Sunday, January 31, 2010

Whatchoo Talkin' 'Bout, Bella?

So last night I may or may not have been playing the Twilight SceneIt! DVD game (and if I was playing it, hypothetically, I was obviously doing it ironically. Ahem.)

It is, predictably, pretty lame unless you are intoxicated, in which case, when the DVD asks you to complete a line from the movie and sparkle vamp Edward says lustily, "I don't have..." you scream "A PENIS!" and then eat a cheese straw in celebration of your incredible wit.

Anyway, at some point I noticed the right side of the game board, which featured Robert Pattinson doing his best Blue Steel, and I was reminded of another image that's been floating around the Internets lately.

WARNING: Scroll down with caution. This is fucking scary as hell and will haunt your dreams.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!! I have stated before on the blog how much Gary Coleman gives me the willies, but this is a fucking different stroke, my friends. If you really want to scare some 'tweens, Stephenie Meyer, get rid of the anemic night stalkers with bad bleach jobs and just stick Gary here in a bush outside of Bella's house, ranting about how he's going to sue someone. Or, even better, team up with Peter Jackson for a new movie called The Lord of the Rings: The Return of Arnold Jackson in which Frodo and Sam are tormented by a horrifying blood-thirsty vampire Hobbit. I don't think I have to tell you that CGI won't be necessary.

Sweet Jesus. Now I have to go stare at some Anne Geddes photos of babies in flower pots until the world seems safe again.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Scene From A Marriage: Ack Attack

Scene: Walking down our block towards home, circa 10 pm.

Me: [Unidentifiable noise somewhere between a sigh and coughing up a hairball]
Jeff: Did you just say "Ack!"?
Me: No.
Jeff: You're like Cathy*.
Me: Excuse me?
Jeff: Well you do love chocolate. And you wear a bathrobe a lot.
Me: I can't believe you just compared me to Cathy. I'm going to start comparing you to Barfy the labrador from Family Circus.
Jeff: I bet no one ever banged Cathy though. So you've got that going for you.
Me: No one's banging "Cathy" tonight, pal.

*I must admit, though... he has a point.


Thursday, January 28, 2010

The Mexican, The Bitch, and The Wardrobe

So I wanted to do a post today about why Jeff and I could never have met and fallen in love on The Bachelor, but I didn’t have time to do all of my hand-drawn illustrations (oh, yes—they are coming) because I got distracted by The Biggest Loser: Couples and a burrito.

While you wait for that epic analysis, though, I thought I’d take a moment to talk about fashion, which seems to be one of my more popular topics thanks to my gig as a Project Runway recapper on The Huffington Post.

It’s funny that anyone treats me as any sort of fashion authority, seeing as I have no real background in style, not to mention abundant photographic evidence that proves I am probably unfit to sit in sartorial judgment of others.

1994: Cover of Sassy, here I come! (Doc Martens not pictured). Oh, and P.S. I was visiting my grandpa in a rehabilitation center where he was recovering from an aneurysm. I'm amazed this didn't kill him.

But I get complaints that I don’t cover more fashion events, like last weekend’s SAG awards. I generally comment on the big three awards shows (Golden Globes, Oscars, and Emmys) but ignore the others, simply because it is a lot of work to find all those photos and post them and think up snarky things to say that are even half as funny as what The Fug Girls come up with.  Also the only thing I want to do at the SAG awards—because I am thirteen years old—is give out Sag Awards, and sadly this year all the ladies were very well-supported.

I realize that I bitch a lot about fashion on this blog, so much so that you, gentle reader, may wonder if I don’t have some kind of physical deformity that keeps me from wearing rompers, like maybe a vestigial tail or a hump. So I want to take this slow blogging day to let you know that there ARE items of clothing I covet and cannot live without. Without further ado, I present to you my Top Ten Wardrobe Staples That Are Not Made of Sweatpants (get excited!):

10. Converse All-Stars

I more or less live in two pair of dingy black Converse (low-tops only; I am not—as much as it pains me to admit this—Dylan McKay). I always wear them to work even though it's sort of against dress code, but I keep a pair of flats (see below) under my desk in case of emergency meetings.

9. Anything red (excluding pants)

Nora Ephron's mother once told her, "Never buy a red coat." I'm assuming she's already dead, and if she isn't, she will be when she sees my closet. I own nothing BUT red coats (I decided a few years back, after watching Steel Magnolias too many times, that red was my signature color and that a red coat would be my signature piece). Red coats, red tops, red dresses—I can never go to the Running of the Bulls. I once owned a pair of red track pants, which turned out to be a mistake. A red dress says femme fatale; red pants say Papa Smurf.

8. Giant sunglasses that make me look like The Fly an Italian movie star

Who is that with my husband? A young Sophia Loren?

I harbor the delusion that if I wear big sunglasses people will think I am a movie star going incognito, or at the very least some rich person recovering from an eye lift. Either way: score.

7. Pull-on riding boots

I buy a lot of things on the Internet, or at least I used to when I still had credit cards that worked. Most of these impulse buys ended up at Goodwill after a single wear—the denim goucho pants from Victoria's Secret, which I should have known were on final sale for a reason; the pinstripe wrap dress from Anthropologie that made my breasts look like deflated baloons; the voluminous silk top from J. Crew that I thought would make me look bohemian and willowy but which in fact made me look like I was wearing a big green Hefty bag—but my brown riding boots from Banana Republic are the single most perfect purchase I have ever made. Almost four years later I still wear them all the time and get tons of compliments. They have been on my feet while riding the subway, riding the unemployment line, and riding the gravy train, which is no so much, in this case, a euphemism for a windfall of cash as it is my nickname for Thanksgiving. Oh, brown boots from Banana Republic, you complete me.

6. Denim jackets

1993's ill-advised Texas tuxedo; in Berlin in 2009 with Kerry

Denim jackets have not always been kind to me (see photo at left, above), but I remain convinced that when paired with a summer sundress they will make me look effortlessly chic and not—as evidence might suggest—like a preteen ranch hand.

5. Shirtdresses

What's not to love about a piece of clothing that looks professional AND makes you feel kind of like a ’50s waitress, the kind who calls people "Hon" and wears cat's-eye glasses and snaps her gum? Bonus points for being able to be ripped off easily in case you are engulfed in flames.

4. Black patent leather flats

I'm just under 5'3", which might suggest that I would favor heels. But here's what happens when I wear heels higher than two inches: I toddle-walk for five or ten minutes feeling like hot shit, and then my ankle promptly faints and I face-plant in front of a large group of people. After this happened twenty or thirty times, I decided to reserve heels for occasions that simply require me to step in and out of cabs and up to the bar. Black flats are like my dress-up Chucks for when I'm feeling fancy

3. Things that make me look like a dumbass dancer

Once a year or so, someone asks me if I am a dancer, which makes me snort my Diet Coke but then sit up as straight as a Ballanchine Snowflake and say, humbly, "I was a dancer in college." I was "a dancer" in college, but what that means is that I took part in modern dance concerts that generally required me to stomp and sigh and either pretend to be tree or to be inside a tiny box (or sometimes to be a tree inside a tiny box). Nevertheless I like to sometimes pretend that I am a dancer and buy dance shrugs at KD Dance, which I wear over tank tops and which I am fairly sure make me look like a giant walking asshole, not unlike the model pictured above. I used to own a leotard, too, but I got rid of it a few years ago when I realized that anyone over the age of ten is too old to be wearing anything that requires getting totally naked in order to pee. Snap-crotch leotards are OK by that logic, but I know someone who had a very unfortunate experience with airport security wearing some crotch snaps, and so my official position is that I strongly advise against them.

2. Things that make me look like a sailor

I don't know if it's Popeye or Gene Kelly in On The Town or some kind of chromosomal abnormality, but I love anything that says "Seamen." Not that this look works for me; I do not belong on boats and high-waisted pants and striped shirts cannot change that, nor do they do any favors for my thighs.

1. Things that make me look Mexican (see what I did there, with the title of this post?)

When I was in first grade I had one of those sack-like white peasant dresses with bright floral embroidery at the neck and hem. I got my school picture taken in it, but sadly the photographer cropped out the entire neckline, making me look like Austin's tiniest (and most toothless) nudist. I wore that dress to our glee club performance of the seminal Spanish-language folk anthem "Des Colores," and I've been jonesing for an adult version that does not make me look pregnant ever since.

Looking over this list I can already envision my midlife crisis in 2030, when I decide to finally pursue my dream of becoming a Latina who is also an accomplished sailor/dancer/equestrian. I'll redefine the term "triple threat"! Watch out J-Lo; you're officially on notice.


Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Girl Scouts: The Littlest Drug Dealers

This seems really inappropriate to do on the blog, but I’m desperate, guys. I need a fix. The good stuff. You know what I’m talking about. I feel like I haven’t had any in forever.

The thing is I don’t know anyone who’s selling. I will buy in bulk, I swear, I just need a hook-up. I’ll put it in my freezer so it’ll keep. I’ll let you have some. Just give me a number, for the love of Christ. I won’t say it was you who sent me.

Do I have to spell it out for you? I NEED SOME FUCKING TAGALONGS, okay?. Thin Mints, Samoas, Do-Si-Dos, whatever you’ve got, man. I’ll even take Trefoils, the schwag of the Girl Scout Cookie catalog. I’m like Cookie Monster on the Master Cleanse right now; it’s not pretty.

Seriously, though, why are Girl Scout cookies harder to procure than illegal drugs? There is something wrong with that lesson. If I sent you on a scavenger hunt right now with a list that included a quart of unpasteurized raw milk, an ounce of marijuana, an eight-ball of cocaine, a whole roasted goat, and a box of Thin Mints, guess which item would be the biggest bitch to find? That is not right, y’all.

The main reason for this, of course, is that Girl Scouts are forbidden from selling cookies online. I’m not really sure why this is—I can only guess it's to even the playing field, in case some girls don’t have reliable access to the Internet—but it seems pretty archaic. Explain to me how forcing pre-teens in short pleated skirts to walk the streets soliciting strangers is character-building? If you go to the Girl Scouts of America website, they explain that "Girl Scouts of the USA does not currently allow online sales, but its cookie site can help you locate girls selling in your community." Yes, that's right. ANYONE can log onto this site to FIND YOUNG GIRLS. Seriously, does this not seem wrong to anyone else?

The whole experience of trolling for cookies makes me feel like a pedophile. I find myself breathlessly Tweeting sentences that are probably on government Megan's Law watch lists: “Anyone know any Girl Scouts? I NEED one. Anywhere in the country. I’ll pay anything!!!!” I stare a little too long at kids on the street, searching their outfits for tell-tale flashes of green. They’re the world’s tiniest dealers, and they’re harder to find than Obama's real Kenyan birth certificate.

For real, check out this chart I made:


There is nothing not illegal that's harder to get than a box of Girl Scout cookies when you are a childless person. In fact, I could probably buy a baby on the black market faster than I could get my hot little hands on a box of Girl Scout goodness.

Stay tuned for updates; if I get the baby first, I'm naming it Samosa.

Monday, January 25, 2010

A Tale of Two Sisters

My sister was born six years after me but grew up about six times faster. At the same age that I was mastering Zen and the Art of Tampon Insertion, she was busy keeping track of her daily pot-smoking, drinking, class-cutting, and (lack of) saxophone practice*:

...and making sure she had her bases covered should she find herself on the wrong side of the law*:

The badass gene obviously skipped me. But I got the unibrow and musical theater geek chromosomes, so eat that, Zoe.

*Above excerpts used with permission. I'm not that big of an asshole... unlike this guy.


Saturday, January 23, 2010

Because I Love You: A Highly Embarrassing Excerpt From My Teenage Diary

This week I found a shitload of old poems and stories and diaries that I had shoved on a shelf at the top of a closet. It was like finding a gold mine, only the gold is worthless and humiliating and makes me rue the day I decided to take that poetry class in high school.

Most of what I found is hilarious to me but probably wouldn't be hilarious (or even that interesting) to you. Except for this. Prepare to cringe your faces off.

August 16, 1994


I got a tampon in.* I thought I was defective and had two orifices** or something but NO! YAY! I am so proud and relieved. Let us mark this day in history!

Much love,

Sad but definitive proof that I am not making this up.

I am not even kidding when I say that this is by far the most exciting entry my diary had ever seen. Had I started to write my autobiography in 1994, the Great Tampon Victory would surely have been the highlight, deserving three or four chapters. The rest of this volume, which spans the summers of 1993 to 1997, recounts my days in the way that your ninety year-old great aunt might: Let's see, I had breakfast--grapefruit--and then I watched that Geraldo on TV. I read for awhile and went to the pharmacy for my Coumadin. We had hamburgers for supper. I peppered my writing with declarations of love for unrequited crushes, but I never had so much as a study date to write to my diary about. I can only imagine that my all-caps GUESS WHAT?! elicited my jaded diary to respond, "What, did we fall asleep reading John Grisham and dream about Evan Dando again?"

In my defense, I had an old boyfriend who used to address his diary entires "Dear Jesus," so it could be worse.

*I had a terrible experience prior to my ultimate victory involving a hand mirror and some aloe vera cream. 
**My health education failed me miserably. You do have two orifices down there, sweetie. Three if we're being technical.


Thursday, January 21, 2010

An Open Letter To Jake Pavelka, aka The Bachelor


(Imagine that as a muffled scream the way Anthony Michael Hall screams for Michael Schoeffling when he's trapped under the coffee table in Sixteen Candles.)

Listen, Jake. You are totally cute. You remind me of my c. 1983 Sun Gold Malibu Ken, only your haircut looks less like Velma's from Scooby-Doo and it's not painted onto your head.

You are way cuter than that tubby Jheri curled Bob or geriatric bass fisherman Byron or your immediate predecessor Jason Mesnick, who looked like Enrique Iglesias' love child with Bruce Jenner. Not only are you cute, but you seem like a genuinely nice guy, albeit one who has suspiciously failed at finding love despite being an anatomically perfect Texan pilot (do you have uncontrollable sleep diarrhea or something?) and a person who would willingly go on a show like The Bachelor to find a wife.

But Jake, can I be real with your for a minute? Like really real?

Your taste sucks, dude.

I've watched all three episodes now and among the 12 girls you have left only two of them are even remotely OK. You kicked a bunch of decent girls to the curb on the first night and kept around:

1. A woman who in every single scene has Prince's Purple Rain hair!

2. Pre-plastic surgery Jessica Simpson!

3. A girl who suffers from the worst case of Stankface in recorded history!

4. And a "25 year-old" who looks suspiciously like she is two centuries older than that and ready to star in the Lifetime biopic of Judith Light, tentatively titled "I'm the Boss."

And the rest are all giant bitches, with the exception of that Southern redhead with the 7 year-old kid you have to pretend not to be totally freaked out by and the one named "Tenley," which is in and of itself a drawback (although in future seasons I think the producers should just dispense with names and call the women Onely, Twoley, Threeley, Fourley, etc.).

Anyway, my point is: You are up the river without a paddle, my friend. Those roses won't help you. Get some Depends and a Japanese anime body pillow and call it a day.


P.S. I must share with you this spot-on assessment of Michelle, the crazy-eyed clinger who Jake quite rightly asked to leave in the middle of episode 3, left in the comments by Kari of My Inflammatory Writ: "Good god, that girl was composed entirely of lithium, Spanish Fly and Fail." HA.


Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Floor-Eating: A Beginner's Guide

On Buzzfeed today, I found this handy flow chart to determine whether or not you should eat a piece of food once you drop it on the floor (I don't need a flow chart, of course—I have Jeff... and at least a 50% success rate at telling chocolate gelato from feces).

Not everyone is a champion floor-eater like myself, so I thought I'd make my own chart, which hopefully someday will be a part of a Frank T.J. Mackey-like seminar that will make me rich and famous, if occasionally waylaid by a bacterial infections.

You are welcome.

Click to enlarge; this is super-scientific and important.


Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Belated Golden Globes Fashion Throwdown

Set, inexplicably, to "Paul Revere's Ride" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (I'm weird).

Scroll down my children and you shall behold
The gowns on display at the globes of gold.
On the seventeenth of January, in Twenty-ten
The red carpet teemed with hungry women
Who dressed in fashions bold.
Take, for example, this sassy scribe
Who dared to eschew black
Her garment looks stitched by an African tribe
Out of squid ink and potato sack.

(Oh, Tina.)

One star’s bosom blossom caused Jon Hamm to frown...

And one startlet screamed as the leeches bore down.

One had her garment constructed of rags.

(Unbleached paper towel—my favorite color!)

One wore Bert’s unibrow with an old Hefty bag.

And one’s frozen face raised a shiny red flag.

(Smile, Cam! Oh... nevermind.)

Some, of course, looked divine, and I noticed a pattern
Women over 50 looked much less like slatterns!

Sparkles also emerged as a mark of good taste...

Except for poor Jenna, whose dress ate her waist.

(JENNA! I want you to look awesome; why do you torment me?)

The rest of the best showed off striking jewel shades...

(Though Rose here is looking as thin as a blade)

And Mo’Nique wore some drapery (sans the gold braid)

(I am such an asshole; she's crying about God and abused women.)

Joan here got panned for her ruffled regalia

(This makes me crave buttermilk.)

But if you don’t think she’s hot you’ve got no genitalia. 

Meanwhile, a number of ladies debuted
Their Morticia Addams costumes...

Shrouded in black with mermaid tails of gloom
They seem to be terribly vexed.
On the flip side, Kate dressed in an Elmer’s glue hue
Perhaps on the prowl for a groom
Having stuffed her bra with Kleenex.

A few gentlemen brought with them some dates
Whose judgment was suspect at best
Clooney’s sweetheart, while no doubt genetically blessed
Wore an outfit that caused some debate

Her dress gave the impression her skin had been peeled
The underlying muscles revealed
Meanwhile, Sir Paul squired this lady fair
Wearing his scarf with a smug, knightly air

Did you know Ed Hardy made red carpet frocks?
Guidettes the world over are dying of shock
As they perfect the poofs in their hair.

Another contingent were decked out for prom
In fabrics bright and shiny
That swathed their figures tiny
They tried to pull off their looks with aplomb
But it looked like a Jessica McClintock bomb
Had exploded and hit them quite badly

If I could take that back I would, gladly
But poor Diane Kruger has never looked worse
It’s like the whole planet is spinning in reverse

And Lauren Graham (aka the Gilmore Girls mom)
Is wearing an outfit that gives me some qualms
As she clearly loves Bubble Yum quite madly.

Now, this Oompa Loompa is busty and cute,
And damn, that Duhamel looks good in a suit.

But Emily here walks a fine line
Get off of Jim—I mean, John! He is mine!

I think I need a whole stanza for Patricia Arquette
Whose sartorial choices give me cold sweats

Yet you’ve loved every butt-ugly dress you have met.
You also have troubling issues with fit.
Speckled gray sausage casings are not your friend
This dowdy parade needs to come to an end
You’ve got boobs and an ass,
And that’s called hourglass
Go ask Christina Hendricks to take you out shopping
I promise it’s worth all the cash you’ll be dropping
While you’re at it, pick up a white shirt and black shoes
For your hubby, who’s in need of his own fashion muse
With a few tweaks you guys’ll be the talk of the town
You might even steal Brangelina’s crown
And have the pick of any orphans you choose!

’Kay, this post needs to die
I’ve spent way too much time
Twisting in pretzels to make this shit rhyme
You might ask yourself why
I would even endeavor
To write a fucking long poem and try to be clever
And the answer is I have no idea whatsoever
And no, I am not high.
Thanks for reading my lyrical bitching
I hope you have found this blog enriching
Just remember that no matter what you do
Don’t ruin your face like Mickey Rourke

(For real, he looks like a side of pork)
Also, don’t get a facial tattoo.

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