Monday, June 30, 2008

Healthcare, Tokens, and Other Bygone Pleasures

So, I have to get my blood drawn for my new health insurance plan, which is called "Fit For Life" (or, according to my mom, "They want to find out if you have HIV"). Ha! Anyway, I am not a fan of having things extracted from my body through needles. I have always been a complete pussy in this regard, refusing, even as a child, to buck up and be a brave little soldier. I am a cowardly little soldier. There, I said it.

A few things: One, It is not advisable to watch Gia, the HBO biopic about a heroin-addicted, horrible death by AIDs-experiencing supermodel, on the eve of a blood test. Two, the employees of the Quest Diagnostics location on Pierrepont Street do not appear equipped to make a cup of coffee, much less perform tricky needlework (and they pronounced my name 'Ann,' a sure sign of trouble ... and the inability to read). Luckily, they didn't know how to do the paperwork that came with my "Blueprint for Wellness" kit, so I was sent off to give my blood elsewhere. Now I have to wait anxiously for another 22 hours. I think it's the rubber tie things that freak me out. I hate having circulation cut off ... even blood pressure cuffs make me feel queasy. At least my squeamishness ensures me a heroin-free lifestyle. Silver lining!

I wish my old doctor was still alive. He died of lung cancer some years ago, and when I was a kid he used to smoke while examining me (ah, '80s health codes). His name was Dr. Rocchio and even though he was a pediatrician I went to him until college. It was a little awkward in the adolescent, breast- and pubic hair-growing phase, but I stuck it out, because he was funny and also because he never made me get shots or have blood drawn. On one visit I remember he simply pushed me, and when I didn't fall over he said, 'Ah, you're OK.' Awesome.

Nowadays I see a very nice but kind of frazzled doctor in Brooklyn who I chose solely based on her name (I didn't really feel like doing research). The only problem is that I have to book an appointment approximately two years in advance in order to get any face time with her. And she has so many patients that she never remembers who I am. But such is healthcare nowadays. Poor Dr. Rocchio was too good for this world.

I'm rambling, so I'll finish with a non sequitur, namely, WHY DO ALL TURNSTILES TELL ME 'NO TOKENS'?? Who is stockpiling tokens???? There aren't even any SLOTS for tokens, so even if some dumbass decided to break out his commemorative 1988 stash, he wouldn't be able to put them anywhere. WHY, turnstile, do you insist on insulting my intelligence?

That is all.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Psychedelic Friday!

I have spent all day watching installments of Pot Psychology on Jezebel -- be warned, if you find marijuana use or frank sexual discussion offensive, you will not like this. But it's pretty hilarious. The two stars of the videos also happen to be bloggers that I am enamored of -- Tracie Egan of Jezebel/One D at a Time and Rich Juzwiak of fourfour. They kind of remind me of when Charlie and I got stoned and made movies in college, only we were, dare I say, slightly less articulate (also, we would get stoned and then I would go buy cookies or chips or anything to stuff my face with and when I got back Charlie would be doing an erotic dance to Madonna songs or something with his shirt off.) Anyway, Pot Psychology is just further proof that I would totally be famous by now if only I was more of a slut (thanks, Mom and Dad. Great job raising me and everything. Not.)

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Amazing Discovery

OMG. OMG OMG OMG. There is -- wait, I have to collect myself -- there is a reality show in Britain -- a modeling reality show -- OMG -- called -- are you ready? -- Britain's Missing Top Model. It is NOT a show about runaway models. It is a show about -- it's too amazing, I can't believe it's true! -- amputee models.

Tyra. Banks. Is. Kicking. Herself.

Men's Fashion: The Castrati Look: So Hot Right Now!

Um ... Shouldn't this title read "No Masculinity, All Pretense"? Come on, Times copy editors. Awwwwwwkwaaaaaaaard.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Scene From a Marriage: Love and Cup Size

Jeff and I say "I love you" a lot. We are not the save-it-for-special-occasions type of couple. But Jeff has gotten into the habit of asking follow-up questions. If I say "I love you," he'll ask "How much?"

Sometimes I give a lazy response: "Um, a lot."
Sometimes I am a smart-ass: "Not very much, actually."
Sometimes I get creative: "More than Tyra Banks loves wigs!"

Last night, tired and out of witticisms, I simply flashed my boobs. Jeff looked at them and turned back to the computer. "Yeah, I didn't think it was very much." he said.

I had to feign sobs until he let me eat the rest of his pork fried rice. Who says married life is dull?

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Tuesday Stream of Consciousness

I had a long weekend, so apologies for leaving you with the sweet smell of Crisco bathrobe for 5 days. My mom and I drove up to Rhode Island for my cousin Zack's graduation party (I can very clearly remember the day he was born in 1990, which makes me officially OLD) and then even further up to Sudbury, Mass for my dear friend Abby's wedding. Traveling with one's mother is the stuff comedies (or crime novels) are made of, but my mom and I managed to enjoy our bonding time, even though allowing me to drive may have shaved a few years off of her life (I am, for the record, a very good driver. My mom just had a heart attack every time a light turned yellow—500 feet in the distance—for fear, I can only assume, that I was struck temporarily blind).

Speaking of yellow, Jeff took some portraits of me yesterday, for a class he is taking at the School of Visual Arts, and he zoomed in on the digital image, and my teeth look like something out of ... okay, so I was just Googling to come up with something witty to describe my wine-stained teeth, and first I thought of British jokes, but then I remembered Rainbow Brite and the Color Kids, and going to that Wikipedia page was the best thing I've done all day, totally worthy of a digression. Check out these amazing sentences:

The Color Belt needs colored Star Sprinkles to work. Each Color Kid is in charge of his/her respective color, and their Sprites mine Color Crystals from the Color Caves, which are turned into Star Sprinkles by a process much like using cookie cutters.

Sprites all look identical except for their colors, and in some cases, antennae.

It is controversial whether Tickled Pink is in charge of just the color pink, or in charge of all pastel colors.

Aaaaaanyway, I guess in the world of Rainbow Brite, my smile would be Canary Yellow. How did I not know this until now???? I will never smile again (I also discovered that my front teeth are totally different lengths, probably because I refused to wear my retainer for the prescribed period of time, specifically, the rest of my natural life). Sigh.

Friday, June 20, 2008

Defending My Ditz

Last night, exhausted from a whirlwind two-day business trip, I put on my robe and curled up with Jeff to watch Season 3 of "Weeds." It was awesome until I realized that I smelled like Canola oil. And humbling when I remembered why.

I am a smart girl. I think that there is general consensus on this. But I do and say a lot of stupid things. I think the stupidest was the Canola oil incident of 2005. I had just moved into my first solo apartment in Park Slope and, true to form and credit history, had purchased a lot of things to celebrate the occasion. From the Container Store I bought two large plastic storage bins to hold my “off-season wardrobe,” otherwise known as “ratty sweaters and shoes I never wear but refuse to throw away.” (I even have a softball mitt that I have hauled with me to every place I have ever lived, as if one day I will be gripped by an irresistible urge to play the sport that haunted me throughout elementary school—and, in which case, I will need to procure a softball—but I digress. The plastic bins are the focus here.)

They arrived stacked together, tightly. I did my best to pull them apart, but to no avail – they were wedged together but good. Let me preface this by saying that I was never good at science and never took physics. Not that this absolves me of idiocy, but still—I just want to put it out there. So I did what I thought needed to be done with stuck-together things: I greased ‘em. I poured an entire bottle of Canola oil in between the bins, essentially coating the outside of one and filling the other. I was kneeling on the kitchen floor, elbow-deep in oil, when common sense kicked in. Somehow I remembered something about water pressure. I hauled the greasy bins into the tub and turned on the tap, and within seconds they had popped free. At which point I was faced with the task of cleaning them.

I gave up after about an hour. The bins were relatively dry but still had a faint sheen of lube on them, as if I had applied a coat of butter in order to bake a giant pound cake. I packed my clothes into them anyway, and stored them in a closet. My robe was one of the items I packed away, and now, still, after many washings, it always smells faintly of Crisco.

The incident always reminds me of that scene in Defending Your Life (awesome movie; see it) when Albert Brooks is forced to watch a montage of his worst decisions. I like to think I’m pretty smart, but then again … the evidence is murky.

SMART: Member of Phi Beta Kappa
BUT THEN AGAIN: Once mixed Moutain Dew, Cherry Kool-Aid, and vodka

SMART: High SAT score
BUT THEN AGAIN: Has confused Elia Kazan (distinguished director) with Elian Gonzales (seven year-old Cuban refugee)

Strong writing skills
BUT THEN AGAIN: Once snorted Pixie Sticks just to see what would happen

SMART: Good vocabulary
BUT THEN AGAIN: Still has to hold up hands to tell right from left

Is it possible to be both smart and stupid at the same time? Is that why I so love both The New York Times and Star Magazine? Are the forces of genius and dunce at war in my brain, and will one win out as time goes by? I hope not. I know, Canola-covered hands down, which one would emerge victorious.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Wii Think You Are Fat

So after all that fanfare about Wii Fit, I am frightened to use it. Here’s why:

If you do not use it every single day (and really, who has that kind of time, let alone willpower?), it chides you as soon as you start. “Oh, too busy to work out yesterday, huh?” it mocks in a high-pitched, childlike voice. I don’t know about you all, but standing in front of my TV wearing a sports bra is not the best time for me to be mocked. It sends me into the kitchen for some ice cream and/or vodka. The least it could do is mock you after you’re done. As it is if I miss a day (or two, or ten) I fear the mocking too much to get back on schedule.

Next, the main component of the Wii is a balance board/scale that monitors not only your weight (I’ll get to that in a second) but also your center of balance. Before each exercise, the Wii asks you to step onto the board so that it can read your balance. For some reason, half the time when I step on the voice says “Okay!” but the other half of the time it says “Oh!” Like, “Oh! Wow! We’ve got a bigg’un!” Suffice to say it is not great for the self-esteem.

Oh, and the scale part! Right. So the good news is that I have a normal BMI, and that my “ideal weight” is actually more than I weigh. So—room for pie! But that doesn’t stop the Wii from informing me – without solicitation – that I have gained 2 pounds since the last time I used it. As if that wasn’t insulting enough, it asks “Why do you think you gained weight?” and then goes on to give you tips on how to stop being such a fat ass. (Note: screaming at the TV that you just have a little extra water weight will not register with the Wii).

Of course, it’s not all bad. My virtual trainer looks like an animated Ken doll and has a cheery disposition. He says things like “Wow, you’ve got amazing ab strength!” or “You’ve got great balance!” Even when I suck he says “It gets harder to balance when you’re tired, doesn’t it?” And I’m like, “YES, Ken, it does. Thank you for understanding me.” Sometimes he flirts with me unintentionally: “Press the + sign to view me from the back,” he says as he demonstrates a squat. Aye aye, captain.

The exercises are actually pretty good and challenging for the most part, and if it wasn’t for the mocking childlike voice and the self-righteous scale, I would probably use it more. If the makers of Wii Fit are reading this, here are my suggestions:

-When someone steps on the balance board, it should say “Are you standing on me yet? I can’t feel a thing! You’re light as a feather!”

-When you finish exercising, Wii should say “You know what tastes great after a good workout? Nachos.”

-Have Ken wear short shorts.

Monday, June 16, 2008

The Poll Has Closed! Nail-biting Results!

Well, now I have to stop my favorite joke about how only relatives visit this site, because according to my highly scientific poll (at right) 37% of my readers are total strangers! And only 10% are relatives! Woah! What a totally shocking end to my experiment! Did you ever think such drama would play out on this blog? Okay ... I'm boring even myself. I can't make the poll cool. But really, thank you to the people that took the time to take it (mmmmm, alliteration). I am constantly shocked that you all find me amusing.

Yes, Today Will all Be Lin Posts

Lin's behind-the-scenes Thank You Cam. He thanked us! (We were the people at Alex Horwitz's house!)

Tony Night

In the Heights WON the Tony for Best Musical, and Lin won for music and lyrics! And Bill Sherman won for orchestration! It was quite a night, starting at Alex's house for pizza, booze, and celebration (only the celebration is visible in the pictures, though):

Then we headed over to the In the Heights after party! On a rooftop!

We were pretty excited! And drunk!

But we looked classy in black and white.

We ran into Bryan (aka Bryish, Bryan Ambition, Reverend Ambition), who styled Robin de Jesus, one of the stars of the show. You can't see them here, but Bryish was rocking some silver shoes. Fierce!

Our friend, Tony winner, Bill Sherman (from now on this will always preceed his name).

His lady, Kristen, displaying the winning envelope.

Speaking of ladies, we found Lin's beautiful girlfriend, Vanessa, glowing all over the place.

When we saw flashbulbs start going off like fireworks, we knew the man of the hour had arrived. we promptly accosted and molested him!

It was all fabulously exciting. Lin, if you are reading this, we are so, so proud of you! Wepa!

Friday, June 13, 2008

Posting My Lists, Checking Them Twice, Trying to Find Out What the Hell I Was Thinking ...

As an adult, if there is anything I want to own that is embarrassing to admit, I buy it myself. Seasons of "The Girls Next Door," workout videos by the trainers on "The Biggest Loser," shoes that resemble orthopedic platforms -- I choose not to force others to spend their hard-earned money on these things. As a child, however, having none of my own money save for the $800 in savings bonds that would not mature until I was 18, and, of course, not yet realizing that I had decidedly lowbrow tastes, I asked for gifts not only without shame but with enthusiasm.

Below, a sampling of birthday and Christmas lists through the years:


Whole Foods tee shirt? Nice propaganda, Mom and Dad. (They also tried to make me drink soy milk and eat non-Kraft mac and cheese!)

Circa 1989-1990

I like that there are 19 items and then a dismissive "That will be all." (Also, see my premonition of the jumpsuit fad over 18 years in advance!)

(Click to enlarge)

My editorial comments remain my favorite parts: 'COOL Posters' are specified as "Dogs, Cats, Zebras, Koalas" and next to 'dollhouse furniture' I demand "nice!!! not like Zoe's!!!" (Incidentally, I would receive said Make-Your-Own Dollhouse and would abandon it unfinished).

1992 (aka TROLLS!!!!!!!!)
(Click to enlarge)

In this list, the first using a computer, I helpfully told my parents that they did not need to get everything I asked for (what a humble child) and marked things I really wanted with an asterisk. Note that I liked both C&C Music Factory and The Babysitters Club ... in fact, I was a member:

Circa 1994

Oh, adolescence, how you shame me! No one but me knows that I asked for the Pearl Jam CD just so I could say I owned it. "Anything by King Missile," "Especially from Contempo Casuals" ... I have no explanation for these sentences, but I blame hormones. I don't remember why I wanted a Bert doll, but I'm guessing it was the dawning on my unibrow self-awareness.

(Click to enlarge)

Carpenter jeans! Melrose Place! Yes, it's 1995, and for some reason I really want sparkly butterfly barrettes. Because they go so well with carpenter jeans and a hat with pom poms and ear flaps (Kidding this time! Kidding!)

Freshman Year of College
(Click to enlarge)

Not a gift list, worse -- a list of all of the inside jokes I had with my friends when we were 18! Some gems:
-Drunk listening to Herbie Hancock
-Getting drunk on Monday night (Ed. note: Sigh ... back when that was novel)
-My first time getting stoned 11/7 (Ed. note: Awwww ... it took me a whole two months to acclimate!)

I'll leave you with pictures of me and Jeff in the Freshman facebook, about five years before we started dating:

P.S. Why the purple marker note? Did I think I might get too trashed on a Monday listening to classic jazz that I wouldn't be able to recognize my own face?

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Facebook Taunts My Inbox

(click to enlarge)

This on the heels of my personality evaluation. NOT EVERYONE HAS TO BE GOOD AT SCRAMBLE! GOD! (quietly sobs)

Time Capsule Thursday!

Last Saturday was a blast from the past. Not only did I go to my ten year high school reunion, but during the day I cleaned out some boxes at my mother's house. Inside were my old diaries (entries forthcoming), old notebooks dating back to high school, and piles of photos, documents, and art projects from my childhood. Here are some of the best:

1. My cover of Women's Wear Daily -- finally, proof positive that I was a child model!

2. My Mighty Mustang Award (I forget what it means, but it's pretty badass, no? Too bad it expired in 1988)

3. A Polaroid from the last day of 4th grade (value increased by teacher's signature -- see top). Note my sweet Bartman tee shirt.

4. Two letters from Camp Onas circa the early nineties ... on handmade stationery. (The cartoon on the first one is "An Uny Toon" -- enlarge to read).

5. A faux (I know it's hard to tell) People cover, featuring "the best thing to happen to Melrose Place since Heather Locklear!"

6. "Some Important Facts About Me." The best part is that I don't like "not play." A future writer if ever I saw one!

7. Avery rare shot from my first-ever photo collection. I took posed portraits of each of my toys. Jeff Koons is way jealous.

8. My brief stint as a saloon wench, 1993. This photo is cringe-inducing but also kind of awesome, because the only thing that can make a hokey, old-timey costume photo more awkward is an awkward adolescent!

9. Jumping ahead a decade, the white board from my college refrigerator, senior year. (Note the parking ticket above scrawled with the words "HA HA". If your car wasn't registered at Wesleyan the school couldn't ever find you to fine you.)

10. And, to make it an even ten, an excerpt from my 1992 birthday list (on dot-matrix printer!!!).

(Click to enlarge. You won't be sorry.)

More to come, but this seems masturbatory enough for one day.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Strawberry Shortcake Gets Nose Job, Japanese Thermal Hair-Straightening

For the full article, click here. Ironically, old Strawberry's bloomers are so in this season!

Things I Hate: Subway DJs

This morning, on a crowded Q train, music began to play. I looked over and identified the source as a young man standing a few feet away. At first I thought it was his phone ringing, but when the music did not stop--and, in fact, got louder--it became clear that this was his version of an iPod. I mean, who needs headphones when you can share your bad, static-ridden reggae with the whole car?

This phenomenon--and it is a phenomenon--baffles me to the point of wanting to bang my head against something, hard. At least 5 times a year, I encounter this same thing. A man--and it is always a man--plays loud music from a handheld device, totally oblivious to the death stares being aimed at him by all of his fellow passengers. I don't mean to sound like an asshole--I mean, I love music--but I think what bothers me about this is that it is breaking a social code, a code that says "since we are sharing a small enclosed space and it is the New York City subway already which means inevitably the ride will be unpleasant, you will listen to your music using a set of headphones, which cost only $5 and which are readily available at pretty much any store anywhere." I know it's not that these men can't afford headphones, which means that they just don't think it's wrong. Furthermore, they have no shame. No sense of right and wrong + no shame = sociopath. Which is why no one will tell them to turn off their music.

If you have any input on this, I'd love to know. Why do you think they do this? Do they just not give a fuck? Do they think our mornings will be brightened by their generous gift? Did their mothers somehow mangle their lessons on sharing? If I wish them harm, is that like really bad karma? Do you think they would like my Petula Clark songs?

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Also: Rompers? Rompers?? Really?

So according to New York Magazine, among others, rompers are "in" this summer. Yes, rompers. Onesies. Jumpsuits with shorts. Who let this happen? Rompers are specifically designed for people too young to know how to keep their pants on. Has it really come to this?

I mean, I get the allure of a one-piece outfit. I call it a dress. It's easy, you don't have to coordinate anything, just throw it on with some flip flops and you're done. But there are a few key differences between a dress and a romper. To wit:

1. Only one of these items is not defined as "a loosely fitted, one-piece garment having short bloomers that is worn especially by small children for play."

2. A dress does not require you to get completely naked in order to urinate.

3. The romper looks good on no one. Really, no one. My mother always taught me that if it doesn't look good on the model, there's no hope for you (see below).

In Googling for this blog, first of all, I burned my eyes out. Diane von Furstenberg, I expected more from you:

So many kinds of no!

This one is like the sartorial equivalent of a mullet.

Business on top, party on the bottom! Is it a suit? And if so, what kind of meeting are you going to?

Ah, now here's a look I can get behind: the formal romper. Because rompers are nothing if not the height of evening chic.


I also found an section titled "How Do I Wear Rompers?" Unfortunately, the answer was not "Shut the fuck up."

It's Too Darn Fucking Hot

Guess? You'll never guess. The heat makes me even bitchier!

God damn is it hot! That is not a question! That is just an emphatic (note the exclamation point!) statement!

Also, did you know that it is scientifically impossible for two people to be equally cooled by a single fan? No matter where you put it! I had Jeff rigging all sorts of elaborate configurations of extension cords trying to sate me, but eventually he just threw a wet washcloth in my direction and went back to reading his book.

I have also been annoying Jeff with my new favorite phrase, from In the Heights: "Ay carajo, it's hot!"* I find myself terribly cute when I do this, but I think for Jeff, once was enough.

To his credit, though, my valiant husband stayed out until 10pm last night searching for an air conditioner. Alas, they were sold out all over town.

Thanks anyway, honey!

*"Oh shit/crap/hell, it's hot!"

Monday, June 9, 2008

Newest Celeb Couple, According to McCain: Obamadinejad!

Above, a real ad running right now on (click to enlarge). I stole this from Gawker anyway, so I'll let them sum it up:

"First we thought this was the stupidest ad buy ever, as if any Nation reader would ever vote for McCain. Then we remembered that The Nation is read by lots of Jews."

Mr. Big Stuff, Who do you think you are?

So as an experiment I put a poll on the blog, over there, at right. I wanted to create a multiple-question poll but apparently I can't do that, so for now I will settle for finding out who is reading this here blog. Please humor me and check a box.

Reunion Round-Up

I fear I can't articulately string together all of my impressions of reunion, so instead I think I'll treat you to a series of vignettes:

1. Before reunion, I had dinner with my old high school friends Rachel and Victoria, during which I joked that I was sort of nervous that no one would believe I was married, since I was so terminally dateless in high school. So the very first people we meet at reunion are some girls that I always thought were cooler than me, and I say hi and tell them I got married and Victoria pipes up "She really is married; I've met her husband!" and all of the cool girls laugh nervously. Awwwwwwkward!

2. Two women at reunion were pregnant (one, a former social Queen Bee who got knocked up by a guy who used to date her best friend--drama!-- and one who is married to a very sweet guy who I used to be bitchy to in high school). I was wearing a tight dress and had just eaten a burger and fries, so I started to worry that people would congratulate me on my bump. I hid my stomach behind my purse all night.

3. A couple of people said "I hear you have a blog." And I made the same self-deprecating joke that I always make about how I have 80 readers and 75 of them are friends and blood relatives. But even more people said "I saw your wedding pictures on Facebook." And it made me feel so good that I am not to only one who finds myself looking at a distant acquaintance's vacation snapshots during slow days at work.

4. I had four glasses of wine. So I was very tipsy. And I had somehow thought it would be a good idea to stop by work on the way to reunion and pick up a 50-lb bag of books that I had to give to Aileen before she left for the Philippines for two months (she is currently sort of homeless--but an upscale homeless--and had shipments sent to me at work). So I tottered out of the bar carrying this bag of books and my clutch purse. The bag promptly split open and spilled all over the street, and when I bent to pick it up my clutch spilled all over the street. So I am squatting on 8th avenue in my tight dress scooping up textbooks and lipstick, and finally, when I get everything precariously packed into my arms, I stand up and I see the McDonald's golden arches illuminated like a beacon, and I teeter in like a junkie and dump all of my stuff on the floor and order a Big Mac and fries. Then, clutching my greasy McDonald's bag PLUS all of my crap, I hail a cab and procede to stuff my face with fast food for the entire ride home. I really wish someone had been filming me--I bet it would have made a great silent comedy, especially if set at slightly fast speed and paired with old-timey piano music.

But overall it was fun, even though almost no one got worse-looking, which was highly disappointing. Everyone looked better--even the people who Anna and I had assumed would peak in high school--so our entire theory is sort of blown. On a total tangent, don't you fear that day when you stop looking better with age and start looking worse? It's gotta come, right? I can't tell if I've hit it yet ... that's why Noah K's site is such a genius idea.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Adolescence, with an Open Bar

My 10 year high school reunion is this Saturday, and I have to admit that the idea of a reunion was a lot more appealing ten years ago than it is now. It's not that I'm not A) curious to see what's become of my former classmates and B) eager to revise their mental images of me -- specifically, to correct six years of damage (I am not slow; my high school actually started in Junior High, hence the six years) done by, in no particular order: retainer, unibrow, tie dye, love beads, snap-leg jeans, Dockers, leggings worn with oversize sweatshirts, overalls, and, the last time many of them saw me, face down on a bench in Riverside Park, vomiting (yay graduation!). It's just that the thought of seeing everyone again makes me vaguely uncomfortable.

This doesn't make me special, but -- shockingly -- I was not cool in high school. I mean, I was cool on the inside, obviously, but in a quirky, nerdy way that was not cool in the early '90s. Nerd-chic didn't really get big until the end of the decade. So I was sort of a lost soul, too much of a goody-goody to stake claim to coolness by smoking pot, drinking, or having a boyfriend, but a flesh-and-blood teenager nonetheless, who wore far too much makeup, harbored secret crushes, and longed to belong in some way. I wasn't an outcast in the way that Ally Sheedy was in The Breakfast Club, but I wasn't really on the radar of the cool kids. I was sort of like Angela in "My So-Called Life," only not as pretty (yet, Mom -- yet. I know you think I was beautiful then, but you're my MOM) and a better student. I had my Rayanne in the form of Anna, a girl I glommed onto in 9th grade because she wore fishnets and Hole tee shirts and seemed fabulously weird. We became best friends because it turned out that we were fabulously weird in the same ways, and for the rest of high school I had a person I belonged with. I had other friends, too -- mostly goody-goodies or nerds like me -- but I still felt like I fell squarely (pun intended) in the center of the high school social hierarchy. Anna and I used to make ourselves feel better by assuring each other that "peaking" in high school was a waste. "People like __________ and ___________ are cool now," we'd say as we nibbled on bagels in the courtyard during free periods, "But this is, like, the coolest they will ever get. It will all be downhill from here. We, on the other hand, will be late bloomers, and when they are all fat and bald we will be awesome."

I guess now it's time for the big reveal.

The cult and culture of high school is funny, though -- I bet even if I see someone who is now fat and bald who formerly ignored me in the hallways, I will still feel like I can't talk to them. I honestly think sometimes that going through puberty in junior high and high school is the worst idea ever. I mean, babies can learn languages easily as infants because they are just learning how to communicate. You can imprint a baby with pretty much anything. In puberty, adolescents are like babies again, but instead of learning how to talk they're learning how to experience adult emotions. So the skinny kid who laughed at you during your 8th grade dance when you sat on the bleachers by yourself while everyone else slow danced to "November Rain" can, like, scar you for life. That doesn't seem fair, does it?

Anyway, it's not that the actual reunion is going to suck, it's just that it brings back all of the memories of high school, which are mostly memories of sadness, awkward adolescence, or insecurity. I guess the one perk of having peaked in high school is that you're totally psyched to go to reunion and revisit the good old days. In the long run, though, I guess that's pretty depressing, too. Which is why they serve drinks! We may be old, but at least we're finally legal.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

"Fist Bump of Hope" for a Rainy Thursday

I'm really glad they went with this and not the "bitch slap of change."

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

The Hillarys Have Eyes

Oh. My. GAWWWWWWD. I have to stop reading the news or I will kiiillllllllll someone.

Every day I read something about how Hillary Clinton supporters will either write in votes for Hillary, stay home and not vote at all, or vote for (anti-choice, by the by) McCain out of spite. I know this doesn't apply to all, or even to most, of her supporters, but I ... I'm just at a loss. I mean, what does that say about these people, that they would cheerfully vote for a Republican as a "fuck you" to Obama? What does it say about them that they would be happy to go through four years of McCain just so they can say that if Hillary had been the nominee, she would have won? These people ... these people are assholes! If I meet one, I will kick her in the boobs! Oh my GOD THEY MAKE ME SO ANGRY.

Hillary can't be that evil, can she? She wouldn't stand by and let her own party to lose the election just because she isn't the nominee ... would she? Getting. Very. Paranoid.

(I had a link posted to a petition urging Obama not to choose Clinton as his running mate ... until I saw that among the other signers were 'cock&balls' and 'Adolph Hussein' so I'm guessing this petition's not really going anywhere. But my name is just under 'cock&balls,' in case Barack ever does see it.)

Like Sassy Like Sister

My little sis is so cute, and just as fame-whorey and sarcastic as me! And yes, every time I mention her I will post the picture of the Halloween when she went in blackface and tinfoil as a Hershey Kiss.

Aaaaaanyway, here's a Facebook message I received from her this morning:
Subject: Lets get famous

Hello pursy lips,
Yo. my job is so mindless. Why arent we famous? lets do something that will propel us into stardom. Lauren "No emotion" Conrad is fuckin famous...we just need incredibly cute clothing. I know we are both artistic and all...but writing and painting take years to become famous for. So lets do something faster.
Reality tv would be good. Or doing something incredibly controversial like that man who starved dogs in a gallery and called it art (that was demented and sad though, so not that). Insanity= fame baby.
except not always. like for example if we made a treehouse and lived in it for a year we'd get sorta famous cause people would write articles about how "green" we were and how we were the face of the future. If we lived in a car however, we'd just be like 1/2 the population.
Brain storm yo. xoxoxooxo
P.s.- glad to see you have your model face all practiced for when we are famous.

After I asked her if I could post it on the blog, she wrote:
"course yo...get my famousness kicked off. Also we should go to NKOTB reunion tour."

Jonathan Knight ... um, swoon! (He is the least popular New Kid, the one who was really skinny and had a mullet. They only let him sing the "Happy Birthday" song. For reals. Inexplicably, I love(d) him.)

Dear Obama: The Number One Reason Why You Should not Make Clinton the VP Nominee

You do not want to be in the position where the only thing standing between Hillary Clinton and the Presidency of the United States is your accidental death.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Oh Dear

So I probably just contracted TB, because I dripped yogurt on my two year-old, never-been-cleaned, dropped-on-the-city-streets-at-least-twice-per-week cell phone and my instinct, immediately, was to lick it off.

I do this kind of thing all too often. Either I have hardened my immune system to withstand all bacteria or I am about to fall victim to Darwin's theory of evolution.
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