him everything is going to be OK. It takes a lot for me to feel that about a character. OK maybe not, I felt the same way when Bender was trapped in the closet by the principal in the Breakfast Club... But when you find out why King George VI stammers in the first place you just want to break down and cry right there. Then he busts out swearing and you want to applaud and break into a scandalized giggle all at once. It's masterful... I don't care how close to fact it really is, it was movie magic and Colin Firth absolutely MADE that movie.
Best Actress: Anyone But Annette Bening
That's how much I hated that movie. Plus everyone know Natalie Portman had this shit on lockdown. That role was gold... I heard the movie was absolute shit though so I'm glad it didn't win. I have no interest in seeing it, that's how much terrible shit I've heard. However, I would have almost seen Annette Bening win than have to count down the seconds until Natalie Portman mentioned her pregnancy in her acceptance speech. OK, she's talking about her costars... on to the husband... how glad she was to get the role... it all added up to the most predictable line of the night, her thanking her husband for giving her "the most important role of her life." I'm like "Funny Girl?" If it hadn't have been so calculated, sugary sweet and predictable I might have not given it a second thought.
Best Supporting Actor: Christian Bale for The Fighter
This was a tough one for me, I really liked Geoffrey Rush. However, it's impossible not to like his character. He was a charmingly inspiring speech therapist and best friend to the King. Everything about him is just... well, lovely. Not to say that I play by these rules exclusively, but it was an English gentleman with manners playing an English gentleman with manners. Christian Bale had an accent, a body type and a reputation to overcome in this role. His character is not likeable. Never once do you believe that Dickey will clean up his act. His personality is magnetic and repulsive in equal parts which is confusing and irritating, but Bale pulled it the fuck off. You forget that you are watching someone with all his proper teeth. Not to be cliche, but I believed that I was watching a meth addict boxer. The best part, was when the end of the movie cuts to Mickey and Dickey talking, you are not surprised by either of them. They are exactly, in all ways, what you pictured because the casting and talent was freaking impeccable.
Best Supporting Actress: Amy Adams, The Fighter
To be fair I would have been equally happy to see Helena Bonham Carter win (although screen time wise she didn't have much to work with) and I was really excited to see Melissa Leo take it. Granted, I would have loved to see her (after her role as white trash) make a really dignified speech in that beautiful dress. But! We can't all be Charlize Theron accepting for Monster... There is a reason that they had no choice but to nominate two actresses from the same movie, both of them had a lot to work with and really went for it. But Amy Adams really showed the most range, to me. She got to do sweet, funny, hard, vulnerable, bar fly, devoted girlfriend, all in one movie. She grows, she stands up for Mickey and she's fascinating to watch. Melissa Leo's character does not change. It's tragic to watch her favor her fuck up son and watch the other one flounder and she does it the whole movie. There is no growth at all, and that makes it less watchable for me. But! She completely NAILS the character even in her state of near stagnation.
Costume and Art Direction I would have LOVED to see go to Harry Potter, but I have to give it to Alice in Wonderland... it was the deserving pick. Plus I really think next year will be Harry's year... I want to see those films get the recognition they deserve, if for nothing else than the artistic contributions. After seeing those costumes in person, I can tell you film doesn't do them justice. Just know that someone in costuming LOVED Snape... his robes read drab and weird, but in real life they are a beautiful, regal and shimmery blue that are structured yet man-elegant. I want it to win something, but I know why they're waiting for next year.
Also... I thought it was kind of awesome that Trent Reznor won for Best Score. First of all, he's the man behind Nine Inch Nails... he ain't known for elegance or subtlety, really. But what I liked is for anyone who didn't know who he was, he looked like every other slightly-awkward Joe up there winning one of the more "invisible" awards. That was a moment...
Now, on to the awards show itself. Let's just get this out of the way, Franco was high. Trust me. Notice how he kept looking up and to the side and squinting a bit... somoene in the balcony had a bag of Cheetos. I would bet a paycheck on it. I adore Anne Hathaway. Bitch looked fierce all night (except from her last dress and the Black Swan call out updo.) I like that they tried to pander to a younger crowd, but the Oscars are not a night for "whooo!"ing and marijuana - they are about dignified elegance and decorum. It was too stilted for the young crowd and too lackadaisical for the older crowd... and I think both would be right. When Billy Crystal came out on stage, I kind of wanted to yell at the TV "NO! STAY!"
And now... the fashion.
Best Dressed Female: Cate Blanchett in Givenchy
I really had to put some thought into this. When I first saw the dress, I was in AWE of it! Absolutely gorgeous. When I saw the yellow though, I had to think twice about it. I didn't like the yellow with the silver. It needed a little something else... But I just got a look at the back today and I'm back on the bandwagon. I LOVE this dress. I would have liked to see another color besides yellow, but even with the yellow color that I hate, I have to give it up for this dress. Beautiful.
Worst Accessorizing: Amy Adams
I don't even know what the hell else she was wearing, but I haven't seen a necklace worn over a high neck top/dress since I was 6 years old and trying to make my turtlenecks look less weird. Didn't like it!
Everyone Hated It, I Loved It: Anne Hathaway in Armani Prive
Is it awful that I don't know how anyone couldn't love this dress? I know everyone is talking shit about it today, but I could not take my eyes off this dress - it kind of has it all for me. I am a huge electric/cobalt blue fan, so I might be biased.
Worst Dressed: Gwyneth Paltrow in Calvin Klein
Julia said it best - she was going for gold but it came up beige. This picture actually looks halfway alright, but with the stage lighting her hair was beige, her skin was beige, the dress was beige... I hated it. It just looked like she tried hard only to have it look like she didn't try at all. It was just a big ole' no for me. Plus that song she sang was AWFUL.
Best Dressed, But Only On Her: Mila Kuniz in Elie Saab
This dress was so cute... I just loved it. I could look at this dress all day and still find things I like about it. My favorite though is the lace detailing on the neckline... it was really intricate without looking fussy, which is hard to pull of. It was young enough for her and she's one of the only people that got the full hair/makeup/dress/bag/shoes thing going for me. It all looked great. Very close second for best dressed for me.
Go Big Or Go Home: Helena Bonham Carter in pretty much anything she could find
Seriously?! She promised a disaster, and I felt like even though it was the Oscars, she could have gone hard with it and done some weird shit. Boo... bring it all next time, missy.
Worst Hair: Reese Witherspoon
We couldn't stop talking about this hair... my lord. Really?! This isn't your prom! I adored her dress, her makeup was beautiful - but the hair was just a honky tonk afterthought fuck it... So much no here. So much. But it almost gets half-points for showing off those beautiful earrings.
That's it for this year, ya'll! Comment away!
Saturday, February 26, 2011
An Open Letter To My Upstairs Neighbors
Dear Neighbors,
On this, the eve of my last Saturday in this shitty ass apartment, I thought I would write you this letter of inquiry and suggestion. Since all I see you doing is sulking through our parking lot with your backpacks, I hope that you will take time out of your grueling schedule of attending community college and pissing me the fuck off to actually read it. By the time you read this I will already be gone... I won't have run into traffic as I often contemplate due to your idiocy, but I will have moved to the nicer end of the crappy neighborhood we live in, so take THAT, ass hats.
At first you were nameless, faceless stomping noises so I got to assign to you whatever identity I wanted. I will share with you now that I envisioned: overweight, ill-mannered children whose favorite game was "Drop Shit On The Ground and Then Run Away." I envisioned your deaf mother who was unaware of your annoying behavior... I tried to come up with any excuse for the cacophony going on upstairs. I briefly tried to convince myself that you were orphans just trying to make your way through this cruel world the only way you knew how: by throwing cinder blocks from your beds onto the floor and then slamming doors. However, finally, your antics caused me to undertake the loathsome task of entering our rental office to talk to the Ed Hardy wearing femme-douches that pose as our property managers. I was desperate. I started describing what assholes you are and out of no where she said:
"Are they Asian?"
The following conversation ensued:
Me: "Um... I don't..."
Ladydouche: "I mean, I'm not trying to be racist, it's just that I think I know who you're talking about."
Me: "I've never really... uh... I've never seen..."
LD: "I know, I don't see race either, but seriously they are terrible."
Me: "No, no... It's..."
LD: "Yesterday, two of them came in here, a guy and a girl, and they started arguing and one just slapped the other one across the face! I called the cops, but he'd already left! They're exchange students and I swear to God, it's like they don't even get our culture or anything..."
I left even madder, thinking that our property manager was not only a douche but a racist one at that. Plus, I already knew that you were Pippi Longstocking with adjustment issues... I could get used to it. Later that day, to my horror, I realized that you actually were the people she was referring to. So now, not only do I know that you're loud, obnoxious and rude... I also know that you basically just spend your weekends smacking the shit out of each other as if you were curious about how we do shit in America and somehow got stuck on Telemundo soap operas and just went with it...
Perhaps this may be a cultural difference, but due to recent events in the media I was under the impression that Asian children are raised to be strictly respectful, quiet and talented. You may be aware that, recently, a mother wrote a book about Asian parenting being superior to Western parenting - which is not necessarily a point of contention here. However, every Saturday night, while you stomp around and scream on the porch I fantasize about stuffing you all into my car and punting your asses onto her lawn one by one screaming "HEY BITCH, YOU MISSED A COUPLE!"
Last weekend, your evening performance of Bowling Ball Drop Riverdance caused my boyfriend to go out to the parking lot and see what exactly you were doing. Dancing? Wrestling? No... it turns out that you were just animatedly laughing while watching cartoons. FUCKING CARTOONS?! You were just rolling around on the floor, pounding your fists on the carpet, completely losing it about a goddamn cartoon. Just know that I know this about you and I'm disappointed.
Despite knowing that, when I heard bedsprings creaking above my bedroom 20 minutes ago, I had enough respect for you left to assume that you were having sex. That's right. I thought that someone who who spends their Saturday nights watching cartoons with 3 strange looking girls was actually getting some. You. Are. Fucking. Welcome. Consider it a freebee, weirdos. It then became very obvious that either you are into some weird WEIRD, bizarre sex shit... or... you were just JUMPING ON THE DAMN BED!!! Is that seriously how you're spending your Saturday? "Hey ladies, let's watch some cartoons and then after that, let's go to my room and giggle and jump on the bed!" As with your obvious Telemundo debacle, watching iCarly is not an appropriate way to learn how to date in America.
After your grueling nights of acting like middle schoolers at a sleepover you then seem to go to bed around 1am. Then, every half an hour, one of you jumps out of bed and runs at full speed to the bathroom where you spend at least 10 minutes running water and then, if possible, finding the loudest possible way to flush the DAMN TOILET! How do you do that?! The tenant before you didn't have that kind of volume on a toilet flush, what are you doing up there?! I've moved from anger and disbelief to full on genuine curiosity!
On to the next issue... I live with a smoker and I know the protocol. Every hour or so, you go outside, smoke a cigarette, maybe make a phone call and then come back inside. Where did you learn that the protocol for smoking a goddamn cigarette included standing on the balcony screaming at the top of your lungs and slamming the screen door approximately every 10 seconds! JUST KEEP IT OPEN! Did you think of something really really awesome to say to those strange looking girls that come over every weekend that you think will seal the deal on 10 more minutes of mattress jumping later and it just cannot WAIT until you are done smoking?!
Anyway, this is all pretty much a moot point by now. I just thought I would write this on behalf of the next sucker that moves in here. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER! I don't even want to know what accounts for the hours unmentioned here where it just sounds like you're either moving furniture or holding a fight club up there... just... don't. Just fucking stop already. I know that college students are supposed to be loud, but at least be loud because your drunk, getting laid or are watching Comedy Central! If you insist on being loud and obnoxious, please watch Animal House and act accordingly.
Thanks heaps, assholes.
The Irish Buzzsaw
On this, the eve of my last Saturday in this shitty ass apartment, I thought I would write you this letter of inquiry and suggestion. Since all I see you doing is sulking through our parking lot with your backpacks, I hope that you will take time out of your grueling schedule of attending community college and pissing me the fuck off to actually read it. By the time you read this I will already be gone... I won't have run into traffic as I often contemplate due to your idiocy, but I will have moved to the nicer end of the crappy neighborhood we live in, so take THAT, ass hats.
At first you were nameless, faceless stomping noises so I got to assign to you whatever identity I wanted. I will share with you now that I envisioned: overweight, ill-mannered children whose favorite game was "Drop Shit On The Ground and Then Run Away." I envisioned your deaf mother who was unaware of your annoying behavior... I tried to come up with any excuse for the cacophony going on upstairs. I briefly tried to convince myself that you were orphans just trying to make your way through this cruel world the only way you knew how: by throwing cinder blocks from your beds onto the floor and then slamming doors. However, finally, your antics caused me to undertake the loathsome task of entering our rental office to talk to the Ed Hardy wearing femme-douches that pose as our property managers. I was desperate. I started describing what assholes you are and out of no where she said:
"Are they Asian?"
The following conversation ensued:
Me: "Um... I don't..."
Ladydouche: "I mean, I'm not trying to be racist, it's just that I think I know who you're talking about."
Me: "I've never really... uh... I've never seen..."
LD: "I know, I don't see race either, but seriously they are terrible."
Me: "No, no... It's..."
LD: "Yesterday, two of them came in here, a guy and a girl, and they started arguing and one just slapped the other one across the face! I called the cops, but he'd already left! They're exchange students and I swear to God, it's like they don't even get our culture or anything..."
I left even madder, thinking that our property manager was not only a douche but a racist one at that. Plus, I already knew that you were Pippi Longstocking with adjustment issues... I could get used to it. Later that day, to my horror, I realized that you actually were the people she was referring to. So now, not only do I know that you're loud, obnoxious and rude... I also know that you basically just spend your weekends smacking the shit out of each other as if you were curious about how we do shit in America and somehow got stuck on Telemundo soap operas and just went with it...
Perhaps this may be a cultural difference, but due to recent events in the media I was under the impression that Asian children are raised to be strictly respectful, quiet and talented. You may be aware that, recently, a mother wrote a book about Asian parenting being superior to Western parenting - which is not necessarily a point of contention here. However, every Saturday night, while you stomp around and scream on the porch I fantasize about stuffing you all into my car and punting your asses onto her lawn one by one screaming "HEY BITCH, YOU MISSED A COUPLE!"
Last weekend, your evening performance of Bowling Ball Drop Riverdance caused my boyfriend to go out to the parking lot and see what exactly you were doing. Dancing? Wrestling? No... it turns out that you were just animatedly laughing while watching cartoons. FUCKING CARTOONS?! You were just rolling around on the floor, pounding your fists on the carpet, completely losing it about a goddamn cartoon. Just know that I know this about you and I'm disappointed.
Despite knowing that, when I heard bedsprings creaking above my bedroom 20 minutes ago, I had enough respect for you left to assume that you were having sex. That's right. I thought that someone who who spends their Saturday nights watching cartoons with 3 strange looking girls was actually getting some. You. Are. Fucking. Welcome. Consider it a freebee, weirdos. It then became very obvious that either you are into some weird WEIRD, bizarre sex shit... or... you were just JUMPING ON THE DAMN BED!!! Is that seriously how you're spending your Saturday? "Hey ladies, let's watch some cartoons and then after that, let's go to my room and giggle and jump on the bed!" As with your obvious Telemundo debacle, watching iCarly is not an appropriate way to learn how to date in America.
After your grueling nights of acting like middle schoolers at a sleepover you then seem to go to bed around 1am. Then, every half an hour, one of you jumps out of bed and runs at full speed to the bathroom where you spend at least 10 minutes running water and then, if possible, finding the loudest possible way to flush the DAMN TOILET! How do you do that?! The tenant before you didn't have that kind of volume on a toilet flush, what are you doing up there?! I've moved from anger and disbelief to full on genuine curiosity!
On to the next issue... I live with a smoker and I know the protocol. Every hour or so, you go outside, smoke a cigarette, maybe make a phone call and then come back inside. Where did you learn that the protocol for smoking a goddamn cigarette included standing on the balcony screaming at the top of your lungs and slamming the screen door approximately every 10 seconds! JUST KEEP IT OPEN! Did you think of something really really awesome to say to those strange looking girls that come over every weekend that you think will seal the deal on 10 more minutes of mattress jumping later and it just cannot WAIT until you are done smoking?!
Anyway, this is all pretty much a moot point by now. I just thought I would write this on behalf of the next sucker that moves in here. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER! I don't even want to know what accounts for the hours unmentioned here where it just sounds like you're either moving furniture or holding a fight club up there... just... don't. Just fucking stop already. I know that college students are supposed to be loud, but at least be loud because your drunk, getting laid or are watching Comedy Central! If you insist on being loud and obnoxious, please watch Animal House and act accordingly.
Thanks heaps, assholes.
The Irish Buzzsaw
Friday, September 24, 2010
Working Out Sucks and I Hate It
My history of working out has been a rather rocky one. Over the past few years I have made a few failed attempts at fitness and I will give myself this - I'll try anything once.
My first memory of working out was at a gym located in an alleyway, owned by a guy that ran a gym my mom worked out in during the 1980's. His name was Harold and he was old and slightly pervy - my first tip should have been that he only allowed women in his gym. I would go and dutifully work out with my mom and finally I signed up for a membership after much convincing that Harold was not on any watch lists and didn't own any broken down vans tinted windows. When asked how long I wanted the contract to be, I stated I wanted one for 6 months. At the time I was about 5'5" and weighed about 150 pounds. Harold looked at me over his glasses and said "Hon... you've got more than a six month problem." This from a man who still had one of those vibrating belts meant to shake the fat off of your ass. In 2007. After about 3 months of his French bulldog Archie humping me every time I got on the floor to do crunches, I had enough and said fuck it.
As with every lazy bastard who hates the gym, I had a veritable fit of joy when Wii Fit came out. My joy didn't last long after getting it out of the box. Here, I thought, was the non-judgmental, convenient and self-driven routine that I needed. Right here in my living room! First of all, you get to make an Avatar of yourself. You pick your hair, nose, outfit, and then... body type. I went for the upper portion of mid-range thinking "Well, I'm not skinny for sure, but I'm not as bad as the upper ranges, right?" You then step on the scale and the program RE-AVATARS YOU! "Oh really?" it seems to say "Don't kid yourself - this lump in the black t-shirt is what you really look like. This is what will be on the screen while you work out... don't try to hide." So me and my fat Avatar do a few days on the Wii Fit and we get to the Day 3 weigh in...
Now, the "characters" on this program are usually super excited to see you and positive about your progression towards fitness, offering you little tidbits of knowledge about your health improvement. "Did you know that building muscle during yoga workouts help your body burn calories more efficiently at rest?" No! No, I did not. Thank you for that, Wii Fit. How's my weight doing? You want me to step on the scale? OK.
I step on.
This thing says, "OH!" As I get on. Not "Oh, there you are, where have you been?" but the kind of "Oh" your friends saw upon seeing the super feminine mullet that you let your hairdresser talk you into. The "Oh" that says "I ordered the spaghetti carbonara and you brought me a half-dead hamster floating in a bowl of Honey Bucket drippings. But I am only JUST too polite not to ask you to take it back."
"Oh!"
Oh? Well fuck you, Wii Fit. They would do themselves a lot of favors by giving you different options for personal trainers on there too. Your two options are Super Buff Hot White Guy or Super Lean Attractive and Encouraging White Girl. No thank you to either. I want General Patton. I want Disappointed Jewish Grandmother. I want The Situation from Jersey Shore. I want Yolanda from The Nail Salon With No Verbal Filter! Let's skip straight from passive aggressive, sweet voiced, polite personal trainer to someone who will just tell it like it is:
General Patton: "You can't do one goddamn push up you filthy cow, drop and give me 20 until you cry for your mother and then do 10 more!"
Disappointed Jewish Grandmother: Every time your heart rate drops it says "This is just like the time that you told everyone you were going to settle down and get married to that nice lawyer from up the street and then you starting dating that - ..." and then it would just trail off as you started to up your game.
The Situation: "If you were hitting on me in the club, I doubt I'd be able to even find anyone to take the grenade for me. Doing just 'Tan' and 'Laundry' and skipping over 'Gym' is how you end up looking like Snookie."
Yolanda: "Oh my gaw... don' even tell me you're wearing spandex. I see you through the screen, gurl. You know that ain't right. Who do you have as a friend that even lets you wear that at home where no one can see you?! Whoever she is is a bitch, for real!"
Or... any Ethiopian female I work with. It would just say "Are you pregnant?!" and then, after you say no, be fairly nice to you but always look you up and down and shake their head when they're in the elevator with you.
Yesterday was my final attempt at any sort of guided personal training. The girl was nice enough and she sat down with me first to discuss my goals and background in working out. I basically relayed for her the entire above portion of the blog - maybe adding in the parts where I "used to be skinny in high school" and "this one time, in middle school, this girl Daisy and I had a contest to see who could get out of doing the mile run for the longest and I made it all through freshman year!"
As with anything that makes me feel weak and uncomfortable I cracked jokes and leaned on my self deprecation to get me through -"I'm just not into push ups... not that I don't love giving all these hairy gentlemen standing here a reason to look at my ass, but it's just not my thing" or "Oh, I'll do 12 reps instead of the 15... not that I don't LOVE spending time with you but..." Mostly, we were having a good time. She made sure to praise all my small accomplishments (doing a crunch without grunting!) and was indulgent of my weak ass squats. Until... pull ups.
Maybe I was having a flashback. I was suddenly back in elementary school gym class. We had different "posters" that you could get your name on if you were able to complete various goals. They all had cute names, but the only one I could remember was the only one I made - "Hippo Hoopers". Hula hoop was my shit, I'll be honest with you. And not because the hoop technically rested on both sides of my hips and allowed me to cheat since I hadn't gone through puberty. The pull ups were my one goal. The one chart I really REALLY wanted to make... and I never could. I could never even do one. I would come to the playground after hours and pitifully try to haul my chin over the bar until my arms started involuntarily shaking and I would eventually head home defeated. I had to be bribed with a brand new Slinky for 3 straight weeks to even TRY to make it across the monkey bars... It was an ordeal that I'm sure my Father remembers as he was the one who let me drag him to the park every evening after dinner for almost a month, knowing that I had the upper body strength of a newborn and that it would probably never happen. The fact that he was encouraging anyway is a testament to his patience and unconditionally supportive parenting.
...This personal trainer bitch was about to find the one thing she could not praise me for.
Me: "I cannot do those."
Her: "Sure you can! You have decent upper body strength it's fine."
Me: "No... I can't... It's... I wasn't on the poster... I..."
Her: "What?"
Me: "Nothing" (slowly realizing I've been sweating for an hour and my easily dehydrated ass didn't drink any water that day)
Her: "Just give it a try"
Me: (starting to get tunnel vision) "Hippo... Hoopers... I'm not able to do i-... I..."
Her: "What?"
Me: "Can I get some water?"
Her: "Sure, yeah!"
Luckily at that point my hour was up. I quickly bowed out, with minimal parting banter and drank an entire 5 gallons of water from the water fountain as some meathead who had ACTUALLY been working out was waiting impatiently behind me, listening to me slurp and pant like a dog running through the Sierra desert and finally finding a toilet.
This isn't even counting my recent forray into Hot Yoga... which is a blog for another time.
My first memory of working out was at a gym located in an alleyway, owned by a guy that ran a gym my mom worked out in during the 1980's. His name was Harold and he was old and slightly pervy - my first tip should have been that he only allowed women in his gym. I would go and dutifully work out with my mom and finally I signed up for a membership after much convincing that Harold was not on any watch lists and didn't own any broken down vans tinted windows. When asked how long I wanted the contract to be, I stated I wanted one for 6 months. At the time I was about 5'5" and weighed about 150 pounds. Harold looked at me over his glasses and said "Hon... you've got more than a six month problem." This from a man who still had one of those vibrating belts meant to shake the fat off of your ass. In 2007. After about 3 months of his French bulldog Archie humping me every time I got on the floor to do crunches, I had enough and said fuck it.
As with every lazy bastard who hates the gym, I had a veritable fit of joy when Wii Fit came out. My joy didn't last long after getting it out of the box. Here, I thought, was the non-judgmental, convenient and self-driven routine that I needed. Right here in my living room! First of all, you get to make an Avatar of yourself. You pick your hair, nose, outfit, and then... body type. I went for the upper portion of mid-range thinking "Well, I'm not skinny for sure, but I'm not as bad as the upper ranges, right?" You then step on the scale and the program RE-AVATARS YOU! "Oh really?" it seems to say "Don't kid yourself - this lump in the black t-shirt is what you really look like. This is what will be on the screen while you work out... don't try to hide." So me and my fat Avatar do a few days on the Wii Fit and we get to the Day 3 weigh in...
Now, the "characters" on this program are usually super excited to see you and positive about your progression towards fitness, offering you little tidbits of knowledge about your health improvement. "Did you know that building muscle during yoga workouts help your body burn calories more efficiently at rest?" No! No, I did not. Thank you for that, Wii Fit. How's my weight doing? You want me to step on the scale? OK.
I step on.
This thing says, "OH!" As I get on. Not "Oh, there you are, where have you been?" but the kind of "Oh" your friends saw upon seeing the super feminine mullet that you let your hairdresser talk you into. The "Oh" that says "I ordered the spaghetti carbonara and you brought me a half-dead hamster floating in a bowl of Honey Bucket drippings. But I am only JUST too polite not to ask you to take it back."
"Oh!"
Oh? Well fuck you, Wii Fit. They would do themselves a lot of favors by giving you different options for personal trainers on there too. Your two options are Super Buff Hot White Guy or Super Lean Attractive and Encouraging White Girl. No thank you to either. I want General Patton. I want Disappointed Jewish Grandmother. I want The Situation from Jersey Shore. I want Yolanda from The Nail Salon With No Verbal Filter! Let's skip straight from passive aggressive, sweet voiced, polite personal trainer to someone who will just tell it like it is:
General Patton: "You can't do one goddamn push up you filthy cow, drop and give me 20 until you cry for your mother and then do 10 more!"
Disappointed Jewish Grandmother: Every time your heart rate drops it says "This is just like the time that you told everyone you were going to settle down and get married to that nice lawyer from up the street and then you starting dating that - ..." and then it would just trail off as you started to up your game.
The Situation: "If you were hitting on me in the club, I doubt I'd be able to even find anyone to take the grenade for me. Doing just 'Tan' and 'Laundry' and skipping over 'Gym' is how you end up looking like Snookie."
Yolanda: "Oh my gaw... don' even tell me you're wearing spandex. I see you through the screen, gurl. You know that ain't right. Who do you have as a friend that even lets you wear that at home where no one can see you?! Whoever she is is a bitch, for real!"
Or... any Ethiopian female I work with. It would just say "Are you pregnant?!" and then, after you say no, be fairly nice to you but always look you up and down and shake their head when they're in the elevator with you.
Yesterday was my final attempt at any sort of guided personal training. The girl was nice enough and she sat down with me first to discuss my goals and background in working out. I basically relayed for her the entire above portion of the blog - maybe adding in the parts where I "used to be skinny in high school" and "this one time, in middle school, this girl Daisy and I had a contest to see who could get out of doing the mile run for the longest and I made it all through freshman year!"
As with anything that makes me feel weak and uncomfortable I cracked jokes and leaned on my self deprecation to get me through -"I'm just not into push ups... not that I don't love giving all these hairy gentlemen standing here a reason to look at my ass, but it's just not my thing" or "Oh, I'll do 12 reps instead of the 15... not that I don't LOVE spending time with you but..." Mostly, we were having a good time. She made sure to praise all my small accomplishments (doing a crunch without grunting!) and was indulgent of my weak ass squats. Until... pull ups.
Maybe I was having a flashback. I was suddenly back in elementary school gym class. We had different "posters" that you could get your name on if you were able to complete various goals. They all had cute names, but the only one I could remember was the only one I made - "Hippo Hoopers". Hula hoop was my shit, I'll be honest with you. And not because the hoop technically rested on both sides of my hips and allowed me to cheat since I hadn't gone through puberty. The pull ups were my one goal. The one chart I really REALLY wanted to make... and I never could. I could never even do one. I would come to the playground after hours and pitifully try to haul my chin over the bar until my arms started involuntarily shaking and I would eventually head home defeated. I had to be bribed with a brand new Slinky for 3 straight weeks to even TRY to make it across the monkey bars... It was an ordeal that I'm sure my Father remembers as he was the one who let me drag him to the park every evening after dinner for almost a month, knowing that I had the upper body strength of a newborn and that it would probably never happen. The fact that he was encouraging anyway is a testament to his patience and unconditionally supportive parenting.
...This personal trainer bitch was about to find the one thing she could not praise me for.
Me: "I cannot do those."
Her: "Sure you can! You have decent upper body strength it's fine."
Me: "No... I can't... It's... I wasn't on the poster... I..."
Her: "What?"
Me: "Nothing" (slowly realizing I've been sweating for an hour and my easily dehydrated ass didn't drink any water that day)
Her: "Just give it a try"
Me: (starting to get tunnel vision) "Hippo... Hoopers... I'm not able to do i-... I..."
Her: "What?"
Me: "Can I get some water?"
Her: "Sure, yeah!"
Luckily at that point my hour was up. I quickly bowed out, with minimal parting banter and drank an entire 5 gallons of water from the water fountain as some meathead who had ACTUALLY been working out was waiting impatiently behind me, listening to me slurp and pant like a dog running through the Sierra desert and finally finding a toilet.
This isn't even counting my recent forray into Hot Yoga... which is a blog for another time.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
DOUBLE RAINBOW! A short thought.
I spent my entire day editing a document that used no less than 200 prepositions per paragraph so forgive me for not learning how to imbed this video, but the part of me that assumes the worst of the people I love knows that you've already seen this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQSNhk5ICTI&feature=player_embedded
We're always being told to soak up every moment, carpe diem, stop and smell the roses, appreciate what's beautiful, feel as deeply as we can, let it out, etc.
If that video is what that means, all of those concepts can go suck it.
Also, can we all agree that about midway through this video it's PAINFULLY clear that this guy is NOT crying about a double rainbow. I mean... I think I can actually HEAR the moment that he starts actually crying about the years that his mom has spent making him feel like a failure for not finishing his Music Appreciation Degree from Berkley. Maybe it's really about him backing over his neighbor's cat. Maybe about 1 minute in, he's reminded of that time that he killed a drifter... I don't know... but this crap is NOT about a double rainbow.
So here's my new technique for my emotional constipation. I'm going to get a video camera. And the next time I need to cry but I can't quite muster up the tears, or maybe it just seems like I'm forcing it a little, I'm going to film a sunset and just cry uncontrollably. "It's so... BEAUTIFUL!!! I didn't MEAN to leave a paint transfer on that car when I was backing out of Safeway and not leave a note! THE INSURANCE RAMIFICATIONS... I mean... The sunset... it's so... so... BEAUTIFUL!!"
...There's a tide me over.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQSNhk5ICTI&feature=player_embedded
We're always being told to soak up every moment, carpe diem, stop and smell the roses, appreciate what's beautiful, feel as deeply as we can, let it out, etc.
If that video is what that means, all of those concepts can go suck it.
Also, can we all agree that about midway through this video it's PAINFULLY clear that this guy is NOT crying about a double rainbow. I mean... I think I can actually HEAR the moment that he starts actually crying about the years that his mom has spent making him feel like a failure for not finishing his Music Appreciation Degree from Berkley. Maybe it's really about him backing over his neighbor's cat. Maybe about 1 minute in, he's reminded of that time that he killed a drifter... I don't know... but this crap is NOT about a double rainbow.
So here's my new technique for my emotional constipation. I'm going to get a video camera. And the next time I need to cry but I can't quite muster up the tears, or maybe it just seems like I'm forcing it a little, I'm going to film a sunset and just cry uncontrollably. "It's so... BEAUTIFUL!!! I didn't MEAN to leave a paint transfer on that car when I was backing out of Safeway and not leave a note! THE INSURANCE RAMIFICATIONS... I mean... The sunset... it's so... so... BEAUTIFUL!!"
...There's a tide me over.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
God, we suck.
I realized today that, just like the older generations have been telling us for years, our generation's popular music sucks.
My first concert was Ringo Starr and his All Starr Band in the early 90's. For those that don't know, even in my elementary school years I was a huge Beatles freak. Luckily this safeguarded me from listening to things like Boys II Men and... well... I'm trying to think of something else from the early 90's that was popular but I can't, wanna know why? Because none of it was memorable! I was too young to know what Nirvana was when it was popular which is one of the least regrettable things about my musical childhood. The most regrettable thing about my childhood is that it didn't happen in the 60's and early 70's like oh, I don't know, my parents. Who probably don't even know how lucky they are to not have had to listen to the same shit I did in my formative years. Thank god for KBSG and their old record collection.
Tonight my parents and I went to see Ringo again at a winery. Joining Ringo this time around was Edgar Winter, Rick Derringer, Gary Wright, Richard Page and Wally Palmer. When Richard Page was introduced, mid-set as the former lead singer of Mr. Mister, that shitty ass song by Train got stuck in my head! "Hey soul sister... aaaain't that Mr. Mister on the raaaaadio..." Yes! It probably was! So thanks for making shitty music about good music so that every time I think of the good music I think of your stupid stupid song, you WHORE! *ah-hem* Where was I... Oh yes... the concert...
Now, if you're picturing a bunch of drunk, aging hippies dancing strangely in the pale moonlight, you would be correct. My favorite person of the whole night (and there were many) was a guy about my parents age. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and if I had seen him in any other venue I would have thought "This distinguished looking older gentleman is probably someone's boss..." For most of the concert he was keeping it together, but after what was probably a bottle of wine he started yelling "PLAY OCTOPUS'S GARDEN!!! PLAAAAAAY OCTOPUS'S GAAAAARDEEEEN!!!!" So if you have an intimidating superior at work, just know that there is probably one musician that person would see in concert where they would end up screaming and jumping up and down requesting a song... see if that doesn't do something for your nerves in that next staff meeting.
For all of my 20-something brethren, who may not know who Edgar Winter is: You're 20-something so this means that you've seen Dazed and Confused. Ya know that scene where all those teenagers are driving in the car in their bellbottoms listening to "Free Ride" and it makes you just want to take a road trip with your buddies and get into a bunch of trouble because the song just taps into that part of your brain that makes you want to make memories that you will tell your kids about some day when they think you're just some fucking lame-o? That's Edgar Winter making you feel that way. He's singing "Free Ride" - he's also incredibly ugly, a certified albino and has a very lispy, very effeminate voice. His music is so good that he didn't have to resort to being a DMV employee or circus freak - he got to be a musician based on TALENT! IMAGINE!
Now think about the songs you hear on the radio every day and ask yourself - how many of these artists do you want to see in concert with your children 30 years from now? If my kids find out that I even knew who Justin Bieber was I would threaten them with the orphanage if they ever said a word about it. If I catch my children listening to Fall Out Boy, it will be on par with catching them with cocaine in their sock drawer. The only saving grace will be that by that point, music will be so much shittier that it will probably be an improvement. Do you want to see Rhianna perform when she's 70? No. At least I don't.
Aside from Ringo I have never gotten to experience a concert that I would hope to one day brag to my kids about. "Mommy saw Panic at the Disco live in 2006!"... "Who?"... Kurt Cobain was dead before I knew who he was. Pearl Jam didn't appeal to me until it was too late to see them all in concert together. AC/DC and Guns and Roses were broken up before I even got started listening to Raffi. To prove this point, I went through my iTunes play list, made it to L, and then gave up. My cat started hacking something up and I took it as a sign. "Stop here... don't anger yourself any further."
Of course, on my way to "L", I passed all kinds of great music from my parents generation. I love hearing my mom talk about the first time she saw the Beatles on TV. Or when she got to see Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. (AND YOUNG!!) God forbid my children ask me who I remember seeing performing music on Saturday Night Live. Um... Ashley Simpson because she fucked up so horribly? Alicia Keys who then basically fell off the face of the earth? Uggggh. "Hey Mom, what song did you dance with dad to at prom" - "Oh, it was 'All My Life' by K-Ci and Jojo... the same one they'd been playing for slow dance fare since I was in 6th grade... they just kept relying on that and played it into the ground..." Do you know how many people actually make that their wedding song?! I'd probably just walk out. "Thanks for the free food, enjoy your marriage, please don't procreate and make more people with poor taste! I'm going to go walk into traffic now, buhbye!"
For my generation, the only timeless thing we seem to have is comedic movies. I'm fairly certain that my children will be quoting The Hangover to me. My friend at work told me that her daughter was quoting Ace Ventura Pet Detective and it warmed my heart. Try to find someone my age who can't quote Tommy Boy with you for about 10 minutes straight... and that movie came out over 10 years ago! I will say that our cartoon shows were WAY better than our parents as well. The early 90's was prime time for cartoons and anyone my age will passionately agree. Everything before? Shit. Everything after? Shit. Or however you say "shit" in Spanish thanks to that overly educational bore Dora the Explorer. So I guess we have that too...
I really hope I'm wrong. But I just spent an evening listening to great music and now I'm pissed. I should have "Dreamweaver" stuck in my head and instead it's "Hey Soul Sister" because one of the performers was the lead singer of Mister Mister. That in itself proves how fucked up the state of music is. My hope is that one day soon, something great will come along that I can lay generational claim to. But until then, I just have to hope that Ringo Starr turns into a cyborg and lives until he's 100 so I can take MY kids to see him. Only then will I feel like any justice has been done and that my generation will not go down in history as a waste of creativity. My only suggestion is to do what my friend Julia has done for years, quit listening to something as soon as it makes it onto popular radio. So, stick to the underground artists that actually make good music and only come up for air when Eddie Vedder is touring or to check if Ringo Starr is a robot yet.
My first concert was Ringo Starr and his All Starr Band in the early 90's. For those that don't know, even in my elementary school years I was a huge Beatles freak. Luckily this safeguarded me from listening to things like Boys II Men and... well... I'm trying to think of something else from the early 90's that was popular but I can't, wanna know why? Because none of it was memorable! I was too young to know what Nirvana was when it was popular which is one of the least regrettable things about my musical childhood. The most regrettable thing about my childhood is that it didn't happen in the 60's and early 70's like oh, I don't know, my parents. Who probably don't even know how lucky they are to not have had to listen to the same shit I did in my formative years. Thank god for KBSG and their old record collection.
Tonight my parents and I went to see Ringo again at a winery. Joining Ringo this time around was Edgar Winter, Rick Derringer, Gary Wright, Richard Page and Wally Palmer. When Richard Page was introduced, mid-set as the former lead singer of Mr. Mister, that shitty ass song by Train got stuck in my head! "Hey soul sister... aaaain't that Mr. Mister on the raaaaadio..." Yes! It probably was! So thanks for making shitty music about good music so that every time I think of the good music I think of your stupid stupid song, you WHORE! *ah-hem* Where was I... Oh yes... the concert...
Now, if you're picturing a bunch of drunk, aging hippies dancing strangely in the pale moonlight, you would be correct. My favorite person of the whole night (and there were many) was a guy about my parents age. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and if I had seen him in any other venue I would have thought "This distinguished looking older gentleman is probably someone's boss..." For most of the concert he was keeping it together, but after what was probably a bottle of wine he started yelling "PLAY OCTOPUS'S GARDEN!!! PLAAAAAAY OCTOPUS'S GAAAAARDEEEEN!!!!" So if you have an intimidating superior at work, just know that there is probably one musician that person would see in concert where they would end up screaming and jumping up and down requesting a song... see if that doesn't do something for your nerves in that next staff meeting.
For all of my 20-something brethren, who may not know who Edgar Winter is: You're 20-something so this means that you've seen Dazed and Confused. Ya know that scene where all those teenagers are driving in the car in their bellbottoms listening to "Free Ride" and it makes you just want to take a road trip with your buddies and get into a bunch of trouble because the song just taps into that part of your brain that makes you want to make memories that you will tell your kids about some day when they think you're just some fucking lame-o? That's Edgar Winter making you feel that way. He's singing "Free Ride" - he's also incredibly ugly, a certified albino and has a very lispy, very effeminate voice. His music is so good that he didn't have to resort to being a DMV employee or circus freak - he got to be a musician based on TALENT! IMAGINE!
Now think about the songs you hear on the radio every day and ask yourself - how many of these artists do you want to see in concert with your children 30 years from now? If my kids find out that I even knew who Justin Bieber was I would threaten them with the orphanage if they ever said a word about it. If I catch my children listening to Fall Out Boy, it will be on par with catching them with cocaine in their sock drawer. The only saving grace will be that by that point, music will be so much shittier that it will probably be an improvement. Do you want to see Rhianna perform when she's 70? No. At least I don't.
Aside from Ringo I have never gotten to experience a concert that I would hope to one day brag to my kids about. "Mommy saw Panic at the Disco live in 2006!"... "Who?"... Kurt Cobain was dead before I knew who he was. Pearl Jam didn't appeal to me until it was too late to see them all in concert together. AC/DC and Guns and Roses were broken up before I even got started listening to Raffi. To prove this point, I went through my iTunes play list, made it to L, and then gave up. My cat started hacking something up and I took it as a sign. "Stop here... don't anger yourself any further."
Of course, on my way to "L", I passed all kinds of great music from my parents generation. I love hearing my mom talk about the first time she saw the Beatles on TV. Or when she got to see Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. (AND YOUNG!!) God forbid my children ask me who I remember seeing performing music on Saturday Night Live. Um... Ashley Simpson because she fucked up so horribly? Alicia Keys who then basically fell off the face of the earth? Uggggh. "Hey Mom, what song did you dance with dad to at prom" - "Oh, it was 'All My Life' by K-Ci and Jojo... the same one they'd been playing for slow dance fare since I was in 6th grade... they just kept relying on that and played it into the ground..." Do you know how many people actually make that their wedding song?! I'd probably just walk out. "Thanks for the free food, enjoy your marriage, please don't procreate and make more people with poor taste! I'm going to go walk into traffic now, buhbye!"
For my generation, the only timeless thing we seem to have is comedic movies. I'm fairly certain that my children will be quoting The Hangover to me. My friend at work told me that her daughter was quoting Ace Ventura Pet Detective and it warmed my heart. Try to find someone my age who can't quote Tommy Boy with you for about 10 minutes straight... and that movie came out over 10 years ago! I will say that our cartoon shows were WAY better than our parents as well. The early 90's was prime time for cartoons and anyone my age will passionately agree. Everything before? Shit. Everything after? Shit. Or however you say "shit" in Spanish thanks to that overly educational bore Dora the Explorer. So I guess we have that too...
I really hope I'm wrong. But I just spent an evening listening to great music and now I'm pissed. I should have "Dreamweaver" stuck in my head and instead it's "Hey Soul Sister" because one of the performers was the lead singer of Mister Mister. That in itself proves how fucked up the state of music is. My hope is that one day soon, something great will come along that I can lay generational claim to. But until then, I just have to hope that Ringo Starr turns into a cyborg and lives until he's 100 so I can take MY kids to see him. Only then will I feel like any justice has been done and that my generation will not go down in history as a waste of creativity. My only suggestion is to do what my friend Julia has done for years, quit listening to something as soon as it makes it onto popular radio. So, stick to the underground artists that actually make good music and only come up for air when Eddie Vedder is touring or to check if Ringo Starr is a robot yet.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Our Pets - 3 Cautionary "Tails"
I have often heard that couples get puppies to prepare themselves for having children. If this concept is at all relevant to child-rearing, Garren and I will likely end up with children that will leave people wondering if they had running microwaves next to their cribs in their formative years.
Our first foray into pet ownership was our dog, Cash. He is a black lab and is named after Johnny Cash because he's "The Man In Black". I thought it was really clever at the time but naming him after an alcoholic and drug addict whose most famous portrait involves him flipping the bird, I realized it was a bit more appropriatethan I'd care to think about . We bought him 2 days before moving into a one bedroom apartment which is a thought you should keep in mind while I try to convince you that Cash is the retard in this equation. A lesson that I learned during this process is that you should pick a dog like you would pick a potential human mate. First of all, don't discover them on Craig's List. Second, you probably shouldn't pick the last one in the litter. Third, if someone hands them to you by the scruff of their neck from the trunk of a car, you should probably run. Well... call The Humane Society/police and THEN run. But, Garren wanted a puppy and I can't really say no to a baby animal.
Cash's head is much smaller than his body, proportionately. He's racist, so we can't really take him anywhere without looking like a couple of white supremacists. This probably comes from his 9-week upbringing in Kelso, but try explaining that to a large black gentleman who has been observing Cash kindly regarding the white people in the park and then going apeshit upon his approach... It's very awkward. Whenever he's on a leash, which he HATES, he gets what we call "crazy eyes" which involves him pretty much showing you as much of the whites of his eyes as possible while barking. It causes little children to cringe away from him in fear which is probably for the best as he hates children. He hates getting pets, he'd rather run past you at a high rate of speed and trip you on the way to the kitchen. He is, however, friendly in his own way - but once he gets within your physical range he just has no idea what to do. To say that he has intimacy issues is putting it mildly. He's like the guy that likes you but just fumbles it on the 1 yard line. And by "fumble" I mean slobbers on you, jumps on you, and in Garren's case, gives you a wrestling-related concussion resulting in a rather costly hospital bill. He's a charmer. I sometimes think that we should have gone with our friend Michelle's name suggestion: "ShitFuck".
That brings us to our second animal, a cat. This was our only animal that came with a name (of course we ended up changing it.) A tip for you: don't take in a cat just because your mom's psycho lesbian co-worker comes crying to you about said cat crying in her yard in the snow. She couldn't keep him but named him "Mr. Tutters" - because he makes a rattling, cooing, racoon-like noise when he purrs. We, of course, took him in and named him Capone - though a friend begged us to name him "Harry Twatter". Capone's interests include playing with his own shit, sleeping, attempting to eat any plastic bag he can find and ripping up the carpet. He also enjoys torturing Garren. Generally this includes pressing his cold, wet nose against Garren's lip while he's sleeping, "making biscuits" on his stomach after a large meal and stepping on his face with wet paws (the source of the moisture is ALWAYS suspect as he enjoys dipping his paws in the toilet.)
We then rescued a second cat. The feral cat trapping agency in our neighborhood does great stuff for cats, but decent marketing jobs on their wards are not their forte. However, we are the dumbasses that fell for Mia, our second cat (named after Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction... I don't know why...) It was explained to us that, although she was pretty, she had been rescued from a meth lab, hated people and was probably never going to be your normal affectionate house cat. But she looked like she had little kitty eyeliner, so I was sold. "But honey! She looks like David Bowie! Please oh please can we keep her?!" Plus, she immediately fell asleep on me and purred, so we HAD to keep her... right? This was the last time she would let me hold her without drawing blood. She spent three months under our beds hissing at us, coming out only to eat and grow to a size that would cause her to drag her belly on the ground by the time she was ready to come out and "grace us with her presence". (Read: contemptuously stare at us from across the room as though she is placing a hex on us.)
It's common knowledge that all animals end up liking one person in a couple better than the other. Cash and I do not get along. We did when he was a puppy and we probably will again when he is old and his joints are riddled with arthritis that will keep him from jumping on and then scratching my stomach. He is physically stronger than I am which leaves me no authority with him when it comes to discipline, so ours is a tense relationship. Mia tolerates me in brief spurts but generally shows her unbridled hatred for me by pissing in my laundry hamper and then stepping on me as I sleep. Capone is my buddy. He'll sleep with me and he sits on the back of the couch waiting to give me a hug when I get home. If Garren looks as though he's about to put the moves on me, Capone will climb into my lap and angrily kneed my boobs while glaring at him... it's pretty romantic.
It's clear that our methods for choosing animals will end in some ill-behaved accident child somewhere in our future - hopefully sometime after these psycho furr-creatures clear out. Any time anyone asks me when Garren and I intend to have children, I want to invite them to my home and introduce them to these three spawns of Satan. Most childless couples refer to their animals as their children, so if you never hear us referring to them as such, you will now know why not - we are the Michael and Dina Lohan of pet ownership. Our oldest is also behind bars as we speak... for dinner-time-crotch-nosing violations. So... I guess in that respect we have a leg up on the Lohans.
Our first foray into pet ownership was our dog, Cash. He is a black lab and is named after Johnny Cash because he's "The Man In Black". I thought it was really clever at the time but naming him after an alcoholic and drug addict whose most famous portrait involves him flipping the bird, I realized it was a bit more appropriatethan I'd care to think about . We bought him 2 days before moving into a one bedroom apartment which is a thought you should keep in mind while I try to convince you that Cash is the retard in this equation. A lesson that I learned during this process is that you should pick a dog like you would pick a potential human mate. First of all, don't discover them on Craig's List. Second, you probably shouldn't pick the last one in the litter. Third, if someone hands them to you by the scruff of their neck from the trunk of a car, you should probably run. Well... call The Humane Society/police and THEN run. But, Garren wanted a puppy and I can't really say no to a baby animal.
Cash's head is much smaller than his body, proportionately. He's racist, so we can't really take him anywhere without looking like a couple of white supremacists. This probably comes from his 9-week upbringing in Kelso, but try explaining that to a large black gentleman who has been observing Cash kindly regarding the white people in the park and then going apeshit upon his approach... It's very awkward. Whenever he's on a leash, which he HATES, he gets what we call "crazy eyes" which involves him pretty much showing you as much of the whites of his eyes as possible while barking. It causes little children to cringe away from him in fear which is probably for the best as he hates children. He hates getting pets, he'd rather run past you at a high rate of speed and trip you on the way to the kitchen. He is, however, friendly in his own way - but once he gets within your physical range he just has no idea what to do. To say that he has intimacy issues is putting it mildly. He's like the guy that likes you but just fumbles it on the 1 yard line. And by "fumble" I mean slobbers on you, jumps on you, and in Garren's case, gives you a wrestling-related concussion resulting in a rather costly hospital bill. He's a charmer. I sometimes think that we should have gone with our friend Michelle's name suggestion: "ShitFuck".
That brings us to our second animal, a cat. This was our only animal that came with a name (of course we ended up changing it.) A tip for you: don't take in a cat just because your mom's psycho lesbian co-worker comes crying to you about said cat crying in her yard in the snow. She couldn't keep him but named him "Mr. Tutters" - because he makes a rattling, cooing, racoon-like noise when he purrs. We, of course, took him in and named him Capone - though a friend begged us to name him "Harry Twatter". Capone's interests include playing with his own shit, sleeping, attempting to eat any plastic bag he can find and ripping up the carpet. He also enjoys torturing Garren. Generally this includes pressing his cold, wet nose against Garren's lip while he's sleeping, "making biscuits" on his stomach after a large meal and stepping on his face with wet paws (the source of the moisture is ALWAYS suspect as he enjoys dipping his paws in the toilet.)
We then rescued a second cat. The feral cat trapping agency in our neighborhood does great stuff for cats, but decent marketing jobs on their wards are not their forte. However, we are the dumbasses that fell for Mia, our second cat (named after Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction... I don't know why...) It was explained to us that, although she was pretty, she had been rescued from a meth lab, hated people and was probably never going to be your normal affectionate house cat. But she looked like she had little kitty eyeliner, so I was sold. "But honey! She looks like David Bowie! Please oh please can we keep her?!" Plus, she immediately fell asleep on me and purred, so we HAD to keep her... right? This was the last time she would let me hold her without drawing blood. She spent three months under our beds hissing at us, coming out only to eat and grow to a size that would cause her to drag her belly on the ground by the time she was ready to come out and "grace us with her presence". (Read: contemptuously stare at us from across the room as though she is placing a hex on us.)
It's common knowledge that all animals end up liking one person in a couple better than the other. Cash and I do not get along. We did when he was a puppy and we probably will again when he is old and his joints are riddled with arthritis that will keep him from jumping on and then scratching my stomach. He is physically stronger than I am which leaves me no authority with him when it comes to discipline, so ours is a tense relationship. Mia tolerates me in brief spurts but generally shows her unbridled hatred for me by pissing in my laundry hamper and then stepping on me as I sleep. Capone is my buddy. He'll sleep with me and he sits on the back of the couch waiting to give me a hug when I get home. If Garren looks as though he's about to put the moves on me, Capone will climb into my lap and angrily kneed my boobs while glaring at him... it's pretty romantic.
It's clear that our methods for choosing animals will end in some ill-behaved accident child somewhere in our future - hopefully sometime after these psycho furr-creatures clear out. Any time anyone asks me when Garren and I intend to have children, I want to invite them to my home and introduce them to these three spawns of Satan. Most childless couples refer to their animals as their children, so if you never hear us referring to them as such, you will now know why not - we are the Michael and Dina Lohan of pet ownership. Our oldest is also behind bars as we speak... for dinner-time-crotch-nosing violations. So... I guess in that respect we have a leg up on the Lohans.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Bigfoot Obsession
I always picture my boyfriend being marketed on The Dating Game and there are always two pitches that I envision - both of which I like to think I would have fallen for. Number one was thankfully what I got: "Behind door number 1, Bachelor Number One! He's got a great job, can carry on a conversation with anyone and he has great taste in jewelry! Bachelor number ooooone!" Then there is the slightly less flattering but no less true version: "Behind door number 1, Bachelor number one! He leaves plastic in the oven and forgets to tell you about it before you preheat things, he will take a dump while you're taking a bath and he is obsessed with Bigfoot! Heeeeeee's bachelor number one!"
It wasn't until we moved in together that I realized he had this obsession and like all belated realizations about the ones you love, you try to ignore them. I thought nothing of our dinner date conversations about "Do you think Bigfoot exists?" and the like. I mean... that's normal. Right?
I've always been of the mind that if aliens or bigfoots (big...feet? feets?) exist that it's of no consequence to me. So they exist... and? Am I supposed to change anything about my day to day life? I'll probably live in MORE fear than I already do that something out there wants to probe my anus. But overall, it just doesn't pique my interest to think about it.
This brings up another point. I tend to shy away from the alien conversation because the conversation inevitably bends toward anal probing. I mean, if I'm in a dark alley, you'd better believe I'm thinking about it. But I secretly think that everyone who believes in aliens is under some sort of self-centered assumption that there is an entire race of being out there that exists just to probe your ass. And I'm not comfortable with that. Think about that on your own time. And why is it that that's what we think about with aliens. How full of yourself do you have to be to think that any other intelligent race out there must want to do nothing more on this earth than probe YOUR orifices and implant YOU with things. Get over yourself.
My boyfriend will stop what he's doing to watch a TV show about Bigfoot. When driving through woodsy areas he ruminates on what he would do if he found Bigfoot. It usually ends with:
"I'd totally kick him in the nuts."
"After hunting down an animal covered in fur... and much bigger than yourself?"
"Hell yeah."
"How would you get close enough?"
"Well, I mean... of course I'd have beef jerky with me."
"I'm emailing Jack Link's beef jerky to tell them that they're 'Messin' with Sasquatch' commercials are having a negative effect on youth. That's totally where you got that."
"Hey! I'm 24... and those commercials are hilarious..."
So, about a year ago, the boyfriend and his dad went fishing and were driving through a remote area on a road flanked by forest. To keep a long story short, they both saw in their rearview mirror a large very furry animal on two legs (that was NOT A BEAR!). It walked into the road, looked at them and then walked back into the woods. Evidently the two carried on driving for a while and then a few minutes later one mentioned the sighting to the other, who then agreed that it was TOTALLY Bigfoot. They had been of the chosen people. That meant they were duty-bound to sneak it into conversation as soon as they got home.
He recounted this story to me as soon as he got through the door and after presenting every rational alternative I could think of, I gave up. He would be impossible now. Now, when I would make shitty comments during his shows, he would give me the look of someone who is absolutely sure of what they were talking about. He would tell me, with certainty, that I was in denial and that he had seen proof of this thing and I WASN'T THERE so how would I KNOW. I was sunk. There was nothing I could do. I was not one of the chosen and I never would be because I'm not a "believer". It's occurring to me that Bigfoot sightings could turn into a religious cult initiation...
I didn't realize, however, that he would be inclined to tell other people about his encounter. To his credit, he does wait until someone brings up a related topic: aliens, dark forests, exceptionally hairy people, etc. In his latest storytelling bout, I caught him practically cornering my friend Kristen with the story after she had brought up the possibility of aliens. She seemed interested enough so I didn't try to call him off. I told her that it was kind of a compliment. When a dog likes you and trusts you, he lets you rub his stomach. If my boyfriend likes you and trusts you, he will tell you his Bigfoot story. "It's OK," I'll tell people who are making it obvious with their faces that they are going to lose sleep over his story "It just means he likes you."
I take it as a true testament to the strength of our relationship that I fully expect him to grow old and be featured in at least one documentary recounting his "sighting" - to be shot on his beef-jerky-walled compound. We'll carry on like we always have, nodding and smiling at each other's crazy obsessions. To be fair, I have my strange obsessions as well. But he will have to just start his own damn blog and to tell you about them.
...That is if he doesn't get eaten by an unknown primate whose stomach will be found to contain bits of Garren and beef jerky. But I will be able to confidently state at his funeral that that's the way he would have wanted it.
It wasn't until we moved in together that I realized he had this obsession and like all belated realizations about the ones you love, you try to ignore them. I thought nothing of our dinner date conversations about "Do you think Bigfoot exists?" and the like. I mean... that's normal. Right?
I've always been of the mind that if aliens or bigfoots (big...feet? feets?) exist that it's of no consequence to me. So they exist... and? Am I supposed to change anything about my day to day life? I'll probably live in MORE fear than I already do that something out there wants to probe my anus. But overall, it just doesn't pique my interest to think about it.
This brings up another point. I tend to shy away from the alien conversation because the conversation inevitably bends toward anal probing. I mean, if I'm in a dark alley, you'd better believe I'm thinking about it. But I secretly think that everyone who believes in aliens is under some sort of self-centered assumption that there is an entire race of being out there that exists just to probe your ass. And I'm not comfortable with that. Think about that on your own time. And why is it that that's what we think about with aliens. How full of yourself do you have to be to think that any other intelligent race out there must want to do nothing more on this earth than probe YOUR orifices and implant YOU with things. Get over yourself.
My boyfriend will stop what he's doing to watch a TV show about Bigfoot. When driving through woodsy areas he ruminates on what he would do if he found Bigfoot. It usually ends with:
"I'd totally kick him in the nuts."
"After hunting down an animal covered in fur... and much bigger than yourself?"
"Hell yeah."
"How would you get close enough?"
"Well, I mean... of course I'd have beef jerky with me."
"I'm emailing Jack Link's beef jerky to tell them that they're 'Messin' with Sasquatch' commercials are having a negative effect on youth. That's totally where you got that."
"Hey! I'm 24... and those commercials are hilarious..."
So, about a year ago, the boyfriend and his dad went fishing and were driving through a remote area on a road flanked by forest. To keep a long story short, they both saw in their rearview mirror a large very furry animal on two legs (that was NOT A BEAR!). It walked into the road, looked at them and then walked back into the woods. Evidently the two carried on driving for a while and then a few minutes later one mentioned the sighting to the other, who then agreed that it was TOTALLY Bigfoot. They had been of the chosen people. That meant they were duty-bound to sneak it into conversation as soon as they got home.
He recounted this story to me as soon as he got through the door and after presenting every rational alternative I could think of, I gave up. He would be impossible now. Now, when I would make shitty comments during his shows, he would give me the look of someone who is absolutely sure of what they were talking about. He would tell me, with certainty, that I was in denial and that he had seen proof of this thing and I WASN'T THERE so how would I KNOW. I was sunk. There was nothing I could do. I was not one of the chosen and I never would be because I'm not a "believer". It's occurring to me that Bigfoot sightings could turn into a religious cult initiation...
I didn't realize, however, that he would be inclined to tell other people about his encounter. To his credit, he does wait until someone brings up a related topic: aliens, dark forests, exceptionally hairy people, etc. In his latest storytelling bout, I caught him practically cornering my friend Kristen with the story after she had brought up the possibility of aliens. She seemed interested enough so I didn't try to call him off. I told her that it was kind of a compliment. When a dog likes you and trusts you, he lets you rub his stomach. If my boyfriend likes you and trusts you, he will tell you his Bigfoot story. "It's OK," I'll tell people who are making it obvious with their faces that they are going to lose sleep over his story "It just means he likes you."
I take it as a true testament to the strength of our relationship that I fully expect him to grow old and be featured in at least one documentary recounting his "sighting" - to be shot on his beef-jerky-walled compound. We'll carry on like we always have, nodding and smiling at each other's crazy obsessions. To be fair, I have my strange obsessions as well. But he will have to just start his own damn blog and to tell you about them.
...That is if he doesn't get eaten by an unknown primate whose stomach will be found to contain bits of Garren and beef jerky. But I will be able to confidently state at his funeral that that's the way he would have wanted it.
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