Monday, August 31, 2009
"I was sitting on the toilet," she said—a great beginning to any story—"and I looked down and there was a rat swimming up through the pipes."
I'm not sure if she was trying to scare the bejeesus out of me or if she thought it was moment of bonding. All I know is that the toilet officially lost its classification as a safe place, and I was never the same.
I have always suffered from a fear of rodents. I had a book in elementary school that was full of horrifying incidents in which people found mice in cans of soda and other unsavory places. I don't know why I owned this book, as even just doing a Google search for it just now almost made me vomit. Suffice to say that I was probably early-onset masochism.
Anyway, after my grandmother told me about the rat in the toilet, my terror level lept to DEFCON 1. I developed a protective mantra which I whispered each time I used the bathroom (oh, if only I had been born a boy, so that I could—at least half the time—see the rats advancing and pelt them with urine!). I will not repeat it here (Jeff is the only one who knows and he mocks me mercilessly enough as it is—see #6 on this list) but the mantra was based on the idea of security screening. You know how in super top secret organizations people enter rooms using fingerprint or retinal scanning devices instead of ID cards? Well, let's just say that I liked to pretend that my toilet could recognize my butt in a similar fashion and thereby protect me from rat attacks. Please stop laughing.
I am happy to report that I do not do this anymore, because I realize that being bitten on the ass by a rat that has swum into your toilet is an irrational fear. Well, at least that's what I believed until last week when my coworker recounted a tale of—YES—a rat swimming up into her toilet. She was not on the can at the time, but her boyfriend saw the wet rat running around in the bathroom. IT HAPPENS, PEOPLE. NONE OF US ARE SAFE! DEFCON 1 IN EFFECT IMMEDIATELY. PEE IN THE SINK UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
I arrived yesterday to this:
Immaculate Conception is the name of the now-defunct Catholic elementary school in Westerly that my Dad attended in the early 1960s. But if you didn't know that, what would this say to you? (On another note, this photo is the answer to Jeff's constant inquiries as to why I am such a spaz.)
And then this morning my father set out for the beach in this:
Perhaps his issues stem from his immaculate conception?
Not wanting me to be left out, Dad got me my own tee...
(You may remember that he has a presidential obsession.)
And this is completely gratuitous and not in keeping with the theme, but how cute are my grandma's Skechers?
Here is what it says in case the photo isn't clear:
LEGEND: The marathon in Africa... I'm halfway out and barely chugging. Mountain coming! Liquid needed! What's around? Water's bitter! Beer's flat! Gator, blah blah!... Fading fast. Then a vision--sweet Joanna!--Tempting me with pale gold nectar... Lemon is it? Yes, by golly! Lemonade? No, Lemon aid!... Power added... Asphalt churning!... Cruising home to victory! Hail Joanna! Filched the nectar (shameless hustler)--in the market--Newman's Own.
Yes, for real that's what it says. Did J. Peterman chew some peyote, gag the copy editor, and send this to the printer?
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Anyway, when I got there I found out that all of Amtrak's trains were delayed due to some sort of signal malfunction. I waited an extra hour and then, once my train had pulled out of Penn Station and traveled for precisely five minutes, the engine failed, necessitating a 90-minute wait for a "rescue engine."
Luckily I had Season 4 of The Office as well as a webcam to keep me entertained...
While I was waiting, Jeff sent me the following screen capture. It seems he had been reading the Boston Globe for Red Sox scores when he happened upon a, erm, colorful entry in the community web forum:
In case you can't read that, it says, and I quote: MY HUSBAND'S ASSHOLE IS A PARKING LOT FOR COCK!!!
Now that I've typed that I've no doubt that this blog will pop up on Google searches for hardcore porn, but it's worth it because I have a new favorite phrase. I immediately texted Jeff from my stalled train that Amtrak was also a parking lot for cock.
Many hilarious Dunder Mifflin escapades later, I arrived in Westerly, where I spent a lovely afternoon with my extended LaMarche family. After dinner, chocolate whiskey cake, and present-opening, my Dad and his girlfriend introduced me to one of their favorite games, Bananagrams. It's Scrabble-esque, except that instead of playing on a big board players make their own crosswords and compete to see who can use all of their letters first. One of my first efforts:
Than Them Queens would make a great band name, no? I'll file that away with my fantasy 6th grade band, The Trapperkeepers.
Anyway, that's my day. I'm literally lying in bed right now on the verge of sleep... and it's barely 11. But my body kind of aches because last night I took an intense dance class which not only required me to wear neon orange short shorts but also totally kicked my ass. It's nice to be tired and to have nothing to do but sleep.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
She's baaaa-aaaaack! And I couldn't be more thrilled. Kenley Collins, the Project Runway Season 5 contestant who I both loathe and am completely obsessed with, has given an interview after breaking out of the clink where she toiled for two whole days! And she gives The. Best. Quotes. Ever.
“Everyone kept saying I put new meaning in the phrase ‘pussy-whipped.’”
Yes, haha, because you beat someone with a cat! Why abuse just a person or an animal when you can do both at the same time?
“I had those women [in prison] cracking up! But the girl next to me was in there for, like, stabbing her man in the head, like 25 times. She was hardcore.”
Does anyone else find it hard to believe that a woman in jail for stabbing someone in the head 25 times would be able to stand—let alone laugh with—someone who even pacifist angel Tim Gunn admitted he wanted to hit?
Also, she's getting her own reality show. OMG. Thank you, universe. You heard my prayers.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
As a kid (and, who am I kidding, even now) I had a mortal fear of gym class. My dad says that one day he took me to elementary school and I burst into tears upon hearing that we would have gym that day. I stand by my reaction; phys ed teachers are clichés for a reason. They yell and taunt and seem to be in secret alliance with the naturally athletic kids, the ones who cheer when informed that the class will be playing intramural football for an hour. The only gym sport at which I excelled was something called scooter soccer, a game seemingly designed to handicap everyone. The essential rules of soccer were the same, except that instead of standing or running, we sat on little squares of plastic equipped with wheels—the kind that legless homeless people favor or that might be used to transport janitorial buckets. This being public school in the 1980s, the wheels were often warped and twisted, and in order to move at all you had to pound the floor furiously while pushing backwards. In retrospect I liked it not so much that I was good at it, but because no one else was.
From third grade to sixth grade I had two gym teachers: Mr. Hyman and Mr. Bolden. We were not yet old enough to mock the former's name (we understood vaguely that it was a part of the female anatomy, but we had no idea what—or where—it was), but the two of them made a hilarious duo all the same. Hyman was short, stocky, white, and loud, with reddish hair that matched his constantly-flushed face. Bolden was tall, muscular, reticent, and black, with heavy-lidded eyes and and an ever-present basketball wedged in the crook of his elbow. They were always together, sort of like Ernie and Bert crossed with Riggs and Murtaugh from Lethal Weapon. Twice a week, our class would file into the gym in our uniforms—someone's idea of a joke, as although the official school colors were maroon and gold, the reality was closer to baby-shit brown and the mustardy yellow of concentrated urine—and sit cross-legged in evenly spaced rows.
The games Hyman and Bolden forced us to play ran the gamut from farcical to torturous. Sometimes it felt like we were a band of circus performers, as when our prescribed physical activity was to push a giant inflatable ball across the room for no discernable purpose; other times it felt like we were marine recruits, doing timed sprints around the schoolyard or clinging to a chin-up bar as Mr. Hyman barked "Don't just hang there, pull! Use your arms for Christssake." If he was feeling kind he would mark down that I had done half a pull-up instead of zero.
As terrified as I generally was of gym, I was never moreso than on the days that we played a game Mr. Hyman called "basketball."
For the record, it wasn't basketball. As athetically-challenged as I am, I know how basketball is played. This was what basketball would have been on the island of Lord of the Flies—a sudden death gauntlet intended to weed out the weak and uncoordinated. The class was divided into teams and counted off in numbers so that each team had players numbering one through fourteen. Two basketballs were placed in the center of the gym, and we crouched on either side, willing our bladders to be strong (or maybe that was just me). Mr Hyman would stand at the front of the room and shout out a number (he perfected his technique so that it was like a drumroll: "Numbaaaaaaaaaaah....Five!") and immediately two kids would sprint to the center, grab the basketballs and start shooting.
At that time I was under five feet tall and weighed about 60 pounds. I also had horrible aim. My utter failure wouldn't have been so humiliating if not for the fact that we were not allowed to sit back down—even if the competition had made their shot on the first try—until we made a basket...
Well! That was enough of a trip down memory lane for today. Excuse me while I schedule an emergency therapy session. Do you have any horrible memories of gym classes past you'd like to share?
When I first heard about this I got kind of nervous, as calling someone a skank on the Internet is something I could very well do without thinking twice (well, not a skank, as that's not really a word I use, but maybe a twat or d-bag. What can I say? I'm classy). I once had to take a post down on this site in which I called a celebrity "creepy". I won't go into details, but obviously said celebrity had a Google alert on his or her name, since at the time this blog was read by approximately 12 people. I was shocked when I got into trouble for it, as I had just assumed that if you are a public figure you accept the fact that some people do not like you and may call you ugly or talentless or fat on the Internet. I am by no stretch of the imagination a public figure, but even I expect that if I eventually publish a book I will get hate mail. It happens. People like to write mean things about other people—it's kind of why blogging exists. Blogs have become the diaries, the bathroom walls, and the slam books of the 21st century.
This model—let's call her Skanky McSkankface—is obviously insanely insecure, but only today did I read an article that mentioned a curious and underreported fact: Last year she was cut in the face (details are murky but I assume someone accidentally called her Ma'am or something and box cutters were pulled) and hasn't worked much since. Hmmmmmm. I feel like there's a word for a person who sues an anonymous blogger for a minor insult just to pay her bills after she gets disfigured in a bar fight....I just can't put my finger on what...it...is...
P.S. Someone had better be turning this into Skank: The Musical! For next year's Fringe Festival. If you don't, I will.
P.P.S. Now the top image result for "skank" is this model. AMAZING.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I love that I have elves keeping me updated on romper and harem pant activity all across the globe. (I also a fashion-minded friend who frequently sends me heinous outfits she finds on Shopbop.com). This morning I received the following communication from Operative B (aka Miss Monneypenny):
Subject: Are You Aware
That now, when I search in vain for something I can afford on one of my favorite websites, the categories for dresses are:
Jumpsuits and Rompers
Are you fucking kidding me? Since when is a jumpsuit/romper a DRESS? It has LEG HOLES. It has SEPARATION at the CROTCH. It flatters NO ONE.
What's next? Romper-clad bridesmaids? Business suits including formal shorts?
P.S. The poster pictured above—not sent from B—is for a 1992 movie that technically tells "the story of a gang of violent neo-Nazi skinheads from Footscray, Victoria, Australia" and stars Russel Crowe, but I'd like to think that when they're not beating up minorities they are fighting the spread of rompers throughout the fashion world...
Monday, August 24, 2009
Anyway, my friend Matt sent me a link recently about my alma mater, Wesleyan, starting a sex magazine (hilariously, the Hartford Courant's title for the article is "College Sex Magazine Includes Nudity, Erotic Poetry". Um, duh).
I think it's telling that, if you went to Wesleyan, this is not remotely surprising. In fact, I'm kind of disappointed that Harvard managed to do it five years earlier. See, Wesleyan is nothing if not obsessed with sex and nudity. I saw more bare breasts than hacky sacks during my four years there, which is saying a lot.
In 1998, when I first set foot on campus, Wesleyan not only had co-ed dorms but also co-ed bathrooms, which I thought was cool but which almost gave my grandmother a heart attack when she came to visit and walked in unsuspectingly to see a towel-clad football player using the urinal. The chances of seeing someone naked were high, especially for the tall boys, who could look down over the wall into the next shower stall. There was an unofficial "naked dorm," WestCo, in which there were clothing-optional dorm meetings, but all in all none of the Wesleyan dorms were chaste. There were nights of topless dancing in the hallway, and I remember coming home one day to find packets of lube taped to my door.
There were also Naked Parties, which were held from time to time at Earth House, which, as the name implies, celebrated anything and everything au naturel. The Naked Parties were held every semester, although I never attended (while I may be a literary exhibitionist, I am not a physical one... last week's pool party notwithstanding) mostly because a dancing penis is not something I want to see in my lifetime. A friend of mine went once, and reported back that after having used the bathroom she had a piece of toilet paper stuck to her bare ass for twenty minutes before anyone told her.
Of course, all of that warm, fuzzy, mostly non-sexual nakedness seems benign when compared to the infamous pornography class that was taught in the spring of my freshman year. Students' final projects included video, photography, and fiction, all of which were explicit. An alternative, frat-like society called Eclectic hosted a yearly XXX party, at which porn was projected on the walls, as well as a "frottage" party (even though it sounds like something you might find in the dairy aisle, it means dry-humping). I remember, during my senior year, seeing fliers posted near the campus grocery store looking for participants to appear in a Wesleyan porn film.
With all this in mind, it seems (forgive the pun) anti-climactic for a Wesleyan sex magazine to come out now, and downright insulting that it includes no actual pornography. I've heard rumors that the school has changed since I was there, that large-scale house parties—let alone Naked Parties—are no more, and that the administration has cracked down on the hippie-dippy, laissez-faire vibe that the university was once known for. This makes me sad. Could the Wesleyan I knew have buttoned up so much that now a soft-core magazine with "erotic poetry" is considered scandalous? I would watch a dancing penis just to make that not be true.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
-Cheese and fruit platter (prepared)
-10 artisanal cheeses
-3 packs of Cracker Barrel pre-cut cheddar
-a block of extra-sharp cheddar
-a package of cream cheese
I don't think I can put it better than she did: "No one will be pooping tomorrow."
Friday, August 21, 2009
But I did it, and I hope you like it. Link here. Tell your friends!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
When I ride the elevator every day, especially when there is someone in there with me, I like to stare blankly at the little news-y screen the tells me exciting facts like what the Dow is doing (not that I understand) and what celebrities have birthdays coming up. But today I actually learned something fascinating, if completely random: in 1974, Gerber apparently released a product called Gerber Singles, made for on-the-go adults! At least, they said it was for on-the-go adults. Really it was for adults so depressed and lonely that they couldn't even pick up a take-out menu and instead chose to eat creamed beef out of a tiny glass jar!
This got me thinking. Every time I pass the baby food aisle I think, I would totally eat that. A lifelong vegetable shunner (yes, I actually have that listed on my resume), I thrill at the idea that I could get my vitamins from a tiny portion of what looks like green pudding. I also think the fact that it is for babies makes it alluring because it is verboten (in the interest of full disclosure, I have a scar on my face from toddlerhood when my dog caught me eating from her bowl).
The fatal flaw in Gerber's plan, I think, was actually marketing it for adults. They might as well have called it "I Live Alone and I Don't Even Have the Energy to Chew, Let Alone Sign Up For eHarmony." Sad.
But...I would still eat it if anyone has some stashed from the ’70s. For, um, research. That's right.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I have always wanted to be a mother (Note: This is not an “I’m pregnant” post. Just to clear that up. Especially since last night, I asked Jeff to carry a heavy bag for me and he whined and I said, "You know, honey, some day I'll carry something for you. For nine months. In my uterus." And he said, "What? Like my wallet?") Anyway. I have always wanted kids. When I was little I used to stuff my dolls in my dresses and then huff and puff and act out births. Then I would slam their hard little plastic heads against my chest to mimic breastfeeding. Anyway, over the years it has occurred to me to write something now that my future children can have when they grow up. Originally I thought it would take the form of a sappy letter, but then I thought a better idea would be to dispense life lessons with a bit of future-motherly tough love...
Here, the inaugural 10:
1. Leggings do not equal pants. Especially for you, future son.
2. Beer before liquor, never sicker; liquor before beer, you’re in the clear has never proven true for me. I go by my own mantras: “Add cheap vodka to Mountain Dew, you’ll be puking till you’re blue,” and “Milk is healthful and nutritious, but mixing it with booze is injudicious.”
3. If you’re going to play doctor, just call it playing doctor. Do not call it “Look in Butt"—that reveals the secret purpose of playing doctor and thus takes away the mystery. (True story: when I was three or four, my best friend Salvador played Look In Butt. It was doctor, essentially—or proctologist, more accurately—as we had no interest in heartbeats or hearing tests, instead choosing to focus solely on the anus. One of us would bend over and the other one would conduct the examination. What we were looking for, I can’t say—stray He-Man figures? Lost crayons?—but we took our work seriously. For years afterward I assumed that Look in Butt was consensual—the only thing that tempered the humiliation of its existence was Sal’s complicity—but my father finally told me that he’d overheard us once. Sal was playing the patient at the time, and as removed his underwear he said to me, “Una ... this is wrong.” And I have never played Look in Butt again.)
4. Don't let anyone call you a slut for sleeping with someone on the first date. Your father and I did, and now we're married!
5. Say it with me: if it is cold enough for boots, it is too cold for bare toes. Similarly, if what you are doing is athletic enough to require sneakers, then it is not prudent for them to have high heels.
6. If you have an irrational fear—say, that a rat will swim up into your toilet bowl and bite you on the ass—and so to protect yourself you create a little mantra that you say (again, hypothetically) every time you go to the bathroom, DO NOT ever tell anyone what that mantra is or they will NEVER let you forget it.
7. If you pee your pants while wearing woolen tights, best to take them off for the rest of the day.
8. Don't freeze the top of your wedding cake for a year. Eat that shit right away. I don't care what anyone says, it will not keep.
9. You will never be able to decipher the lyrics to "Louie Louie," but I'm here to tell you that I looked them up and that they make no sense anyway, so don't worry about it.
10. Disregard any comments I ever made on this blog to smoking pot. I was lying. Unless you have some.
Monday, August 17, 2009
So Tom DeLay will be on this season of Dancing With the Stars. Which is kind of amazing. When will white Republicans stop embarrassing themselves by performing song and dance? (Let's hope never.)
Of special note is that DeLay's nickname was "The Hammer." (Hammer, by the way, is defined as "a tool meant to deliver an impact." HA. So true.) In light of this, I request—nay, I demand—that DeLay perform at least one routine to U Can't Touch This.
Who wants to start a write-in campaign with me?
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Anyway, having ditched the generic hormones I found myself today, for the first time in I don't even know how long, purchasing condoms. And even though I am 29 and married, the experience was still vaguely humiliating. First you have to find the condom aisle, which is different in every drug store (in the worst cases, they are stored right in front of the pharmacist, who stands there and watches as you silently weigh the pros and cons of ultra-thin vs. ribbed). If there is someone already standing in the condom aisle but NOT buying condoms (say, a fresh-faced teenager perusing the feminine hygiene products or an elderly man looking for Gold Bond... hypothetically) you have to stand there pretending to look at something else and wait them out, or, if they don't leave soon enough, grab something indiscriminately and jet. The problem, I think—the indisputable fact that lies at the center of the condom buying equation—is that by buying a box of condoms you are announcing to all strangers in view: I am going to have sex. If you linger before choosing, you are announcing: I am deciding what type of sex I am going to be having soon.
Of course, worse than strangers NOT buying condoms are strangers who ARE buying condoms. Right next to you. Standing next to a stranger in front of the condoms is not only saying, I will be having sex soon. It is saying, We will BOTH be having sex soon. And then you have to deal not only with your own silent sex-admission to a stranger, but with their admission to you. And if the other person is a man, you have to send out extra brain-wave messages to any other strangers who might be watching: This is not the person I will be having sex with. Why would we buy 24 condoms just for today? That is clearly too much. Even for a nymphomaniac. Which I am not. He might be though. Who knows? Ha. Ha. Ha. Please kill me.
Then, once you finally have your condoms and have fled the aisle, you must check out. This is perhaps the most unavoidably embarrassing part of the experience, since you are forced to actually hand the condoms to the check-out person. Here, you are saying. These are the condoms I have chosen with which to have sex soon. Please hold them for me while I open my wallet. It occurs to me that you could see it another way. You could see it as boasting, I am going to have sex now. Jealous? In that way, condoms are a less embarrassing purchase than, say, yeast infection cream or laxatives, which have absolutely no positive spin. But I have not yet mastered the art of the confident condom purchase, and so inevitably I look down at my feet while the person counts out my change.
It's such a cliché, but is buying condoms ever not embarrassing? Why does filling a birth control prescription feel responsible, while buying condoms always feels dirty? If you have tips or tricks, as I am going to be doing this more often, please share. God knows I've overshared enough for all of us.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A) I wrote for three hours. And I didn't check my email once the whole time.
B) I cleaned the whole apartment. Even the toilet.
C) I dropped off dry-cleaning.
D) I blasted my glutes with a Total Workout In Ten (I am a sucker for anything that promises fitness in ten minutes. Or, even better, eight minutes).
E) I showered. Twice.
F) I made a fucking beautiful loaf of homemade bread!
And it's only 6:15. I have so much time to be lazy now!
Friday, August 14, 2009
1. Mia Sara as Sloane Peterson in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)
Oh, Sloane. Who wouldn’t take a day off to drive around Chicago with you? No one, for the record, has ever looked this good in high school. Fact.
2. Nicolette Sheridan as The Sure Thing in The Sure Thing (1985)
OK, yes, she doesn’t get a name and is totally objectified, both by the filmmakers and the characters, but come on. That first scene where she baby-oils herself on the beach could make a grown man cry (or grown woman cry, but the women will be crying for different, self-hating reasons).
3. Kim Basinger as Elizabeth in 9 ½ Weeks (1986)
It pains me to put up this photo, as it shows the yumminess that was Mickey Rourke before he went and ruined his beautiful face (and started carrying around tiny dogs and wearing so much leather), but it must be said that the ’80s were good to Kim Basinger, and that in this flick in particular she was supersexy.
4. Jennifer Grey as Frances “Baby” Houseman in Dirty Dancing (1987)
Proving once and for all that plastic surgery is not attractive, Jennifer Grey was never hotter than in this movie with her original nose (and sick dance moves). One must wonder, though, if Patrick Swayze's hotness increases the hotness of everyone around him, like a virus. Even Jerry Orbach was smokin'.
5. Karen Allen as Marion in Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
Perhaps the general population would call her more cute than hot, but whatever. Whenever I watch Raiders I just want to eat her little face off! Does that sound creepy?
6. Elisabeth Shue as Chris Parker in Adventures in Babysitting (1987)
This is a bias for me, as I watched Adventures in Babysitting approximately 68 times from 1988-1993 and wanted nothing more than to be Elisabeth Shue. I still maintain, however, that she is a fine-lookin’ woman, in this film particularly.
7. Jennifer Beals as Alex Owens in Flashdance (1983)
That face. That body. That dance scene in the steel mill. Case closed.
8. Sigourney Weaver as Dana Barrett in Ghostbusters (1984)
When she turns into the Gatekeeper at the end of the movie, Rick Moranis can’t resist her hit-by-lightning hair and come-hither eyes... and neither can I. I like a little singe on a woman, you know what I’m saying?
9. Robin Wright as Buttercup in The Princess Bride (1987)
Since I so egregiously ignored Cary Elwes in my previous list (Oh, my sweet Westley, what have I done?), I must mention the cornfed beauty that is Robin Wright Penn in her debut film. I hope Sean Penn hits himself hard every time he watches The Princess Bride because damn, Penn, you do not give that up.
10. Kathleen Turner as Joan Wilder in Romancing the Stone (1984)
Hot, wet, jungle Turner, before her nose inexplicable widened by a factor of five and she started looking like a drag queen (I’m sorry, but it’s true). This is exactly how I want to look if I am ever marooned on an island with Michael Douglas.
Honorable mentions: Phoebe Cates as Linda Barrett in Fast Times at Ridgemont High; Daryl Hannah as Roxanne Kowalski in Roxanne; Isabella Rossellini as Dorothy Vallens in Blue Velvet (1986).
I got a bunch of comments for this, so just let me say: I restrict my list to movies I have seen and I can’t ever see Sean Young as sexy after Ace Ventura when she played a man. Sorry.
It is also worth noting that Maxim has its own list of Hottest Women of the ’80s, and that none of mine overlap with theirs. I consider that a compliment to my taste.
1. John Cusack as Walter “Gib” Gibson, The Sure Thing (1985)
Call me crazy, but I think Cusack’s witty, horny, collegiate Gib is sexier than his sensitive, trenchcoat-loving amateur boxer Lloyd Dobler. However....
2. John Cusack as Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything (1989)
I would still completely bang Lloyd. Are you kidding me, with that Peter Gabriel song?
3. Michael Schoeffling as Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles (1984)
The most perfect man ever committed to celluloid. Leaning against that Porsche in his plaid shirt ... Rrrrrowr. He can drive me anywhere.
4. Sam Shepard as Dr. Jeff Cooper in Baby Boom (1987)
Baby Boom is my feel-good movie, and the reason I feel good when I’m watching it is because Sam Shepard is fucking hot as a Vermont veterinarian that sweeps Diane Keaton off her feet.
5. Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
Whether he’s wearing a turban or rocking his trusty hat, Indy can raid my ark any day, if you know what I’m sayin’.
6. Patrick Swayze as Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing (1987)
A little beefy for my tastes, but the man can move his hips something FIERCE. Always a good thing, am I right ladies?
7. John Cryer as Phil “Duckie” Dale in Pretty in Pink (1986)
Ambiguously gay? Yes. But what girl hasn’t fallen for her gay BFF? His lip-synching routine to “Try a Little Tenderness” seals the deal.
8. Bill Murray as Dr. Peter Venkman in Ghostbusters (1984)
I have a thing for funny guys with acne scars. It’s weird. Maybe it’s the size of his proton pack, but Dr. Venkman gets me all hot and bothered.
9. Matthew Broderick as Ferris Bueller in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)
Cocksure and sharp as a tack, Ferris is irresistible, especially when he’s performing “Twist and Shout” or posing as Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago.
10. William Hurt as Tom Grunick in Broadcast News (1987)
Looking like a Ken doll come to life, Hurt’s dashing but dumb anchorman is every girl’s boy-toy dream. And if he can charm the pants off of Holly Hunter, none of us are safe.
Honorable mentions: Alec Baldwin (pre-bloat) in She’s Having a Baby; James Spader as the evil, WASP-y Steff in Pretty in Pink; Andrew McCarthy as wet noodle Blaine in Pretty in Pink
I know you're going to disagree with me, so have at it in the comments!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Here is the cover, featuring Jennifer Aniston, that you'll see on newsstands:
Your average ladymag come-hither, awkward arm pose. I can dig it.
And here is what I have:
Who at Elle hates Jennifer this much? Seriously? This photo looks like it was taken on a camping trip just after sun-up, and someone has just informed poor Jen that they'd finally scored a roll of TP from a kindly stranger so she wouldn't have to wipe with leaves anymore.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Amanda Woodward stole my innocence.
That's right, I'm talking about Amanda Woodward of D&D Advertising. The power-suited, highlighted minx who waltzed into a certain apartment complex in 1993 and ruined everything. My friends Allison and Billy were roommates and they were secretly in love but neither of them realized it and then this bitch Amanda swooped in and stole Billy's heart and I cried and cried.
It may have happened on Melrose Place, but the crying part is—shamefully—real.
See, I loved Melrose Place. In fact, I can't even say loved, past tense. I LOVE Melrose Place. And now the CW is pissing on its grave with a new version starring Ashley fucking Simpson-Wentz.
MP debuted in 1992 when I was twelve, and I watched from the first episode, thanks to the crossover on 90210 (which, don't even get me started on the new version. Somewhere, Gabrielle Carteris is rolling in her grave. Assuming she's dead—she must be, what, 80 now?). Anyway, I watched, and I fell in love. I used to tape all of the shows on VHS and label them in hysterical preteen block printing: DO NOT ERASE!!!! Seeing as I tend to get involved something fierce with fictional characters, I immediately became entranced with—and protective of—Billy and Allison, as played by Andrew Shue and Courtney Thorne-Smith, to the point where, yes, I sobbed when Amanda—Heather Locklear—came between them and my seven year-old sister had to talk me out of a locked bathroom.
So, to me, the CW's remake isn't just offensive. It's personal. How dare they try to erase over the tape of my childhood? Billy and Allison 4EVA, bitches!!! And, if you need a reminder of the awesomeness of the original, take a look at the clip below. Let's see you pull that off, Simpson-Wench!!!!
Okay, I'm done now. Like I said, never speak of this. Thank you.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My sister totally got me one! It came in the mail yesterday, a total surprise.
I know I look all creepy and "My precious..." in this photo... but you know what? That's EXACTLY how I feel.
I might spare you the actual eating photos, if I'm feeling kind.
While I was in Block Island for a week, neither I nor my mother read The New York Times, except for a cursory glance at headlines if we were lucky enough to spot a copy (they get delivered by boat and are snatched up like rare pearls).
"I miss the obituaries," my mother confided one morning. "I want to know who died." I thought it was kind of morbid, but then I got back to New York and discovered that John Hughes, director of seminal 80s movies like Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and Some Kind of Wonderful, had passed away of a heart attack at 59. And I wish I had known.
I came a tad late to the John Hughes canon, as I was only four when Sixteen Candles came out—if I'm honest with myself, I really belonged to the Home Alone generation—but when I did discover him, circa the early 90s, I fell hard.
I suspect that this is why Hughes' movies were such instant classics: every character encapsulated perfectly the angst and lust and humiliation of high school. For girls, there was Molly Ringwald as the quirky and smart but unpopular heroine of Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink, Mary Stuart Masterson as Watts in Some Kind of Wonderful, the tomboy who's unrequitedly in love with her best friend (who hasn't been there?), or Ally Sheedy, the unrepentant misfit who eats a sandwich made of Cap'n Crunch (I would so eat that). For guys, there's the geeky fabulosity of Anthony Michael Hall, the nervous, cute WASP-iness of Andrew McCarthy, the heartbreaking pseudo-gay shenanigans of Jon Cryer, or the lovable misanthrophy of Judd Nelson.
And then, of course, there is Jake Ryan. I'm speaking of the
And for that, I will be forever grateful.
Monday, August 10, 2009
For some reason the blog isn't showing the full video, so go to YouTube here. Parts 2 and 3 are there as well if you can't get enough of my spastic wiggling.