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.

A Work in Progress

In high school, my typical lunch would consist of a half-pound of fries, three bags of French Onion Sun Chips, two packs of fruit snacks, and an Icy Lemonade. First of all, let us all take note: French fries are featured as the main entree. Secondly, I'm pretty convinced that, of all the atrocities listed, the worst offender is the lemonade. The business plan here must've been to take sugar cubes, dye them Easter Egg yellow and liquify them down to resemble something a lemon might have produced. And as predicted, I - and hundreds of my classmates - couldn't give two craps. After all, this Icy "Lemonade" went perfectly with white starchy carbs, salty seasoned chips, and everyone's favorite food colorings (Red #40 and Yellow #5) masquerading as fruit.

Since then, I have definitely become more health-conscious. I work out regularly and eat fairly healthy. But anyone who leads this type of lifestyle will tell you: consistency is impossible. Motivation comes in waves. It's like multiple personalities fighting for control. Here's a better description of the vicious cycle I've become accustomed to, complete with songs that best describe each phase:
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Phase One: 

"Who Run The World?" - Beyonce

I am Heidi Klum. I'm on top of the world. I feel great, I'm workin' it out and I'm loving life. Who doesn't love eating right and exercising??! Endorphins have replaced diamonds as my new best friends. (Though if we're talking about me specifically, diamonds would rank low on my list of favorite inanimate objects.)

Phase Two:  

"It’s My Life" – Bon Jovi

Screw this.

You only live once and I’ve got coupons to the Cheesecake Factory. Who's comin?

Phase Three: "Undo It"– Carrie Underwood

Shit. I can NOT believe I just did that. I just negated everything I’ve been working towards. Why would I put in all that time at the gym, then turn around and eat .... what was that thing I ate last night? Remember it had lots of cheese and oil and some kind of .... meat?? Quick! To the treadmills!

Phase Four: "I Hate This Part" – Pussycat Dolls

 

Why am I doing this again?? I’ve been running for an hour on a motorized rubber belt to nowhere. We're all a bunch of idiots. What happened to the fun games we used to play as kids? Maybe I’ll start an Adult Hide-and-Seek-Tag League. Or an Intramural Red Rover Tournament? No, really... screw this. I’m taking a leave of absence from the gym. Effective immediately.

Phase Five: "Push It" – Salt-n-Pepa

AAAHHHH!! Where's my I-Pod? Where's a sports bra! Get me to a gym! Double time!
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As I said, this cycle has continued for some time and I don't imagine it'll stop anytime soon. Unless my prayers for motivation are answered in the form of a personal trainer and lots of money for organic food. I wish Jillian Michaels would just show up on my doorstep with some free weights and a 5-Hour Energy. Or Billy Blanks from those old Tae-Bo VHS tapes. Or Forrest Gump's drill sergeant!

As a parting gift, I present to you my Top 5 List of Ultimate Running Songs:

5.)  "4Ever" – The Veronicas

4.)  "Power" – Kanye West

3.)  "More" - Usher

2.)  "Born For This" - Paramore

1.)  "Thnks fr th mmrs" – Fall Out Boy

Fifty Shades of Grey's

The first amendment of the U.S. Constitution allows all citizens the freedom of religion. Some are Christian, some are Jewish, others are Buddhist or athiest. Me? If you had polled me in 2007, I would have checked the box next to Grey's Anatomy.

Only a few TV shows have affected me quite as much as this one. During freshmen year of college, I would spend all week counting down impatiently until Grey's. Then Thursday night would arrive at last. My friends and I would convene in a dorm room, lock the door to avoid disruption, and watch with bated breath for 60 minutes. Sad, I know. But a season or two later, a writers' strike in L.A. brought all scripted shows to a halt and my interest tapered off. "I do have a life, ya know," I probably told myself. (Lies.)

Fast forward five years and thanks to Netflix, I'm officially re-addicted. I've fallen off the wagon on the road to recovery. I wouldn't go so far as to call Seattle Grace Hospital my house of worship anymore, but I would call watching it a damn good use of my free time and Kindle Fire.

Despite its incredible writers and powerful acting, I can't help but see it from a new perspective this time around. There are a certain number of elements necessary to make this network drama the ratings powerhouse it has become:

The Most Attractive Doctors in All of Washington State

I would definitely stage a life-threatening illness just to be rolled into that emergency room. They've got sex appeal dripping from their IVs. Everything about that hospital is distractingly gorgeous. The state-of-the-art facility is fine, I suppose, but it pales in comparison to the fleet of perfectly groomed physicians making a runway out of its halls. First of all, those scrubs are far from scrubby. They're tailored to a tee. And the customized scrub caps that only partially cover their heads, serving little to no purpose in the OR? Hygiene can take a backseat in this case; McDreamy's famous brunette locks need room to breathe. On second thought, maybe I'll avoid this hospital in case of emergency. If these doctors caught their flawless reflection in a scalpel, they might be too distracted to operate properly. That is if they aren't late to their own surgeries because they're doing each other in the supply closet.

Another Scene, Another Non Sequitur

There's a certain rhythm to dialogue in dramatic scenes. You may have never noticed - but you probably have - that it's quite different than the way we talk in real conversation. One character will be speaking and their scene partner will interrupt with a word or phrase that they've seemingly just pulled out of nowhere. It's as if they're unsure of an appropriate response, so they flip through a dictionary and blurt out the first word they see. Or, at best, they're playing a game of Free Association. It happens all the time.

Meredith: Izzy, can you take these blood samples upstairs for me?
Izzy: Pancakes.
Meredith: ....What?
Izzy: When I was a little girl, I would wake up and the smell of fresh pancakes would be floating up the stairs. Before I even got out of bed, I knew who was cooking breakfast. See, 'cause if it was blueberry, it was Mom, but if it was chocolate chip, it had to be Dad. The only trick was if bacon was cooking too... then I could never tell who -
*Christina passes by*
Meredith: Christina! I've got to get to surgery... can you run these samples to the lab?
Christina: Sophie.
Meredith: I'm Meredith.
Christina: No, Sophie was my black lab growing up. She had to be put down and 'ya know, I don't think I ever got over it.....

Monologues Shakespeare Would Be Proud Of

I don't remember the last time I opened my mouth and a sentence flowed seamlessly out of my mouth exactly how I'd imagined it. Within the walls of Seattle Grace, however, long, perfectly-timed, artfully-worded monologues are commonplace. And not once is it the appropriate time or place:

• a critically ill patient using up valuable time to ramble on about what they were doing when the train hit them or their heart stopped for a minute
• a couple of doctors who should be off saving lives, but are instead spouting spiteful, passive-aggressive comments at each other ( usually in patients' rooms or down otherwise quiet corridors )

As an afterword, I do feel obligated to declare that of all the Grey's Anatomy men, I would pick Denny Duquette. He's perfect (minus the enlarged heart). Oh, I just got another look at Drs. Shephard, Sloane, Karev and Avery. Never mind... it's too hard to choose. Especially because they're fictional.

Technology Takeover

I remember sitting in a Keyboarding class in 6th grade. The brand new "state-of-the-art" computers that sat before us were colorful Apple desktops with butts bigger than their hard drive capacity. We'd do some typing exercises, then play a pixelated version of Oregon Trail. (I could almost never ford the river without losing an oxen or giving someone dysentery.) Then we'd move on to CAPPS class where we made one of the greatest technological advances of our time: a PowerPoint. No, I mean I literally spent three months making a PowerPoint on chimpanzees. Then we'd save our progress on these thin plastic squares called floppy disks (not floppy in the least). We genuinely thought we were doing work parallel to NASA's.

Now, not only can an 10-year-old make a PowerPoint accidentally in their sleep, but if I handed him a floppy disk he would use it as a case protector for his iPod Touch.

I'm so grateful that I was able to experience the last decade in American history that was not completely engulfed in technology. My childhood was pool parties and wiffleball tournaments and chasing down the ice cream truck. Now a new generation of kids are arriving in this world and that sense of wonder has given way to entitlement. They expect a cell phone with a data plan by 3rd grade and a Facebook profile before they take their first step.

And I know it's not their fault; they don't know any different. So how do you explain the rest of the population? People older than me - who grew up in practically Amish households by comparison - have succumbed to the power of technology. Little boys who used to sword fight with sticks have grown up into businessmen with Blackberries permanently attached to their palms. Allow Louis CK to articulate it in the best possible way:

The only exception to this, of course, is parents. They were too busy changing diapers and watching Sesame Street to take part in the technological evolution. Some of them have caught on and can now send an e-mail with minimal supervision by their own children; others just can not get it together. From my perspective, all you need is a little practice and the memorization of one basic set of skills. "Open, save, delete, format, print" is to computers what "do, re, mi, fa, so" is to singing. Learn it and it's applicable to anything.

Having said all this, if there was a Technology Addicts Anonymous group, I'd be front row center. Not a day goes by that I don't use the Internet, Facebook, TV, my cell phone and my Kindle Fire. I revel in the amazing opportunities these gadgets offer us. People from all over the world are connected at lightning speeds. Soldiers can video chat with their families; I can text a message to someone across the country in no time at all; Anyone can stream HD episodes of their favorite TV show instantly.

It's the speed and the incredible access to information that astounds me the most. Think about it! No matter what my question is, I can find the answer in less than 20 seconds. Let’s say I want to know how much the average flamingo weighs when its born or Ryan Gosling’s favorite food... I can find out in the time it takes to finish this sentence. (FYI: 6 to 8 pounds, calamari)

I do love how connected everyone is. Though, I can't help but worry that we're losing our sense of human connection. With e-mails and Facebook and texting and Tweeting, communication is becoming so robotic and impersonal. Calls might as well be optional on cell phone plans now; everything's expressed in 160 characters or less. I'm surprised 9-1-1 dispatchers haven't set up a hotline for emergency texts. I feel like people are going to either lose social skills all together, go cross-eyed, or get Carpal Tunnel in their thumbs.

Professional Place Holder

Graduating college reminds me of that final scene in The Truman Show. Truman realizes the world as he's known it is a fake. He's been surrounded by a bubble of protection and comfort and unrealistic happiness. He knows it's time to go be a real person, but he's still riding the high. So he ascends the staircase with determined optimism, opens the door to the real world and steps out into the unknown.

Now the movie ends here, but if the next few scenes were anything like my first summer as a bonafide "adult", color me empathetic.

That's a rather dramatic description of adjusting to post-college life. But this much is true: The economy has made for an interesting job hunt. It felt like the second I was handed my diploma, a gaggle of extended family members appeared to begin asking me about what I had planned for my future.

Family Member: Have anything lined up for the fall yet?
Me: Not yet, but I'll definitely keep my eye out. (Read: Hell no. Why would I have anything lined up? This isn't the 1900's when one-room schoolhouses were begging for young females to come teach the alphabet. It's a dog eat dog world out there.)
Family Member: Oh. Well that's okay! Keep your chin up.
Me: Thanks.. will do! (Who said my chin was down?)
Family Member: You should start out substituting. That's a surefire way to get your foot in the door! Ya know... put your face out there, get your name known, learn the ropes....
Me: I plan on it! Thanks! (I wonder what the record is for number of cliches packed into one sentence.)

Fast forward two years. As predicted, I've spent the last two years working part-time as a substitute teacher. In all honesty, it has been nice to be able to use my degree for something that's related to my field and I have gained valuable experience. But in another sense, my position could probably more accurately be called a Professional Place Holder.

While some teaching does take place, there are also a handful of other things happening. These could be categorized under "babysitting", "entertaining", and "crowd control". Here are the most glaring examples of what I'm talking about:

That Thing That Happened The Other Day When You Weren’t Here But That You Now Need to Address

      This happens without fail. A standard Monday morning will start off with an exasperated, run-on sentence similar to this one: "On Friday Mrs. Susiebottom told me I could borrow her scissors and construction paper to cut out little shapes for my 50 states art project but then we had a fire drill and our math lesson took longer than it was supposed to 'cause Madison threw up Sun Chips on her test so I didn't get to work on my project even though she promised me I could and I don't think it would be fair if I didn't get to do it today cause the project's due in three days no two days so since I couldn't do it on Friday can I do it now?" First of all, take a breath. Second of all, I didn't sign up for this. For all I know, Mrs. Susiebottom said no such thing. I generally make an educated decision based on common sense. Or how little I care to start a verbal duel with this child.

How Dare You Mess With the System!

       Any good classroom teacher has a classroom routine in place so the kids know what is expected of them and things can run smoothly. They've got a system and they like it. So you can imagine the horror film that plays out in a 10-year-old's head when they walk in and see a stranger in place of their teacher. The Earth shifts on its axis and the trees outside lose their leaves. As the day wears on, they think "I can do this. I can adapt." But then this stranger in a cardigan does something crazy like write the date with the red marker, not the blue. And she doesn't say "good morning" the same way that Mrs. Susiebottom always does. And doesn't she know which rocking chair to sit in when she reads us a book? Who does she think she is?!

Some Unprecedented, Ridiculous Display of Misbehavior

        For the most part, my classes go smoothly. (Probably because I've seen enough over the years to know which schools to avoid like the plague. Oh, and I'm a certified educator.) But even in the calmest of classrooms, you'll encounter those kids who can't help but act out. I've seen students run circles around the room like they're in a 5K. A girl once poked herself in the eye with a marker. Just the other day, a kid came up to me in tears: "All I did was poke Jimmy and he threw my pencil away!" When I confronted Jimmy, he just looked up from his work and pointed to a hole in his jeans: "She STABBED me in the LEG!"

The Less Desirable Superpowers: Invisibility & Disposibility 

        Here's where the Professional Place Holder title comes into play. If I had a dollar for every time another teacher walked into my room, saw that a sub was in for the day, and walked out without a word.... I could retire at 23. For whatever reason, normal social conduct doesn't seem to apply here (?)  We both know I saw you come in. I know I'm not the person you were looking for, but is it too taxing for you to say hi? Maybe I could even take a message if you had stayed long enough to leave one. If I actually took offense to these interactions, I'd have crumbled into pieces by now, crying about how undervalued I am.

Unreasonably Happy - Part II

As part of a continuing list, here are a few more things that make me "unreasonably happy". This means, of course, that they inspire a level of happiness that is completely disproportional to the things themselves. Everyone's entitled to a few joyful moments that make others go, "Really?"

90's Pop

Having only been alive for eleven months of the 80's, I can't help but have a special affinity for 90's music. Pin-ups lined my bedroom like homemade wallpaper. It was all I knew as a kid and boy, was it a match made in heaven. What goes better with braces, glasses, overalls and Beanie Babies than a solid helping of bubble gum pop? And to quote a wise prairie dog by the name of Timon: "Ain't no passing craze." I was absolutely sure that these boy bands were here to stay. In fifty years, the Backstreet Boys would certainly be honored for their groundbreaking contributions to music. N*Sync's concerto "Bye Bye Bye" would be discussed among other lesser masterpieces like Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 and Pachelbel's Canon in D. Spice World on cassette tape would be archived in a national time capsule to preserve its genius. And the poignant lyrics laced through the verses of "MmmBop" would be recorded so future generations could remember the beauty of the late 20th century.


 In the years since then, I've gained some life experience (and common sense). And while I may have exaggerated how cherished and timeless these artists were, I love them just the same. Literally, the exact same amount I did when I was ten. I transform into a giddy schoolgirl when a boy band shows up in my iPod shuffle. My best friend and I saw the Spice Girls reunion tour, and I consider it one of the best nights of my life. Long live 90's pop.




Something That Happened Several Hours/Days/Months/Years Ago

Funny things happen all the time. Inside jokes are created, memories are made, and the moment's over. But I have this ability to replay those moments like video clips stuck on repeat. Sometimes it just happened; other times, it's been twelve hours and everyone else has long since forgotten. But I'll be that one idiot, giggling to myself about it in the corner. My friend will often catch me chuckling and go, "Okay, what happened when we were eight?" Whatever it was, it's certainly doesn't warrant a giggle fest in a college lecture hall. This much I know.


Doing Nothing

I know a handful of people who are fundamentally against this concept. Their daily schedules are packed; their to-do lists are full; they have places to go and people to see. To each her own, but if I didn't have some time to relax and recharge every day, I would genuinely start to break down. I'm vaguely aware of people bustling around me 24/7, but that lifestyle's not for me. (I will never move to NYC.)

Sometimes I pretend to have boundless energy. When I was 10, I dressed up as the Energizer Bunny for Halloween (pink footy pajamas, hat box with suspenders, sunglasses). I tried to play the part, but by the end of the night I think they found me at the park collapsed in a pile of Almond Joys. Don't get me wrong; I'm not a hermit. I love going out and spending time with awesome people. But at some point, a girl just has to vedge out and watch an episode of Arrested Development. I am happiest and most content when I have no responsibilities or commitments in the near future and I can just be.

Oh, and eating a sandwich.

Celebrity

Something I've been ruminating over lately is the idea of "celebrity". It's always been a topic of interest, but I'm pretty sure the average citizen in the 1940's had better things to do with their time than obsess over their favorite black-and-white film star. Especially without the ability to follow their Tweets.

Now it seems celebrities have permeated every aspect of life. They're ubiquitous, they're entitled and we can't get enough of them. Yes, we. I would be lying if I didn't include myself as part of the fan club. I read Perez Hilton's blog daily, I watch late night TMZ whenever I can, and I know Zac Efron's middle name. For the record, I am not proud of any of these statements but they're all true.
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So I write this from a torn perspective - someone who, while feeding the celebrity-obsessed fire, also recognizes its absurdity. Here now, I present a schizophrenic conversation between the two:

LogicalCynic: Just because a person was ballsy enough to attempt a career in acting / singing and attractive enough to actually make money doing it... does that mean we should all put posters of him/her on our walls, have paparazzi follow their every movement, subscribe to their personal websites, and make faces like these when we meet them?

BSB_FAN_4EVA: Yes! My pre-adolescent walls were a shrine to the Backstreet Boys and these Boys were absolutely worthy of a higher status. They were gods among men. [And the present-day pin ups of Zac Efron would have been removed and tucked away a while ago had I had anything else to replace them with on my blank canvas eggshell-colored walls.]

LogicalCynic: Acting, singing, sports... they're just like any other career. The only difference is their annual salary is more money than you'll ever see in your lifetime and the final product is broadcast out to the world. Doesn't mean they're any better or more special than you, even if they'd like to think so. And our incessant screaming and fan-clubbing and Facebook following is not making them appear any more "average".

BSB_FAN_4EVA: You can't put your image out into the world and expect a normal reaction when you're out in public pretending to lead a normal life. If I've just finished watching Forrest Gump on FX, then bump into Tom Hanks in the produce section of ACME, you can't fault me if my brain explodes just a little. I will abandon my shopping cart and follow him through the store until he compares life to a box of chocolates.

LogicalCynic: They're just people. And even worse, celebrities are genuinely becoming just average people. You don't even have to star in a movie or release a hit single to be famous now. You just have to have eight kids and get a reality show. Or be born a hotel heiress, make a sex tape and retire at 18 to spend your life shopping on Sunset Blvd. Let's face the facts: the average U.S. citizen has no idea what the three branches of government are, but can name all of the Kardashians in alphabetical order.

BSB_FAN_4EVA: The lives of celebrities are like some movie with thousands of characters, an endless plot, and constant sources of entertainment. Can you blame people for wanting an excuse to pause reality and put their responsibilities aside for a few minutes? The newest issue of US Weekly lets them do that.

LogicalCynic: And in order to fill those weekly tabloids with something, there are hundreds of paparazzi photographers with dollar signs for pupils chasing celebrities through Los Angeles to "get the shot". And you just know all that effort is worth it... what with all the awards and accolades these publications are earning for their groundbreaking journalism. I don't give a shit that McDreamy asks for paper and plastic when he's buying groceries.
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While I've always been aware of celebrities' effect on modern day culture, this blog was mostly inspired by one random person: Mara Wilson. She was this impossibly adorable girl with a lisp, and she happened to star in a handful of my favorite childhood movies. Then she stopped acting, disappeared from the public eye, went to college, and re-emerged on my radar as completely different. Obviously she's the same person she's always been, but somehow my brain couldn't reconcile this person with the little girl I watched on my TV years ago.

So I started reading her blog and Twitter in an attempt to see what she'd done with her life and what kind of person she's become. Turns out, in a refreshingly mature move, she decided acting wasn't for her and moved on to be a normal person and do things that made her happy and fulfilled. She recently wrote a blog post about what she's been doing, just to satisfy curiosity, and then tried to seamlessly sink back into real life. [Read the blog post. It's interesting, well-written and relates to what I'm saying perfectly.]

The humanistic part of me totally respects what she's doing and recognizes her as a real 20-something human being. The reality is she hasn't acted in over a decade. If people started asking me about that play I did when I was eight, I'd probably be confused why anyone cared too.

As for the childlike celeb-crazed part of me, I found myself totally relating to the millions of Matilda fans that came out of the woodwork to take a trip down memory lane. Yes, she's just another person but her movies are memorable for a lot of people. Her fans are all 20-somethings now too, and they're using Twitter and Facebook and blogs to bombard Mara with questions. Some people are asking about her life as a child actress ("What was it like in the Chokey?" Apparently, the steam smelled weird.). Others are going the bullying route and offering unwarranted, negative criticisms about what she looks like now and what an awful person she seems to have become.

We've come back full circle to the concept of "celebrity". And now for some some closing thoughts: How bizarre that so many people, including myself, care so much about this person who played a part in a movie that one time. How ridiculous that, because she was a famous kid, people feel like they can pick apart her life choices and appearance. How strange that, years from now, when she's picking up her kids from school, someone will walk up and ask her if the Trunchbull was mean in real life.

Oh, and if I'm being honest - there are a handful of celebrities that I would vow to marry before ever having met them. That's unnatural.