Recent Revelations

So I thought I'd share some thoughts that have made their way through my head recently. None of which are important, relevant to anything or .... let's face it, worth sharing with anyone. Excited yet? Great, here we go.

1.) Self check outs suck.  They really should have never been invented. In theory, once you get past the fact that jobs are being outsourced to machines, it's a pretty nifty idea. Let's say you only have a carton of eggs and a Kiwi-Strawberry Snapple. First off, should've gone with Peach. Secondly, it does make sense to just scan those suckers yourself and be on your way. Unfortunately, these computers have all been programmed with the temperament of Veruca Salt. 

If you don't swipe the item perfectly, it won't scan. If you swipe it too quickly, it scans twice. And heaven forbid you're buying produce. I could plant an apple tree in the time it takes to look up a Granny Smith on one of these things. One time, I scanned a potato as a pear and got a nasty side glance from the woman behind me. (Like this was some crime wave - kids masquerading one fruit as another and embezzling the ten-cent difference.) Then I scanned a cucumber and it charged me 9 bucks. So as I'm standing there contemplating how to get my money back, the computer starts yelling at me for not putting the $9 cucumber on the belt fast enough. On cue, the woman behind me starts clearing her throat, as if I was standing there peeling my fruit before deciding to pay. I'm trying, woman, but I'm fairly certain that the Greek yogurt I'm scanning has a higher IQ than this God-forsaken machine.

2.) When I say I like driving, I mean sometimes. Only when there is no traffic whatsoever and I can glide effortlessly to my destination in less than 40 minutes. Any more than 40 and I start yelling at the other cars for being in my way.

3.) If I had three wishes, after fixing world hunger and poverty, I would genuinely wish to never have to blow dry my hair ever again.

4.) Comfort trumps almost anything for me, with the exception of convenience. I'd rather carry seven shopping bags per arm and endure one painful, circulation-pinching trip into the house than take three or four easy breezy trips to and from the car.

5.) A handful of my favorite male singer/songwriters have recently found ways to make themselves as unattractive as possible. Jason Mraz started smoking even more weed, grew his hair out, and stopped washing it. Even worse is John Mayer! He took some time out of the spotlight to cook up a new kind of crazy. This year's model comes complete with jean jackets, suede boots, long ass ugly hair, and that DAMN hat. I've never seen a more ridiculous thing perched on top of anyone's head. Except maybe this.

6.) My favorite shoe in the whole world is the flip flop. According to people who care about feet, it beats high heels and Crocs for #1 on the list of "Don't Put These Things On Your Feet", but I'm a loyal fan. And once they've graced my feet for the first time in a season, that's it. If there's a freak blizzard in the middle of July, I refuse to go back to a closed-toe shoe.

7.) I may or may not be mildly allergic to cats. All I know is I can breathe quite a bit better ever since my cats died.


8.) Cake > Brownies. 
     Ice cream > Cake. 
     Ice cream cake > All three.

9.) They sprinkle crack cocaine in French Onion Sun Chips bags. This isn't a revelation as it is a strong suspicion. How else would such an addiction take hold after just one chip? Come to think of it.... peanut butter M&Ms might be part of this drug conspiracy, as well. 

10.)  Having not even the prospect of a wedding in sight, I still feel confident in saying I will be a thrifty ass bride when the day does come. To each her own, but I personally refuse to spend all the money I'll ever see in my lifetime in a matter of hours. For example, my dress? I will choose the prettiest ivory gown within arm's reach (with a nice low price tag) and call it a day.

Dating Roulette

The Internet has expanded our lives in countless ways. Most of them are undoubtedly positive: greater communication, larger & quicker access to information, so on and so forth. Then there's the world of dating. It only took a decade for "meeting up with a perfect stranger" to evolve from a death wish to a romantic outing.

Granted, things have definitely changed. Chat rooms and dating sites used to be reserved exclusively for creepers, stalkers, and anti-social hermits. Now people from all walks of life are giving the Internet a try in the hopes of finding that perfect someone. I've been dabbling in it for a year or so.... with minimal success.

The problem is that while more and more people are joining these networks, there are still a ridiculous number of crazies abound. I would equate it to taking a trip to a thrift store. You don't necessarily know what you're looking for.... or maybe you have an exact item in mind! Either way, you have to accept the fact that the perfect product will not be right there as you walk in, surrounded by a bejeweled glass case and perched atop a decorative throw pillow. No, that's not how this works. You're gonna elbow your way into a vaguely labeled aisle and search for hours through hundreds and hundreds of crappy, low-quality items. And you say "Why do I keep coming back here? There's so much junk to sift through." Well, my friend, because for every thirty grandma sweaters, you will always stumble upon one cute tank top or a eye-catching blazer. Intermittent positive reinforcement keeps you coming back.

The hilarious thing is how guys choose to portray themselves. I'll get random messages spanning the full spectrum of social ability and awareness of basic grammar. They generally range from long, drawn-out monologues professing their undying love to the ever-popular "hey what up". And of course, what I'm looking for is a nice balance of good looks and a Prince Charming personality. Unfortunately, in my experience, this is the conclusion I've reached:

Then there's their profiles. These guys only have a quick summary and a few pictures to represent who they are and attract the opposite gender. And the vast majority of the images they pick fall into one or more of these ridiculous categories:

Shirtless in the Mirror

We get it. We're all very impressed with your eight-pack and pelvic V. Are you really standing in front of your bathroom mirror, posing with your iPhone and shooting us your best Blue Steel look? If you need to overcompensate for a lackluster personality by flexing..... well, that sucks.

No Smile Whatsoever

Not even a hint of a smirk. Really? I'm looking for an easy-going guy to go gallivanting with me through a meadow and all that crap. I want a date, not an escaped convict. You might impress your bros with that tough guy look, but if you want to be wifed up anytime soon... say "cheese".

Covered in Girls

Of all the pictures ever taken of you, you chose to upload all the ones with a gaggle of girls. My immediate assumption is that you're either: a) a cocky player, b) still seeing someone and shopping around behind her back, or c) you have some sort of repellent quality that has kept all of the females you know in "the friend zone".

Picture of His Car

I want to make this perfectly clear. I don't care AT ALL about your car. I don't care even a little bit. No girl I know cares about any car. The more you obsess about it, the less I'm attracted to you. So if you're like most other guys, hanging a portrait of your re-upholstered baby over the mantle, at least keep it on the DL until we get a few dates under our belts and I'm obligated to accept your flaws.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

I've been watching scary movies for years. Depending on the quality, each can be a very different experience. With most of the earlier films seemingly shot with your Dad's old camera and spliced together on iMovie, everything was too ridiculous to take seriously. My friends and I would laugh through the whole thing. The stupid plot, the middle school acting, the ketchup on the knife.... Might as well have been a comedy.

Then there were the good ones. My pulse would be jumping, blood pressure through the roof. Why do we do this to ourselves? I'm not sure. It's fun, but I can't articulate why. Especially when, by all accounts, I should still be in therapy after viewing Roald Dahl's The Witches as a kid. What possessed my parents to allow their 8-year-old to watch this horrifying freak show on VHS? I can only imagine what kind of illegal substances the MPAA executives were on when they gave this thing a PG rating. The conspiracy continues today with such whimsical summaries as: A young boy stumbles upon a witch convention and must stop them before it's too late. Thanks, IMDB, but you forgot to mention that part about the women pulling their faces off, turning children into mice and cooking them. PG my ass.

But, against all odds, I rose above that one. Definitely seen a few great horror classics since then, but none rival the experience of seeing Paranormal Activity for the first time in theaters. As a preface, I have to say I knew nothing about this little underground indie movie and had never seen anything like it, therefore assumed it was 100% real footage. So by the last scene, I had my knees curled up to my face, my white knuckles had an iron grip on my friend's sleeve, and I hadn't taken a breath in at least 60 seconds. When the movie ended, we sat for an extra five minutes just staring straight ahead and trembling. Now that's awesome.

For many movies, suspension of disbelief is necessary to really enjoy them. But I think this practice is only effective to a point. When a killer is breaking down the front door and the main character runs past the back door to escape upstairs, you can't help but call her an idiot and throw popcorn at her face. (Under the bed? Groundbreaking! He'll never find you there!) I can't watch one more group of friends decide to "split up and look around". And if you're a blonde teenager in a nightie and you just heard someone scream in the next room, by all means... go investigate and call out loudly to make your presence known. No, you're right... that probably was your quarterback boyfriend who made that noise. ("Bobby? Bobby, is that you?")

I'm not gonna' lie, though. After years of horror flicks, there is a degree of residual fear that follows me around in dark rooms and empty houses. I don't sleep with a night light and I don't leave all the TVs on when I'm home alone to simulate a busy household. But there are a handful of childhood fears that have stood the test of time and maturation. Most nights, I can dismiss them as irrational, but every once in a while they rear their ugly head:

Rules to Live By in Scary Situations

•  If you're home alone and you run upstairs, you'll be safe. If you hit the ground running, you will always be just out of arm’s reach if a scary guy is hiding and decides to strike just as you reach the staircase.

• If you’re covered entirely by a blanket from the neck down, nothing bad can happen to you. It makes an impenetrable force field.

• If your feet dangle off the end of the bed, that’s the cue for whatever is under your bed to grab your feet. Keep your feet safely atop the mattress if you want to avoid a confrontation with those little buggers.

•  If you get into your locked car, there is a definite possibility that there’s someone hiding in the backseat. Check.

• When possible, do not sleep with your back to the bedroom door. You're 10x more vulnerable to an attack. And if someone were to come in, they could easily kill you ... thanks to the extra 2 seconds it would take to roll over and defend yourself.

A Night On The Town

What a crazy night! Went shopping on Sunset, then grabbed some dinner with Jennifer Aniston at Madeo. The paparazzi were insane! We practically had to run them over just to get out onto the Boulevard. Then we went back to the Chateau Marmont to get ready and ended up bumping into Chelsea Handler and Jenny McCarthy. So we shared a taxi downtown to dance the night away at the Supper Club. I got eight phone numbers, eleven free drinks, and the girls and I have reservations at the V.I.P. lounge tomorrow night.

Ennnnd.... scene. In reality, last night, I ate chicken parm with friends and fell asleep under a dinosaur comforter watching Season Five of Grey's Anatomy. As you have maybe deduced by this series of events, I'm not exactly a party animal. You won't find me out on the town bar hopping 'til the sun comes up. I actually am a total night owl, but I'd rather eat midnight snacks and host a movie marathon than throw on heels and hit the clubs.

Of course, adventures have their place too. And getting out of the house sometimes is a must. But I have to say, any future I may have had as a club promoter ended on one particular night last year:

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, the air was rather clear and warm, but I digress. I was attending a bachelorette party in Atlantic City. I had never been to this strange, mystical land of casinos and fancy hotels, and I had definitely never been to a real nightclub before. But at this point, I'm excited to be with my girls and totally up for a good time. So we all get ready in the hotel, cab it over to Caesar's and walk right over up to the club like we own the place.

I hand the girl at the door a $10 and she gives me a look. Now, a look like this would only have been inappropriate if I had just insulted her leopard print mini-dress or grabbed her boob without warning. So after we stand there together for a few more seconds, she switches from "bitchy" to "patronizingly sweet". She holds out a hand and goes, "So sorry, honey, the cover charge is actually $20." Of course it is. Anyone would find that to be an appropriate amount. Whatever. I hand over my life savings and we're in.

Right off the bat, I'm aware of two things: a pit of blackness has just swallowed me whole and loud techno beats are bouncing off the walls. I wouldn't describe myself as a grandma in many contexts, but this is one of them. I might as well be Bea Arthur walking in there thinking, "How do these kids do it?" Between the vibrating bass and the blaring speakers, my ears physically hurt. I am 100% sure I will never hear the same ever again.

The girls and I force our way through the crowd and onto the dance floor. We're trying to stay together, but it's like driving a caravan of ten cars through rush hour traffic. By the third traffic light, you've already lost half your group. Not to mention, with as many people as there were, each of us has roughly one square foot to ourselves. And even that space isn't sacred; anyone can invade it by walking right up and grinding against you.

So after about five minutes, my focus switches from dancing to self defense. I'm constantly swiveling, keeping creepers in my periph at all times. Most of these crazies are just roaming by themselves, on the prowl for girls drunk or easy enough to respond to their weird mating rituals.

So imagine my surprise when, after playing one-on-one defense with these weirdos for hours, a cute guy comes up and actually introduces himself. My initial reaction was to blink at him. I felt like I was living in the Stone Age surrounded by primitive cavemen and a 21st-century gentleman just appeared out of nowhere to compliment my bearskin dress. I was rendered speechless and completely awkward. He made several noble attempts at a conversation, but I just mumbled like a spaz until he gave up and left.

Before you judge my social ineptitude, let me paint this picture in more detail. Creatures of the night are attempting to creep up on me from behind. Synth-tastic bass-heavy remixes of Jay Z and J Lo are not only causing permanent hearing loss, but are making me vibrate like a bobblehead. The only things visible in the darkness are multi-colored lasers flying around and piercing my retinas. So now I'm deaf and blind. And if that weren't enough, machines are stationed around the ceiling to blow cold, heavy smoke at random intervals. So even if the lasers are positioned perfectly so I can see my friends around me and we're close enough in proximity to scream over the thumping bass, we are still being interrupted for 10 to 15 seconds at a time by cold, unwelcome blasts of air.

Still wondering why I spent last night having a chicken parm picnic on my friend's living room floor?

Great Expectations

I grew up, like every other girl, watching Disney movies. We looked to these hand-drawn princesses for everything. Assumedly, these two-dimensional worlds were like ours, thus we could expect such divine perfection as we grew older. It felt entirely plausible that I would grow up to have Ariel's perfectly flowing hair, Jasmine's size zero waist, and big doe eyes that took up half my face (a la any Disney princess in history).

The largest expectation set forth for young girls was, of course, the Prince. The plots of these movies were irrelevant. It didn't matter if the girl in question was an absent-minded mute mermaid, a narcoleptic teenager, a prom queen with a curfew and one shoe, or a helium-voiced cleaning woman with an affinity for dwarves. Some guy, some beautiful specimen of a being, would always come swooping in and save the day. Then all the conflicts would resolve of their own volition while Whats-Her-Face and Prince Amazing rode off into the sunset.

Bravo, Disney. But what young Walt obviously failed to consider was the generation of disappointed women who would have to reconcile these wild expectations with their real lives. No man actually has a castle, a noble steed or shiny, coifed hair. They have 1997 Honda Civics, commitment issues, and subscriptions to Comcast SportsNet.

Of course, Disney films are still cherished by families around the world. But when Walt passed away, that could've been it. We could have been in the clear, shutting the door on the "Great Expectations" era forever. But, as luck would have it, there was another man waiting in the wings to deliver new delusions of grandeur: Nicholas Sparks.

In case you've forgotten or you're not familiar with this guy, let's take a little tour through some of his best work:

Nights in Rodanthe

Woman's marriage sucks. She runs away from her problems, meets a random man and survives one night of extreme weather down the shore.

Outcome: Eternal love with attractive stranger.


The Last Song

Teenaged girl goes down the shore. Fixes relationship with her father. Random guy mends her broken heart.


Outcome: Eternal love with attractive stranger.


The Lucky One

Sexy soldier returns home from war. Walks across the country to find a girl he saw in a picture this one time. Gets rid of her asshole ex-husband for her.

Outcome: Eternal love with  attractive stranger  Zac Efron

 
And if you haven't had your fill of unattainable dreams yet, you haven't seen nothin' yet. This film is the mother of everything that is wonderfully unrealistic. In theaters, it made tears spontaneously fall out of people's eyes and I'm pretty sure they've started swearing in legal witnesses using a copy of this book.

The Notebook

Essentially, Ryan Gosling's hanging out in the 1940's and decides to woo this small-town girl. For whatever reason, it takes him longer than twelve seconds to do so. Thanks to the events that follow, even girls with the highest level of common sense can't help but be disappointed when their boyfriends don't do any of the following:

• climb a ferris wheel to get to them
• write them letters every day for a year
• ask them to dance when there's no music playing
• take them on a romantic twilight boat ride through a sea of swans
• build a house for them
• write their entire lives down in a notebook
• be Ryan Gosling

So thanks, Nick Sparks. The little girls with big dreams circa the Disney era are now grown women riding a wave of even higher expectations. With that said, The Little Mermaid and The Notebook are two of my favorite movies. So good. Can't wait til my handsome stranger emerges from the fog, sweeps me off my feet, builds us a house (no, a castle!) and we live happily ever after.

An Open Letter to Today's Pop Princesses

Dear Pop Stars,

Congratulations on your recent success. More accurately, congratulations on being in the right place at the right time. You’re making exactly the kind of music that’s invading the radio right now. Although it’s hard to tell which came first: the chicken or the egg. Were your songs so groundbreaking that they changed the face of popular music or did you sense a new wave coming and say to yourself, “Hey! I can do that!”

Somehow I doubt that you, Ke$ha, were writing drafts of “Tik Tok” in your childhood bedroom, waiting for your big break so you could share your wisdom with the world. As much as today’s youth could benefit from a proper dental demonstration (“So do we pour the Jack Daniel’s right on the toothbrush?”), let’s call a spade a spade. You’re not talented. You were born at the right time, making you a 20-something today. A 20-something smart enough to see where pop music was about to go and jumping on the train just as it was pulling out of the station.

Now I know I don’t have much room to talk. I’ve never released a top 10 hit on iTunes or been signed to a major record label. But you know why? Because I’m not a singer. And if we’re still being honest here, neither are you. If your tactic was to distract everyone with glitter bombs and unkempt hair while you Auto-Tune your speaking voice, job well done. And the dollar sign in your name! Nice touch.

As for you, Katy Perry, while you’re an improvement in stage presence, you negate all of that by being a sexpot. Your average fan has to be ... what, ten? All the provocative lyrics and outfits are pointless except for attention, sensationalism, and compensation for an average singing voice. Your album cover is literally you lying on a cotton candy cloud in your birthday suit. You even corrupted toddlers everywhere when you showed up all boobalicious on Sesame Street. To quote the awesome Amy Poehler: “Today’s show is brought to you by the number 36 and the letters Double D.”

And while I’m all for creative expression, it’s a fine line to walk. There’s making a bold statement or a creative fashion choice, and then there’s .... gluing a cube of cheese to your head. Are you listening, Nicki Minaj? ‘Cause it seems like both of you ladies are trying to take a page from Lady Gaga’s book. (Remember that train you jumped on last minute? Gaga was the conductor.)

The reason why I’m not commenting on Lady Gaga’s obvious insanity is because she’s got the talent to back it up. The woman sang and danced her way through 200 of what I’m sure were flawless, sold-out tour dates last year. She’s earned the right to wear orbiting rings around her head or encase herself in Kermit the Frog puppets or don a meat dress. On second thought, the meat dress and matching purse might have been a bit much.

Okay, confession time. There’s a reason behind some of my frustration. With all this mediocre, Auto-Tuned talent corrupting today’s youth one iPod at a time, it should be fairly easy for me to dislike or dismiss you altogether. And maybe I would if your songs weren’t so damn catchy. You’re making it awfully hard for me to ignore you. Your beats are amazing and your hooks are tattooed on my brain. So while I’m still a supporter of organic, quality musicianship, I surrender to the “Superbass”. You do it, ladies.

                                                                                                                  Resentfully yours,

                                                                                                                                      Jill

Benchwarmer Holidays

Happy Mother's Day! I found myself exclaiming that to everyone today, regardless of whether they had any children. Apparently not a prerequisite.

Holidays are an interesting concept. I can only speak for American customs obviously. I have nothing against them, but objectively they're hilarious. Over time, the origin of almost every holiday has been misconstrued or lost entirely. Christmas is all about presents and twinkly lights and a Douglas fir in your living room. Easter's religious significance is overshadowed every year by a giant marshmallow Peep. Either that or a migraine from all the bright pastel colors abound. A friendly feast among Pilgrims and Indians at a beautiful picnic table atop Plymouth Rock? Yeah right, Thanksgiving. And remember when that Roman priest was tortured and beheaded for defying the law and marrying monogamous couples? Happy Valentine's Day! (I don't blame us for sugarcoating that one. Roses, champagne and Hallmark cards seem nicer than a guillotine.)

Then there's the bench warmers. These can barely be classified as holidays. Their meanings are even more vague, making them useful for nothing but a day off. I, for one, consider this a lost opportunity. What if we celebrated these holidays with the same enthusiasm as the others? Better yet, we could make up brand new traditions based off of their actual origins.

Arbor Day

As we all know, the "Douglas fir in the living room" concept has been done. We can do better. (Especially since a holiday celebrating trees probably shouldn't be listed as a major cause for deforestation.) Dressing up is always a fun way to spice things up. Adults and kids alike could wear different shades of brown. (Dig those corduroys and turtlenecks out of storage!) Then everyone can don a leaf-covered headband and attach plastic branches to their arms. Classy. The afternoon could be spent hugging trees and hosting eco-friendly gatherings under the shade of your favorite maple. Then - what everyone's been waiting for - a feast with family and friends featuring all plant-based dishes. Move over, Christmas ham! Eggplant and a garden salad is where it's at. (Pardon the preposition.)

Presidents Day

For centuries, Halloween has reigned supreme as the Ultimate Dress-Up Extravaganza. Sure, Frankenstein and Lady Gaga are fun to impersonate. And I bet you've already reserved your tree costume for next year's Arbor Day celebration. But before you finalize your plans, consider this: wooden teeth, a powdered wig, knee-high socks, and a tri-corner hat. I say we bring some of George Washington's colonial swag to the 21st century. Of course, all Presidents are created equal, so if you wanted to rock Roosevelt's wheelchair or glue on some Chester Arthur mutton chops, you do it. Who's gonna stop ya?


Labor Day

I know what you're thinking: "I do celebrate Labor Day!" No, ma'am. The day was meant to recognize all of those whose hard work has contributed to a strong, healthy economy. Lounging poolside and barbequing with your family while you mourn your last white pants of the season is not celebrating Labor Day. If we really took to heart the meaning of this holiday, we'd pick up a double shift at work. Or finish a project we've been putting off for weeks. Or wear a costume signifying our region's principal industry a la Hunger Games. That last one's really just an excuse to see Zac Efron in something like Finnick's fishing net costume in Book 2. Okay, ditch the other ideas ... let's keep throwing pool parties and invite Zac in a net.

Columbus Day

Another day off to remember some misguided explorer from the 1400's. First off, Columbus thought the world was shaped like a pear. That makes our choice of snack easy: Bosque or Bartlett? Secondly, the guy stumbled upon some land he thought was Asia, declared it his discovery even though Native Americans had been living there for years, and set up camp for a while. In remembrance of this obviously brave and noble achievement, I propose we all take a drive. After a few minutes, pick a house that appeals to you, stake a foreclosure sign in their front lawn, and begin moving in at your leisure.