Saturday, August 29, 2009

Boys don't have cooties, silly goose.

I run into feminist women quite a lot in my life. Why? I do not know, but such are the cards that I've been dealt. I should say right off the bat that I'm not talking about normal, pleasant women who see pockets in society where females are getting the short end of the stick and utilize their influence and resources to mend it -- I like those women. They make me feel empowered, successful, and ready to face the world on my own two feet. My beef is with "womyn" whose general attitude projects "a girl needs a boy like a penguin needs Prada pumps"; we will group them collectively under the name "Jocasta." You couldn't pay me to back "wimmin" like this, because:

1. I like boys. They're generally uncomplicated, open creatures in the best way. Most of my sincerest, intellectual conversations are with boys. Their dirty jokes make me laugh. It's really quite amazing how well my hands fit into theirs, and they smell so deliciously different than any girls I know. I know Jocasta would rather spend her time with lonely, middle-aged women passionately discussing the misogyny and brainwashing effect of the Barbie franchise, but why spend your time chatting with menopausal chocolate fiends when you could be watching The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly with Johnny?

2. I like makeup. Jocasta, I know you'd like to tell me that makeup is just another way men subjugate me into the dark corner of a unfulfilled housewife by setting forth products that promise an unattainable standard of beauty, but let me tell you, sister, pimples are a real beeyotch. I know they're natural, and I know everyone gets them, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do anything in my power to gag them, throw them in a box, and drop said box in a ditch on some lonely country road, capisce? More than that, though, it's fun. I love coloring with the blazing flame of eternity. All I really ask of anything in the world is that it be brightly colored and shiny, and boy does makeup fulfill that!

These two points are, of course, a very small part of the feminazi agenda. However, these are the ones that hit closest to home for me. Instead of straggling off on a boring ending that will inevitably sink into an angry, political rant and surface my insecurities and gnawing anxiety, forcing me to hop downstairs and whip up a glass of chocolate milk before the cold sweats set in, I'll just say this:


How can you not love?

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Call Girls Dress Classier Than That, Peaches

WAS THIS NECESSARY?!


FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY what possessed you?

Her name is Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof, and apparently she is an English socialite. (Mommy, you'll be so proud -- I just found an English person I don't love!) Does no one love her enough to let her know that no matter how much it cost, hick-streetwalker-wear is not the new little black dress?

I'm not sure what horrifies me more: the denim abuse, the pseudo-rasta hair, or the fact that she appears to be utterly unaware of her crime.

If Peaches promises to never, ever wear this again, then I will honor her by naming my first child Clingstone.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Twinkies have their place in one's diet.


To be perfectly honest, I think literary critics are being far too harsh in their reviews of Twilight. Speaking as one who has read all of and been (operative word) religiously addicted to the series, I can tell you that they are approaching their opinions on it from entirely the wrong angle -- it would be like sitting down at a Little League game and yelling at snot-nosed Tommy Johnson when he pitched a ball; you don't go into it expecting the kid to be the next Nolan Ryan.

Such is the case with Twilight. It's a "twinkie" book -- utterly sweet and soul-satisfying crap. You don't waltz into McDonald's and rant about how the food is Play Kitchen plastic chock full of MSG -- yes, buttertart, we know that, and that's why we like it. There's nothing wrong with having and liking the occasional twinkie. Apparently, some people consider twinkies gourmet food and have integrated them as a staple of their diets, and that's where we get into trouble.

I think there are a lot of folks out there who need to admit that, for what it is, Twilight is among the best (which, albeit, isn't saying much). It's perfectly condensed and cleaned up modern vampire stories (a la HBO's True Blood) for a young adult audience. Yes, it's predictable; yes, its purple prose is prevalent to the point of vomit-worthy; and yes, it would be doing the literary world a favor to have it taken out and shot at dawn. But despite all that, it's the perfect twee book to take off the shelf if you want something impossible and fluffy (or impossibly fluffy) to get out of your head with.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Forget love, I'd rather fall in choco-- wait, no, that's a lie.


Love is a many splendored thing.

That's what they tell me, at least, when I step away from my computer and out of my house long enough to interact with other people. (Yes, there are actually conversations to be had away from the guise of ironic pen names on the blogosphere!)

I've only been in love once, and he turned out to be clinically depressed, codependent Polish royalty. (No, really. Me: "I want this to work, but I need to focus on myself right now. I'm not saying never again, just that I think we need a break. I'm sorry." Him: "I haven't been in this much pain since I saw my cousin stabbed to death in a ghetto." o.O) While conventional logic would dictate that after a fling like that I should take a break from love altogether for a good long while . . . well, I think the penchant for self-destruction is a trademark of the Irish.

Despite my pursuit of a relationship, however, the only males I seem to attract are militaristic Aries or men fifteen years my senior. Meh. I like to think I can do better. (D-e-n-i-a-l . . .) I've deconstructed this situation I'm in, and have, through strenuous mental labor and late nights over Toddlers and Tiaras with a chunk of fudge, that I have come upon the root of my problem: I don't understand a gosh darn thing about men.

Which is not all that surprising, really.

My bestest buddy evar is a guy, and I've grown so comfortable around him and his friends that any flirting etiquette has been completely wiped from my mind. I think, at this point, I may be constitutionally incapable of attracting male attention on my own volition. I'm not sure what it is precisely -- whether I'm just too lazy to learn or I have, in fact, forever blockaded myself from the use of my feminine wiles -- but in most cases it appears that Hottie McSixpack would rather stare at drunkenly constructed cloud formations than me floundering along in my too-long-to-be-a-mini-too-short-to-be-anything-else jean skirt.

If I seem to have caught someone's interest -- well, you know how it is: smile, laugh, head tilt, eye scrunch, pupil constriction, nervous smirk, excuse, bail. "Wait, come back! My filter doesn't kick in until ten! I promise I'll be better after that!" What, don't you bring up your pant-wetting fear of Robert Plant during introductions?

Whatever. I'll just keep re-watching Labyrinth and reading ironically funny blogs. It can only get better from here.

Yeah. Right.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

My style is "comfortable." *gag*

"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months." -- Oscar Wilde

I love clothes. I spend more of my life than I'm willing to admit learning the ins and outs of fashion through the humorous commentary of flamboyant men and thirty-something(-not really-more-like-forty-five-but-shut-up) women on real-life style shows like How Do I Look? and What Not to Wear.

I fancy myself a budding fashionista: Yes, you can mix brown and black -- they're both neutrals, sweetie; a straight-legged jean slims, unless you're a man, in which case you go with a boot-cut or wide-led -- never flair for either party; cinch the waistline and wear coats with tailoring under the bust line as well as the sides to create the illusion of an hourglass shape and narrower waist.

See? I have the theory down pat. Which is all I really have, because any sense of discernible style is as far from me as Keith Richards is from rational thought. I would say I'm a t-shirts and jeans kinda girl, but it's really whatever I arbitrarily decide is cute for under ten bucks at T.J. Maxx.

Sometimes I'll go to the mall with a reasonable chunk of change in my pocket and the intention to start outfitting my new wardrobe. Then I'm hit with the pricing and tiny sizing. That kills, but I'll wince and suffer through it, determined to pick up at least a few pieces for the all-new me. It'll be around lunchtime as I'm sitting in the food court, staring at my turkey sub (healthy, yeah? All right . . . ignore the fries.), that I realize all the work that will go into managing accessories, coordinating outfits, and staying on top of designer lines so that I can re-create the looks within my budget that. I'm man enough to know when I'm beat (I lie.) -- it's better to quit before I'm too far behind. (I should actually take this advice sometime.)

That afternoon will see me snuggled up on the couch in my too-small Ziggy Stardust t-shirt and Hilfiger jeans that sag around the tush watching What Not to Wear. Masochism is a sweet thing.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

I'm unique, just like everyone else.


People think I'm rather strange. Not in a -- necessarily -- worrisome way, but more in the vein of "I'll smile, nod, laugh, leave, and not think any further about my interactions with her."

I've come to terms with this. It isn't so bad, really, to be thought of as the odd duck; at least I'm not "the ugliest cat in the world" or "that chick with the boobs." I have next to no friends, but that isn't too troubling, because I know I could have friends. People laugh at my jokes, and give me sincere smiles, and prattle on about boring things to me before class. It I was so inclined, I'm capable of putting up a facade and melding into "their" world in which I would attend parties, flirt with boys, and giggle over Facebook as I read over what people have left on my wall. I know this.

I don't want it, though, and therein lies my struggle to keep the tenuous balance between being true to myself while refraining from becoming the verbal equivalent of a hobo peeing against the wall of a subway. Which, I've found, can be drastically harder than one might think. It's like being a My Little Pony who's trying to disguise the fact that her name doesn't sound like the stage pseudonym of a schizophrenic homosexual on crack, but doing so after having woken up with a hangover and watching consecutive marathons of Gilligan's Island and Green Acres. (What?)

I'm eternally annoyed by the vapid ditzes society churns out. Oh sure, they're all sweet enough, smart enough, funny enough, successful enough -- enough, enough, enough, enough, but never ENOUGH. They bother me because I find myself speaking to them as I would a well-intentioned but slow five-year-old; and that makes me want to tattoo Godzilla onto my chest and bathe in cooking sherry.

Over the years I think I've managed to get a firm grip on the art of normality, and most of the time, if the conversation stays superficial, I can pass myself off as a Stepford Student. Which is why I love -- love, love, LOVE -- breaking character now and then.

They say things that one might perceive as friendly and considerate: "Are you feeling all right? You're looking a little pale."

Gee, thanks. Yeah, well, being 37.5% Irish will that to a person's skin. I was feeling fine, actually, until you shoved your insensitivity through the door where I store my insecurities. Now I'm second guessing everything about myself today: Is my eye makeup bringing unnecessary pallor to my complexion? Does this shirt make me look bloated? Is my toothpaste doing an adequate job of whitening my smile? Does she know I'm wearing an extra-thick Maxi pad? You don't care about how I am, so why did you even ask?

Sometimes, though, instead of dissolving into a tearful and twitching mess as the other person slowly retreats in soundless worry, I'll deliver a startling little answer with a nod and a smile:

"Oh I'm just a little tired. Guess I should stop staying up until three in the morning reading Wikipedia pages on serial killers, huh?"

And eyes back to the front of the class. Yes, this does make me feel better about myself. Why do I feel compelled to take out my frustrations and insecurities on well-meaning if dull people?

Why is the sky blue, baby.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Soul Reaper jammed with Weird and Gilly.

I went to Comic-Con (OHMIGOSH AMAZING *gaspsputterdie*) in San Diego the other week and raided one booth's collection of cheap and plentiful posters. I spent $21 dollars for three posters: The Clash's famous "London Calling" print, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and a gi-nor-mous picture David Bowie's face, circa 2003.

For you to understand why I dropped seven bucks for a print of a fifty-six-year-old man's visage, you must know that I am a . . . there really are not even words to describe how utterly enamored I am of Bowie -- I mean, to the point that my love of him can be socially debilitating. Yeah. I'm the premenstrual food addict and he's the German chocolate cake. On second thought, that's kind of a poor analogy, because it isn't that I want to devour him, per se, more that I want to trap his clone in my closet and intimidate it into singing Moonage Daydream 24/7 while wearing sequined tank tops and stretch leather pants.

But we've wandered far away from my original point, monkeybirds.

When I saw this print, all I could think was "Wowwowowowow -- OH. SWEET. NIBLETS. The man glows." So I bought it. Because I want him to stare me to sleep every night. However, now that the initial manic excitement has faded away, I'm starting to have second thoughts . . .


"Let's sway . . . as I drink your soul, feeble mortal, and force the hand of your last breath . . . While color lights up your face."

It's the manifested horror of combining his "Devil's Little Helper" period with a carjacking hobo.

Don't get me wrong: It's Bowie, so I'm going to keep it anyway. The man could dress up in a chicken suit and walk in a circle and I'd say it was the most marvelous thing since Swan Lake. I'm fairly certain that Bowie is incapable of disappointing me. Nonetheless, his expression makes me want to cross the street and get a handle on my bear mace.

Monday, August 3, 2009

Willy "Cookie" Sutton

"Me not take cookies, me eat the cookies." -- Cookie Monster

Quite a few years ago my family was looking to move, so every Sunday after church we would hit as many open houses as we could. I was just a wee sprog then, with the attention span of an autistic goldfish, so I was often subject to about an hour and a half of unadulterated boredom on these excursions. After all, how many times can a kid carve her name into the master bedroom's north wall before she gets fidgety? It seems that at every house we went to there was a plate of free chocolate chip cookies -- this, of course, was the homemade bribe used to get people to make a down payment on a $750,000 home. My dad took to allowing me and my brother a cookie at every house we visited to keep us pacified while he and my mom looked around.

A few months passed and we bought a home, but the now-ritualistic open house-visiting hadn't faded. At this point, it was no longer about the homes, but the cookies that were inevitably there. My parents would give them to me as a treat for behaving in the service that morning. A little piece of me withered and died every time we waltzed through a doorway, nodded to the realtor, and stole four cookies before quickly making our exit.

"Go on, take one," my mom would say as Mr. Homeseller looked on with a confused smile and my ten-year-old self alternated between the beet red of embarrassment and the pallor of imminent death.

I have a feeling this is the sort of thing I'll be bringing up in therapy forty years down the road -- "You have no idea what it was like. My family was like the Willy Sutton of real estate cookies: hitting up houses with a smile, in 'n out in forty-five seconds."