Narcissism at its Best

Spring is here!

2011-03-22T08:46:00.000-04:00

Via Exploding Dog

You'll Never Guess Where I'm Going

2011-03-14T16:18:00.001-04:00

Psh, I don't wait for doors to open. I kick them down, TV cop show-style.

It's all happening!

Nope

2011-03-01T20:48:00.000-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

Nothing changes

2011-02-21T17:54:00.001-05:00

Via ASofterWorld

Yes.

2011-02-21T08:40:00.000-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

Get out of my head

2011-02-15T08:36:00.000-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

Twenty-five

2011-02-09T08:37:00.000-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

See you later, 24. You were totally weird.

Fuck cursive

2011-02-01T20:27:00.000-05:00

Via Asher Sarlin

My AP English teacher in high school made us write every paper, EVERY paper in cursive. WHY GOD WHY.

How the fuck could he even read that shit?

At least I got rashes

2011-01-31T21:43:00.002-05:00

Via Natalie Dee

Honestly.

On top of psoriasis, I've got a really awesome sports bra rash.

Come and get it, ladies.

Incredibly Close

2011-01-30T10:05:00.001-05:00

Because I'm a late adopter of everything, from technology to books to movies to TV, it's no surprise that I just finished reading one of 2005's most acclaimed books, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer.

I didn't expect to love it because everyone in my neighborhood tends to think he's a douche (he lives in Park Slope and irons his jeans?). But I did, in fact, love it. It smacks of a little pretentiousness, but mostly, I found myself stopping after reading something and reading it again because it had such personal significance to me.

Since I tend to read only drug addiction memoirs and true crime books, it's been awhile since that has happened for me.

Thus, we have:

Being with you makes my brain quiet. It hasn't made life wonderful, it's made life possible.

I think and think and think. I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

How were we spending so much time together but not getting to know each other?

Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all of the lives I'm not living.

I would give everything to never think about her again, but I can only hold onto the things that I want to lose.

You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.

At the end of my search I wanted to be able to say: I don't know how I could have tried harder.

Can't let go

2011-01-25T20:25:00.000-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

Happy Gay-iversary

2011-01-22T08:33:00.001-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

5 years since I was tripped out of the closet by someone I used to be friends with.

I used to be friends with a lot of people, though.

Honestly

2011-01-19T20:21:00.000-05:00

Via Asher Sarlin

Things I've Learned from Sister Wives

2011-01-19T18:34:00.000-05:00

When I was at home for Christmas, I was lucky enough to catch a marathon of the ENTIRE FIRST SEASON of Sister Wives. With this, plus my obsession with Big Love and Warren Jeffs documentaries, I think it's safe to say that I am now officially a polygamy expert.

Here's what I've learned. Take notes.

1. Polygamy puts you on the fast-track to Herpestown. Next time you're watching an episode, take a look at everyone's mouths. At least one of the wives (never the husband, interestingly enough) has a cold sore on their mouth. What's even more scary? Sometimes, THE KIDS HAVE THEM TOO. OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD.

2. Even if you have 4 wives and 400 children, you can afford to buy multiple luxury cars. How the fuck does this ass clown afford all of these kids, multiple houses and a fucking two-seater Lexus? Also—you have a ton of kids and three wives and you drive a two-seater? YOU'RE A DICK. Drive a mini-van like everyone else who sold their souls to the pursuit of family.

3. If you're on TV, you can avoid any kind of prosecution for the ILLEGAL SHIT YOU'RE DOING ON TV. The DA where these creeps live launched an investigation on them, but said that they're not going to prosecute them because they don't believe any kind of abuse is going on in the household (ie: forcing 12-year-olds into becoming child brides). I mean, fine, these people aren't beating these kids or molesting them, but they ARE subjecting them to a world of incredibly bad haircuts and cold sores. ABUSE.

In summary: what a goddamned country.

I swear.

Douchey Shit I Pulled in High School (Part 2)

2011-01-17T13:45:00.002-05:00

When I was in high school, I was in the Yearbook club, mainly because I was an overachiever.

The weird thing about me, though, was the fact that I was an overachiever with a bad attitude. Overachievers are usually really positive and super happy to be involved in every aspect of everything because if they pause from smiling for one second, their entire little world will come crashing down on them like a pile of broken dreams. Think Tracy Flick from Election.

So while I wanted to be involved in everything, what I brought to the table was mainly a lot of sarcasm and unenthusiastic participation. As the editor of our school newspaper, I wrote a recurring "Editor's Letter" where I said things like, "And this is to our readers (population 0)..."

So, in the Yearbook Club, we did the obvious, which was design the yearbook. At the beginning of the year, our teacher had us all go up to the board and write our own suggestion for what the title of the 2003 yearbook should be.

I, of course, went up and wrote my very own brilliant idea: "Thanks for Nothing."

She made me erase it.

The theme ended up being "Let the Good Times Roll"—complete with dice on the cover and a board game theme throughout.

I still like my idea better.

I Love My Neighborhood

2011-01-14T07:57:00.000-05:00

I love my neighborhood because it's full of people who will step over a homeless man sleeping on the subway platform and instead knit sweaters for the neighborhood trees.

This makes me laugh/cry so hard.

Of course I've been drinkin', it's Wednesday

2011-01-13T21:28:00.000-05:00

Via A Softer World

Awkward

2011-01-13T21:25:00.000-05:00

Via A Softer World

...I can appreciate it now, but what an awkward year at daycare.

Late

2011-01-12T08:18:00.000-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

Reasons to Hate New York

2011-01-10T19:34:00.004-05:00

Look, there are a lot of reasons to love New York City, but this place is also a motherfucking HARD place to live.

I find myself thinking, "If I lived in Buffalo, the rent that I pay now would buy me a beautiful mansion instead of a one-bedroom closet next to a woman who blasts salsa music and has a photo of Jesus posted on her door."

Or, "If I lived in Buffalo, I wouldn't be checking my mattress for bedbugs for the FOURTH TIME this weekend."

Or, "If I lived in Buffalo, I wouldn't have to put all of my clothing into a sack and carry down the street, over my shoulder to the laundromat like I'm fucking Santa Claus and then sit on a wooden bench squeezed in next to a tower of broken laundry baskets for 2 hours every time I want clean underwear."

All of this shit, is, of course, white people problems. Oh, my fabulous life is so hard. I have to live in the most exciting city in the world in an apartment BY MYSELF with exposed brick walls and a magazine job where I get to be in close proximity to celebrities for free.

It's called PERSPECTIVE, and sometimes I lose it.

But, I will say this: the number one reason to hate New York happened to me on the subway tonight.

As usual, the F train was crowded.

We all pile in, because GOD ONLY KNOWS when the next one will be coming down the track (read: probably never). We are all packed in so tightly that I'm worried that I'm going to get accidentally impregnated by someone (IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING).

I look over the shoulder of the girl in front of me, mainly because my chin is resting on her shoulder and it was otherwise unavoidable. She is texting someone on her phone. This is one of those keyboard phones made for teenagers who love to text and hate their parents (read: the text is MEGA small), but still—I can read every word she types.

"Oh baby, u know how to make me so horny."

Yo, where is the goddamned emergency break up in this car? I should never be able to see sexts like that from strangers on a Monday at 7pm.

You know where this wouldn't happen?

BUFFALO.

You're Standing On My Neck

2011-01-09T18:26:00.002-05:00

Ohhhhhh hell yes, this is happening.

1998 was a good year.

Or, not at all. But, you get it.

Van Halen Ain't Got Nothing on Me

2011-01-05T21:11:00.003-05:00

While I'm pretty excited about this new jump rope I bought, I can tell you who's even MORE excited about it.

My downstairs neighbors.

You're welcome, down there.

Early or late?

2011-01-04T20:13:00.000-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

Press it

2011-01-01T15:36:00.003-05:00

Last year, I wrote a long, drawn-out post detailing all of my favorite moments of 2009.

Well, thanks, 2010, because after all of the retarded shit you pulled, I am way too fucking tired to even THINK about doing that shit.

I, like most people I know, legitimately spent most of the first half of 2010 trying very hard not to jump out an open window. But right around the time that summer rolled around, things started looking up, a lot of great shit happened, and everything just seems to be getting even better as time goes on.

So, let's sum it up, right here:

I am happier than I have been in a long time.

And that's something, right?

Peace out, 2010. It's been weird.

2010-12-31T10:56:00.001-05:00

From Exploding Dog

Give Me a Chance

2010-12-28T10:55:00.000-05:00

From Exploding Dog

We are going home

2010-12-22T10:52:00.000-05:00

From Exploding Dog

Too Drunk to Be Afraid

2010-12-21T09:22:00.000-05:00

Via A Softer World

Best 30 Seconds of My Life

2010-12-20T12:31:00.001-05:00

Welcome to my new favorite song of the month.

Christmas Shoes

2010-12-14T21:38:00.006-05:00

I don't know if you all have heard the WORST Christmas song in the history of America, but it's GOT to be "Christmas Shoes"—which is a song about a little boy who's mother is dying who is trying to buy her shoes for Christmas so she will "look beautiful" if she "meets Jesus tonight."

Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?

My father, brother, and I make fun of this song incessantly. Every year, it's an unofficial race to see who will hear this godawful song on the radio first. It's always my dad, and he ALWAYS calls me whenever it's on. As it gets closer to Christmas, he's calling me at least twice a day (at work, mind you) and blasting this frigging song into the phone.

I didn't think anyone could explain the ridiculousness of this song accurately, but comedian Patton Oswalt does a fucking phenomenal job.

This coffee will change all that

2010-12-14T10:51:00.001-05:00

From Exploding Dog

Power

2010-12-07T13:56:00.000-05:00

Illustration via Wendy MacNaughton

Don't Worry, We'll Figure it Out

2010-12-07T09:49:00.001-05:00

From Exploding Dog

You don't win friends with salad

2010-12-06T20:49:00.002-05:00

Via Exploding Dog

Fucking MTA

2010-12-06T13:48:00.004-05:00

Sometimes, living in New York City is totally impossible.

Like when the MTA ups the monthly pass from an already-high $89 to $104.

Just so we're on the same page, it costs $104 per month to:

Wait 15-25 minutes on the unbearably hot subway platform during rush hour.
Wait 20-40 minutes on the unbearably hot subway platform any time after 8pm.
Get sexually harassed at least once a week (on average).
Squeeze with everyone into one corner of the subway car as a crazy homeless person has the entire other half of the car to himself for him and his extensive trash collection.
Not ever get to Brooklyn on the weekends because of track work that has been going on for nearly 3 years.

GREAT.

What Not to Wear

2010-12-06T10:38:00.000-05:00

After crying approximately 1,000 tears about how I lost my beloved hat a few months ago, I totally found it. Where was it? In my goddamned closet. I guess when I was “looking everywhere” I didn’t have my eyes open. Moral of the story? I am an idiot. But now that I’ve found it, here’s the thing: I don’t even really wear it that much.

BOOM.

Did you hear that, Mom? I’ve officially floated out of my dykey college casual phase and directly into something that closely, if not completely, resembles womanhood. It’s like The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, except not, because I’m actually really foggy on the details of that story.

Really, I’m just making an effort to dress less like a homeless person, and more like someone who is employable. Because not only am I employed, I am GAINFULLY employed, and I’d like to stay that way.

They say, “dress for the job you want,” and unless the job I want is “gay camp counseler” or “Target cashier,” I need to ramp it up and not continue the past fashion indiscretions of my youth.

FASHION MISTAKE #1—WEARING A BASEBALL HAT WHEREVER THE FUCK I WENT: Listen, since I’m a lesbian, I’m allowed to wear baseball hats on a pretty regular basis. But in college, I would wear a hat e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e. The sake bar that didn’t card in the strip mall next to the Jenny Craig? BASEBALL HAT. A trip to see RENT on Broadway? BASEBALL HAT. It got so out of control that I have a huge collection of hats because when people didn’t know what to get me for a gift, they would say to themselves, “Amanda’s always wearing that hat. Ima get her another one.” I don’t even like baseball. WTF was my problem?

FASHION MISTAKE #2—WEARING SHOWER SHOES IN PUBLIC: We had shower shoes in college because the floors in the communal bathrooms were a breeding ground for bacteria and herpes. The fact that I wore them anywhere other than in the shower (or, around the dorm) is horrendous. I wore them to bars. Seriously.

FASHION MISTAKE #3—WEARING BRIGHT COLORS OUT OF SEASON: Open my closet, and you’ll see something that looks like Rainbow Bright showed up and puked all over the place. Or, it looks like a United Colors of Benetton ad, if you want a slightly more eloquent comparison. Whenever I watch What Not to Wear, Stacy and Clinton most often BEG people to inject a little color into their wardrobe, so I can feel all smug. You guys want color? I GOT COLOR. What I’ve learned, however, is that I probably shouldn’t wear a lime green polo shirt in February. In fact, I probably shouldn’t be wearing a polo shirt in February at all, right?

FASHION MISTAKE #4—WEARING MY HAIR IN A PONY TAIL ALL THE GODDAMNED TIME: This is the one I’ve struggled with the most and have carried with me into adulthood. I know I look better with my hair up, mainly because I have a giant, round, Charlie Brown pumpkin head, and putting my hair up only emphasizes that fact. BUT, I am LAZY when it comes to any kind of beautification process. Lately, though, I seem to have conquered this problem by becoming even more shallow and self-involved than I already was. WIN.

I’m sure people could think of more fashion mistakes that I’ve committed in recent history, but these are the major ones I’ve being trying to avoid. Of course, nothing is perfect. I’m wearing a white cardigan today and I’m not sure whether or not I look good or if I look like a pharmacist.

I am a work in progress.

Gosh it disturbs me to see you Gaston, looking so down in the dumps

2010-12-03T12:16:00.002-05:00

Growing up as a kid in the 1990's, we were exposed to arguably the worst time in entertainment in pop culture history. Everything: soulless and ridiculous.

Any song from the '90's I have on my iPod is purely ironic (ie: "Straight Up" by Paula Abdul), much like my extensive (read: embarrassing) collection of Disney songs.

I don't care who you are. If you go up to someone born between 1982-1989, hold a gun to their head, and scream, "FINISH THE LINE: WHEN I'M WAY UP HERE..." They will respond with "It's crystal-clear, that now I'm in a whole new world with you." No joke.

The hysterical blog, Things 90s Kids Realize nails it:

The lasting effects these ballads have had on me will be evident throughout my life. For example, I’d like to play “A Whole New World” at my wedding and “The Circle Of Life” at my funeral.

Done.

It's funny because it's true.

2010-12-02T15:29:00.002-05:00

"Amanda, you're such a good writer. I'm going to have you write my letter of resignation." —Anonymous

Pawn Stars

2010-11-24T08:27:00.002-05:00

When I was in college and I came home for the holidays, I couldn't wait for my family to clear out on weekday mornings so I could have the house to my self.

Living in college with anywhere from 5-9 roommates (all of whom were girls) was a little much to deal with, and I was happy to finally be alone.

But now that I live alone in my apartment in New York, I'm used to being able to be alone on a consistent basis. So now that I'm home for Thanksgiving and my parents and brother are out for the day all week, I am b-o-r-e-d. Add to the fact that I don't have a car to use, I am essentially under house arrest.

I was so bored yesterday that I cleaned the kitchen and did the laundry. My mother came home and almost dropped dead on the floor when she saw that, as "WHY DIDN'T YOU EMPTY THE DISHWASHER" was a common sentence screamed at me throughout my teenage years. I made cookies. I answered work emails. I read some trashy magazine that my mom buys (did you know that Marie Osmond's husband, Brian Blosil, was abusive for YEARS? Who cares).

Then, I found exactly what I needed.

PAWN STARS.

I swear to God, this show is great. You would think, why would I want to watch a bunch of obese trashy pawn shop guys in Las Vegas? WHY WOULDN'T YOU?

Just LOOK at these guys. They scream out, "WATCH ME, I'M INTERESTING."

Welcome to my new obsession. Who would have guessed?

Duking it Out: My Mother & My Father's Surprise Birthday Party

2010-11-23T08:43:00.007-05:00

Not to be dramatic or anything, but I almost died these past few months.

Why?

Because I was planning a surprise 50th birthday party for my father with my mother.

Let me just tell you, in case you're confused as to why planning a party with my mother would almost kill me. Planning a party with my mother is like trying to plan a party with Helen Keller.

Translation: she doesn't listen, and she can't get anything done on her own.

We started planning it in September, and as we got closer to the date, we were fighting on the phone at a more rapid pace. In the last phone call I had with her, when I landed in Buffalo as my cousin secretly picked me up at the airport, I said, "I can't wait to see you so I can fucking strangle you."

I wasn't joking.

Here's what happened throughout the two months this was going on:

FIGHT #1: I didn't want to use invitations that are cheesy. You know the kind—the ones that make ridiculous age jokes that aren't even remotely funny. So, I went to the different card-making sites where you could upload your own designs, but even those restricted you to some cheesy template and the font choices for your text are like Comic Sans and Times New Roman. So, I decided I would design the whole thing myself and get the printer that prints our magazine to do it for me for $100. My mother cannot BELIEVE that I'm going to spend $100 on invitations, when you can go to Party City and get a pack for $15. I told her to shut up, because it was my money, so why does she care what I do with it? I win.

FIGHT #2: We were holding it at the Yacht Club. But don't think we're really fancy here. My hometown is very small, so think of "yacht club" in small letters, rather than in all caps. So, the way they do things is very different than how I'm used to doing them in the city. They wanted my mother to come down to the club and sign the contract in person. Of course, she couldn't find time to do this, because she was tied up doing something that I'm not aware of, so after yelling "WHY THE FUCK CAN'T YOU JUST GO AND TAKE CARE OF IT," I conceded and asked the Yacht Club to fax it to me so I could sign it and send it back to them. I guess if her goal was to avoid having to do anything, she wins.

FIGHT #3: Ohhhhhh God, the motherfucking guest list. My mother has a huge family, and while some of them are very close-knit, some of them are as estranged as they are strange. When we're paying per head, I just don't think that Aunt Suzie (whom we haven't talked to in like 5 years) and her new boyfriend need to be invited. I also have 35 first cousins on my mom's side alone. A lot of them are my age or older. We decided, in order to keep the guest list under control, we wouldn't invite the cousins. My one exception, of course, was my cousin Jessica, who was 1.) picking me up from the airport 2.) hiding me at her house for a day and a half before the party since it was a surprise that I was even in town 3.) driving me around to run party errands and 4.) delivering me to the party. I think ALLLLLLL of that work justifies an invite. My mom didn't agree. I brought her anyway, because that is just ridiculous. Tie. Jessica got invited, but so did Aunt Suzie and her boyfriend.

FIGHT #4: Perhaps the most important part of a surprise party is coming up with the ruse to get the person there. Since I think about things logically, when you're spinning a lie you want to control as many of the variables as you can. My mother's idea was to print up a fake invitation to a "party" the Yacht Club was holding on Saturday. Of course, the Yacht Club ends up having a real party on Friday, and they send out an invite for that as well as TWO EMAILS reminding everyone about it being on Friday. My father, who is on their email list, is convinced that my mother has the date wrong. This whole thing is about to go up in smoke, and I have to tell my mother that it's all her fault. She hangs up on me. To fix it, I call the Yacht Club and tell them that they have to 1.) Delete him from the email list, so he won't get any more messages saying that the party is on Friday and 2.) Send a fake email being all like, "Oh shit, we made a mistake! It's on Saturday, not Friday!" She wins.

FIGHT #5: How the fuck are we gonna decorate this place? My mother wants to put up a cheesy, cliche photoboard. I say, that it's, well, cheesy and cliche to have a photo board. I try to go the classy route. I tell her, go to the dollar store, and buy a bunch of plain black frames. You can put pictures of him in there and then we can put them all over the tables as decorations. I show up at Jessica's house the day before and my mom has dropped off no framed photos, but instead the worst photo album of pictures you've ever seen in your life. So now, hours before the party, my cousin and I are in a mad dash to JoAnn Fabrics, trying to buy a new photo album to put it together so that doesn't look like Ray Charles made it. "Where are the framed photos?" I ask/scream. "Your uncle is going to drop them off before the party," she says. What photos are they? PHOTOS SHE TOOK OFF OF HIS DESK, LIKE HE WOULDN'T NOTICE THEY WERE MISSING.

OH MY GODDDDDDDD I DON'T EVEN CARE WHO WON ANYMORE.

So, it's over, and despite her best efforts, it was a surprise. Or my father is lying. Regardless, it was a success.

My mom? She celebrated by puking in the driveway on the way home.

Look, it's hard not to be smug.

2010-11-22T07:51:00.003-05:00

I got promoted again.

Shit Just Got Real

2010-11-16T10:40:00.000-05:00

I went to a Thanksgiving potluck this past weekend with some old co-workers. I've known these guys since I moved to the city about 2 and a half years ago, and one of the good things about my company is that it's filled with young, snarky dbags that I tend to get along with swimmingly.

Awkwardly enough, two of the three people I was with had been fired. By my boss. Ouch.

And this, everyone, is why a friendly game of Apples to Apples can get a little intense:

Fucking Greek Yogurt

2010-11-14T21:05:00.000-05:00

So ever since I started Freshman year in college, I worked out pretty regularly. It was easy in college because I literally was in class maybe a total of three hours a day. That, of course, left plenty of time to get wasted beyond recognition and make other bad life decisions, but it also left plenty of time to hit the gym. I would go in the afternoons during TNT's Law & Order mini-marathons and rack up 2 or 3 hours of cardio just because I wanted to see the killer brought to justice (it's a sickness).

One of the first things I did when I moved to Brooklyn after graduation was get a membership to New York Sports Clubs, but with long hours at work and a total daily commute of an hour and a half, it became harder to establish any kind of a steady routine. I would still work out 3-4 times a week, but it was in short increments and really half-assed. I was essentially just making an effort to work off all of the gallons of beer I was drinking.

So over the past couple of months, I've stepped it up and been more conscious of a.) what I'm eating and drinking (aka: maybe I shouldn't drink 12 beers in one night 3x a week and b.) getting more out of my work outs. And honestly, with minimal effort on my part, I've lost about 15 lbs. so far.

That's where the Greek yogurt comes in. I feel like I've always eaten pretty well, mainly because I love food, and all kinds of food. My college roommates would marvel at my gourmet dinners of salmon and roasted asparagus, but it was just eating normally for me. My problem has always been a.) portion control and b.) my drinking. So I've started reading more on what you really should be eating and trying to think of food as fuel.

Every morning for like two fucking years, I've eaten one of those Yoplait light yogurts that brainwash you with their commercials. They're 100 calories and no fat! Yo, guess what? They also have 25g of sugar, which is the equivalent of like 3 doughnuts. GREAT.

So I decided to take the leap and switch to Greek yogurt, which has 15g of protein, 0g of fat, and only 7g of sugar. Only problem? It tastes like straight up ASS.

Greek yogurt: the biggest hurtle in weight loss.

Okay, I know I've said this 45 times...

2010-11-14T13:31:00.001-05:00

But I'm going to try to post on semi-regular basis again. Are you all out there?

Photo via Hyperbole & A Half.

I'm back.

2010-10-18T15:04:00.003-04:00

Should I even apologize for not posting in nearly a month?

I’m pretty sure that Abi and Brittany and a couple of assorted people who hate me from college are the only people who actually read this thing anymore, so apologizing for not updating is kind of like apologizing to the cold, empty side of your bed for hogging all of the room. NEWS FLASH: THERE IS NO ONE THERE TO APOLOGIZE TO, LOSER.

Things have been a little crazy because:

1. I started dating. Not anyone in particular, but “dating” in more of the abstract way. It’s been fun, mainly because Abi and I can now do one of our favorite things, and that is give code names to people. The girl I exchanged legitimately 80 emails with (all of which were epically long and drawn out) was dubbed “Tolstoy.” Anyone who knows about my previous (read: basically non-existent) forays into the dating world knows of my excellent ability to attract the craziest possible girls in the history of the world. We’re talking “Hey, after dinner, why don’t we swing by the police station and get a restraining order because I’m afraid you’re going to come to my freshman dorm room and kill me with an ice pick” kind of crazy.

Do you have a criminal record, probable substance abuse problems, and are you supposed to be taking your anti-psychotic meds (BUT YOU DON’T NEED THEM SO YOU’RE NOT TAKING THEM RIGHT NOW DOCTORS DON'T KNOW ANYTHINGGGGGGGGG)? Hop aboard the Amanda train, next stop: Crazytown.

Each one of these craz-os has been justified by me with the same stupid excuse, “She has a nice smile.”

As if having a nice smile somehow negates the fact that she called and left 32 crazy voicemails in one night after the SECOND DATE. Yeah, she has a nice smile. So did Karla Homolka (too soon?)

Moral of the story: it’s especially fun as a 24-year-old to pretend that I know WTF I’m doing, especially since I shun everything that has to do with the gay culture (truth: Carl Paladino has probably been into more gay bars than I have). My favorite question from all of my straight friends and, embarrassingly enough, MY OWN FATHER: “So, when you go on a date, who pays?” The fuck if I know.

Situation 1: I paid, mainly because SHE WAS WEARING A DRESS AND I AM INTIMIDATED BY THE IDEA OF GENDER ROLES.

Situation 2: She paid, because she played basketball in college (hi, gender roles, there you are again!) and she was wearing plaid bermuda shorts (no, I did not go out on a date with myself, dbags).

Anyway, it’s all been particularly hi-larious to see myself in these kinds of situations because I’ve discovered I think it's a good idea to leave my pearl earrings in while hooking up (SEXY!!!) and that I am also the wonderful combination of arrogant and gun-shy (read: full of shit). Is this endearing or annoying? I think we all know the answer. Regardless, it’s been fun (and embarrassing) trying to trick someone into wanting to spend time with me on a consistent basis.

2. My family came to visit: OMG how have I been able to live over two years in New York City without being murdered? How do I even make it through the day without the annoying, dominating, grating advice of my parents ringing in my ears constantly? Amanda, make sure you lock this window. Amanda, you should really use the laundry detergent with the color-blocking technology; your sweaters will last twice as long! WHO CARES, WHO CARES, WHO CARES?! I know they just love me and I forced myself to remember that about 700 times over the course of one VERY long weekend. My mother told my freezer looks like a “poor person’s freezer” because all I had in there was a box of baking soda, ice cubes, and a bottle of vodka. Come on, Mom, poor people can’t afford Absolut.

3. I went to Florida: The theme of the trip that took me, Scott, Gabe, and Tim to Pompano Beach was “Went on vacation, came back on probation,” and although we did our fair share of drinking our faces off, I was very proud that I didn’t puke (can’t say the same for Gabe or Tim) or, you know, die. The real question is, how did I manage to spend $700 in the course of four days? Who am I, Diddy? I suck. I need a sugar mama. Is Jackie Warner available? She just needs to cut her hair then she’ll be attractive to me again.

Sorry I haven't posted in forever

2010-09-27T17:11:00.002-04:00

I'm from a town where mullets aren't ironic

2010-09-19T18:55:00.005-04:00

..Maybe I should just pack my shit and go.

"Pretty in Buffalo" by Riki Lindhome.

I'm an Idiot

2010-08-12T17:17:00.003-04:00

My job is a mishmash of things where I babysit clients, talk fast on the phone like Jerry Maguire, design things, write articles, interview people, edit copy, manage schedules, etc etc. You may be thinking, "Wow, Amanda, you're so good at so many things, HOW DO YOU DO IT?"

To that, I'll say, "THANKS BUT I WAS BORN THIS WAY, YOU CAN'T TOUCH THIS."

But believe it or not, some things about my job AREN'T glamorous. Coming from a small town, it's largely thought that anything you do in New York City is glamorous because it's such a glittery location. I could be all like, "Yeah, so I had to spend the whole weekend throwing out all of my furniture because I have a bedbug infestation" and they'd be all like, "BEDBUGS IN NEW YORK CITY?! I wish I lived there!" Bedbugs in my home town are regular bedbugs, bedbugs in New York City wear fancy hats and drink martinis.

But to cut through the malaise and keep myself semi-amused, when I'm writing articles, I put in jokes just to see if anyone is paying attention. It's like that time in high school that I turned in my AP American History homework with these types of responses:

Q: What did the Shakers believe in?
A: Shaking it all night long!

Q: What is phrenology?
A: I wish they all could be California girls.

I've never been happier than when I got this worksheet back that contained all of these bullshit answers with a big A+ on it. My teacher wasn't even reading this shit.

So, this juvenile obnoxiousness has creeped its way into my professional life.

I'm writing the official guide to a food festival in New York, and one of the events is a caviar tasting. My description? "The only way this event could be any classier is if it took place on a yacht." For a Beatles Tribute tasting? "Everyone will come together (GET IT? GET IT? AHAHAHHAHAHA) for this amazing tasting this weekend."

We're on our second draft and neither of these gems have been discovered by anyone, except for the Beatles one, where our pale, anti-social copyeditor just deleted the line altogether without even acknowledging how hilarious I am.

HEAT WAVE

2010-08-11T20:18:00.002-04:00

Yo, the summertime is great, but when you live in New York City and you have to walk about 32984984 miles to your office from the subway, you begin each day looking like some old Italian lady dumped a bucket of water on you from her window because you were making too much noise like they did (maybe?) in the oldentimes.

SHIT IS MOTHERFUCKING HOT UP IN HERE.

Drawing via Hyperbole and a Half

Begin Again

2010-08-03T14:34:00.003-04:00

I got a promotion.

Lifestyles of the Bitch and the Famous

2010-07-18T15:32:00.003-04:00

What I did last weekend:

1. Went on a boat cruise
2. Went to the plastic surgeon
3. Went to a Broadway show
4. Went to brunch

When did I turn into a 50-year-old socialite?

Before I go to work, I like to pump myself up by crying over my master's degree

2010-07-11T18:33:00.001-04:00

Lifeupdate

2010-06-28T10:29:00.007-04:00

Although my recent posts would have you believe that I have been watching so many episodes of Law & Order: SVU that my body has fused with my couch, IT'S JUST NOT TRUE.

It's standard practice in the New York media industry to pay you nothing and then invite you to free events and open bars as a way to supplement your shitty salary. The idea being, "Hey, you can't buy groceries, but how about you come to this free all-you-can-eat slider event?"

Going to cool events is all well and good, but as I've screamed at my boss several times, "I CAN'T PAY MY RENT IN FREE TICKETS!" Or, maybe I could. Maybe I should try. Really, I think they're hoping that if they invite you to enough open bar events, you'll be too drunk to remember that they pay you in thumbtacks and candy bar wrappers.

Regardless, summer is upon us, and here's all of the ridiculous shit I've been doing FO FREE:

Big Apple BBQ: Each year, the Big Apple BBQ rolls into town and dolls out countless ribs and pulled pork sandwiches. This is my second time at the event, and my VIP passes allowed me to cut the lines so I could eat as many ribs as I wanted. Beer, unfortunately, was relegated to a "beer garden" area, and the only brews on tap were Heifeweiuzten Weinerschnitzel Douchebag Stout, which I could NOT get behind.

PUMA City World Cup Party: PUMA roared into South Street Seaport for the months of June and July to broadcast the World Cup games in hopes of being "Soccer Central." The kick-0ff party they had there was top-notch. They also had a studiobooth where you could pose with ridiculous things, like a giant shoe for example.

Carole King/James Taylor Concert at MSG: You know you're a douchebag when a friend offers you free tickets to a concert and you ask, "Is it in a box?" I know, I'm sorry, I couldn't even control myself. My job has spoiled me, and since I'm not some retarded hippie like Abi, I don't want to be standing in the pit, pushed up against some sweaty jerk for 2 hours. I much prefer box seats, where there is a private bathroom, free food and booze, and a bird's eye view of everyone who is lower than me. Tomorrow I may be an assistant, but tonight, I am a QUEEN.

NYC Film Food Festival: Taking place in DUMBO, one of my favorite places in New York, the NYCFFF is relatively new. I went to a food truck drive-in and a Burger Bash where we munched on Pat Lafrieda sliders, listened to Michael Jackson, and had an honest to God run-in with Mayor Bloomberg. What is going on with my life?

HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?!

2010-06-27T16:50:00.003-04:00

I've spoken about my addiction to Law & Order: SVU, and now I've discovered that Netflix has taken them off of Instant View. This is the most devastating thing to happen in my life since I lost the will to live and have chosen to spend my time watching 17 episodes of Law & Order in a row.

If you're thinking, "Hey Amanda, every time I turn on the fucking TV there's a Law & Order episode on, and it's usually in the form of a mini-marathon—why don't you just watch that?"

Well, the answer is that I'm CRAZY and I need to watch them all in sequential order. Now, I have to wait for Netflix to MAIL me DVDs rather than hitting the "next episode" button. LIFE FAIL I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS.

YOU DON'T PICK THE VIC: LAW & ORDER SVU

2010-06-05T15:12:00.004-04:00

I’m not going to lie.

Over the past few weeks, I've watched like 150 episodes of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. Netflix Instant View is perfect for shut-ins and the unemployable, but it’s also great for people who have no interest in getting off of their couch, or even getting out of bed for that matter. They have all 10 seasons of the show on there, and when one episode is done, it asks you if you want to watch the next one. UH, YES PLEASE. You start watching and it’s noon. You get to the end of the season, it’s midnight, and you’ve lost an entire day of your life.

So, in honor of my lost day(s), I thought I’d share the life lessons I’ve learned from our good friends at SVU.

You don’t pick the vic: This line is said pretty often, usually whenever Stabler or Benson have to find the killer of a pedophile or some other scumbag. They furrow their brows, storm into Captain Cragen’s office, and they are promptly told, "YOU DON'T PICK THE VIC!" Ohhhhhh snap, you gotta deal, bitches. A murder victim is a murder victim, am I right? Am I right?

Never smile, unless you're dealing with children: Mariska Hargitay once said in an interview that she loves playing Olivia Benson, but it's hard because Olivia never smiles. She is RIGHT. If I created an Olivia Benson Smile-o-Meter, I would probably count on one hand how many times she smiles in one season, and every single one of them would be narrowed down to two situations: 1.) Stabler made a wry joke about rape (hilarious!) 2.) She's dealing with children, as in, "Hey, Sarah! [BIG SMILE] So can you tell me about the time you were held in that abandoned mine shaft for 10 days?"

If a celebrity guest stars, they are definitely the killer: Martin Short, Henry Winkler, Robin Williams—all guest stars, ALL killers. I mean, come on. Each guest star episode follows the same formula: celebrity is introduced, usually as a grieving family member of a victim, they are ALWAYS cleared, and then in the last 20 minutes of the show, we realize that they ARE the killer. It allows them some scary, sinister screen time, showing off their dramatic acting chops. Robin Williams got to detonate a shoe bomb, for Christ's sakes.

Speaking of celebrities—everyone got their start on Law & Order: Go to a Broadway show and read the cast bios. What does everyone have in common? They all appeared on Law & Order, because that's where all New York-based actors get their start. I cannot tell you how creepy it was watching Will Arnet play an honest-to-God pedophile who booked sex tour trips to the Phillipines. I just saw an episode where Rainn Wilson played a janitor, one where Hayden Pennetierre played an abused child, and another one where Pete from 30 Rock played a guy who raped in a girl in the supply closet of a fast food restaurant.

We’ve done a lot more with a lot less: Alex Cabot always comes down to the station and acts like she can't do anything about a case. She's all like, "Blah, blah, blah, constitution, my hands are tied, blah, blah, blah." And someone always shouts, "COME ON, WE'VE DONE A LOT MORE WITH A LOT LESS." Then, she agrees and goes and gets a warrant.

And in no time, time passed.

2010-06-02T16:58:00.000-04:00

Via Wendy MacNaughton

Vacation

2010-05-27T16:20:00.008-04:00

Dear readers [population 0*],

I have been neglecting this blog. It’s mainly because I write all of the time for work, so on my “Things I want to do in the three-hour span of free time I have between when I get home at 8PM and go to bed at 11PM List,” musing hilariously about some bullshit or complaining bitterly about some other bullshit in the form of coherent sentences ain’t high priority. What is high priority, you ask? Dinner, Law & Order: SVU, and perhaps a beer or two.

Also, I have been BUSY (you should read that in your head as BIZ-ZAY, because that’s how I mean it. Attitude!). Busy with what?

Well, I was paroled from jail for a week to go to California for the first time and it was pretty awesome. We spent five days in Carmel/Monterey and then two days in San Francisco. Observations:

1. Whale watching is cool for about 15 fucking minutes and then it’s a waste of time. Oh, see that splash? That’s a whale. Oh, see that fin? That’s a whale. I didn’t see no motherfuckers jumping out of the water Free Willy-style (not to be confused with Big Wxillie style), and as far as I’m concerned, I want a refund. Do you think I rented this pair of binoculars so that I see NOTHING?

2. Carmel is owned by Clint Eastwood. Clint Eastwood is a resident and the former Mayor of Carmel and everywhere you go, there’s photos of him. Everything you go to is owned by him, including the golf course whose members pay $500,000 in fees A YEAR to play. The only thing I didn’t see there is a Clint Eastwood Mattress Store. If you live in Carmel, you should get on this. If only to use the tagline, “Go ahead, make my day-bed” as the advertising slogan.

3. Northern California is goddamned beautiful. I mean, really. Look at these rocks. Look at the water! We drove down the coast and I was like a stupid dog with my head out the window.

4. William Randolph Hearst was a dbag. Whenever we go on vacation, my father requires that we completely waste one entire day travelling to some stupid museum/house/shack/annex for some learning! When I was 10 years old, my father was forcing us to go to Thomas Edison’s house and I ate a whole bag of licorice and puked in the van and he STILL made me go on the stupid tour. Do you care that Edison had orange trees or a cot in his office so that he can take naps? NO, especially not when your shirt is covered in dried pink puke.

Then there was the time we went to Jamaica and my father had the brilliant idea that we should drive clear across the island on dirt fucking roads for 6 hours just to check out the river that Errol Flynn romanced ladies on back in 1200 BC or some bullshit. This time, we drove 3 hours to San Simeon to visit Hearst Castle, the estate of William Randolph Hearst. The drive down, admittedly, was beautiful—FOR THE FIRST FUCKING TWO HOURS. Then we get to San Simeon and there’s nowhere to go besides the Castle. We ate lunch at a gas station.

5. Sea Lions are NASTY. Listen, I love sea otters. If you tell me that sea otters aren’t the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, I will probably fight you.

But sea LIONS are DISGUSTING. I’m not an expert in biology or anything, but I’m pretty sure that at some point, a walrus and Lou Perlman had a baby, and that’s how we got sea lions. They lie around all day on a beach like fat slobs and they smell like four burning tires. GROSS.

6. Horseback riding on the beach = awesome. My father, brother, and I went horseback riding on Pebble Beach and it was spectacular. It didn’t even matter that the horse in front of me took a dump about 15 times or that it peed for so long that the road in front of me turned into a goddamned river.

All in all, it was great to finally have a real vacation, since the only places I’ve gone in the past two years are to Buffalo and Boston and I can assure you, those places do NOT count. If you get on a bus to get there, you're not going on vacation.

Case closed.

With warm regards,

Amanda

*No, I take that back. I know for a FACT that Abi, Brittany, Jill, and TwinXL are still keeping up with the blog, even though I haven’t been.

LET'S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS

2010-05-13T09:53:00.000-04:00

This video was taken Senior year, and exactly two years later, after I took this on Saturday night, it's nice to know that nothing has changed.

The BBQ Baron's Premature Picnic

2010-05-11T21:22:00.006-04:00

Ever since Memorial Day last year, I've had barbeques in Prospect Park. Memorial Day last year was ridiculous. There were no public grills available, so I had to go to Rite Aid and buy a tiny grill for $10. It did the trick, but every time I fired it up, the Parks Police would roll up and tell us to put it out because it was too low to the ground and we were endangering the wildlife.

What wildlife? The teenage hoodlums on skateboards, or the toddlers with indifferent parents who are running amok? WHO CARES?

Since I moved directly across the street from the park this September, I decided to get serious and order a legitimate grill.

With the warm (read: scorching) heat upon us, I scheduled the first BBQ of the season, dubbing myself the BBQ Baron. Of course, this Saturday brought winds that were so strong it looked like this douchebag.

I bought the charcoal with the lighter fluid already on it, but it was so windy the grill wouldn't light. We had to buy lighter fluid, and even adding that took about an hour. Finally, it worked and I made the food, but we literally couldn't open the lid to the styrofoam cooler without it blowing away.

Whatever, nature. Ima be back when it's warmer.

Tribeca Film Festival: A Recap

2010-05-10T15:58:00.000-04:00

Once again, I was able to attend the Tribeca Film Festival as a VIP, and I was able to see five films:

Monica & David: A documentary about a couple with Down's Syndrome who get married (think The Other Sister, but in real-life). It was a very touching documentary and it shows how devoted Monica and David's respective parents are to them. Monica, David, and their parents sat in the row in front of me, and I couldn't help but watch them while they were watching the premiere of the film—they were kissing, laughing, whispering, and reacting to everything on the screen. Adorable.

Sons of Perdition: Another documentary, this one about polygamy and the effects that it has on children. I'm obsessed with Big Love, and also obsessed with the idea of creepy religious cults (ie: Jim Jones and the People's Temple, Warren Jeffs and his three-ring circus of polygamy). The film follows three teenage boys after they leave their polygamous families. I thought it was interesting that all three of them had chosen to leave, since many boys in that culture are cast out of the compounds so that they don't serve as competition for the older men when it comes to romancing the ladies (aka: 13-year-old girls). It's crazy to see all of the abuse that happens to these children in the name of God, and even crazier to see the effects it has on them once they're in the real world.

The Space Between: By far my favorite film, The Space Between follows a flight attendant on 9/11. She's not on the plane, of course, but she has to look after a young Muslim boy who was flying by himself to go to school in California. I enjoy rough and tumble female characters—ones that are all brassy and abrasive because surprise! They usually have a heart of gold! Come on, we all know that the people who are overly nice are always the ones you need to watch out for, am I right? The film was just insanely well done, and Melissa Leo was phenomenal. If you get the chance, see this movie.

Monogamy: I really liked this one, too, mainly because it was shot in Brooklyn and the premise also hit very close to home. About a year ago, I found out about this photographer in Brooklyn who you could hire to follow you around and secretly take pictures of you. It's like a combination between a paparazzo and a private investigator—you email the photographer, tell him where you'll be and what you'll be wearing, and he shows up. You don't know what he looks like, and you won't see him, but he'll see you. He'll follow you around and take photos of you secretly. You never speak. Then, he emails you the photos. The idea is that he catches you at your most natural. I thought it was so interesting and crazy that I contacted the service and did a story on it for a magazine. It was crazy and weird and it made me totally uncomfortable. So how crazy was it to see Monogamy, where this exact service that was so unique and weird depicted on the big screen? Monogamy follows the story of a Brooklyn photographer who created this service, "Gumshoot," on the side. He becomes obsessed with a client he's shooting, thinking that he's photographing her cheating on her husband. He's engaged to Nat (played by a radiant Rashida Jones), and this obsession calls into question their relationship and marriage and monogamy in general.

Welcome to the Nuthouse

2010-05-02T20:15:00.003-04:00

When I first moved to my apartment, I wrote pretty extensively about my crazy neighbor, Milagra. I mostly wrote about her trash picking and her extensive doormat collection (ie: assorted shirts and dresses that she lays in front of her door). And who could forget the times she broke into my apartment while I was in the process of moving in, just to check out all the stuff I have?

Basically, she's legitimately a crazy person.

And hey, I know about crazy. I lived with a crazy person in college. My grandmother was a hoarder. Visits to her house revolved around me trying to organize the stacks of magazines and newspapers that were scattered all over her living room floor. So while it's annoying, I understand the trash picking and the hoarding—she thinks she's saving things from people who are wasteful like me.

But what I can't understand is the goddamned comforter that has been hanging out on our shared fire escape for the last six months. Through the WINTER. Through the SNOW. It's gotta smell really great right about now. But the smell is not even the problem.

The problem is that a squirrel couple has started shacking up there. This squirrel couple is not just any squirrel couple.

Why, you ask?

Because it is obvious that they are in love. The male squirrel was all like, "Fuck this tree bullshit, I know a place where I'ma take my lady and get her pregnant."

Check him out. He is a bold motherfucker.

It was about 3 months ago that I noticed all of the stuffing in the comforter was coming out, in favor of a big hole in the top, which functioned as the Squirrel couple's front door. Every now and then, I'll walk into my kitchen and hear squeaking and I'll be like, "OMG THE FUCKING MOUSE IS BACK," but then I open the blinds, and catch the squirrels having a fight.

The female squirrel is all burrowed in the comforter, her head sticking out of the hole, while the male squirrel is out climbing around, probably gathering nuts or some bullshit. This is the equivalent of her laying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, while the male is out in the cold, working.

I mean, really, just imagine opening your blinds, and seeing a squirrel head sticking out of a dirty comforter. While I can't help but think these squirrels are really cute, I often have the urge to kick the comforter off of the fire escape. But I don't, for fear of squirrel retaliation.

I guess this proves that I am also crazy. New name for my apartment building: the Nuthouse.

Welcome, everyone.

WHERE THE EFF IS MY HAT?

2010-04-29T11:40:00.002-04:00

True confessions: in college, I used to dyke it up all the time. What did I wear to the bar? A Ralph Lauren Polo, jeans, Adidas shower shoes sandals, and my beloved PUMA baseball hat (if I was feeling extra fancy, I'd wear sneakers rather than the shower shoes). That hat and I have gone through a lot. Three years of college and two years of living in NYC. And while I moved here and started leaving the hat at home more often, it was still my favorite.

Now, I legit can't find it and it's like I've lost an arm. My apartment is only so big, where could it be? I can't even remember the last time I wore it, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would NOT have left a bar, no matter how wasted, without that hat.

This shit is SERIOUS. I don't know what I'm going to do if I don't find it soon.

It's officially summer!

2010-04-21T14:11:00.002-04:00

It wouldn't officially be summer until some idiot says, "Hey, what's that on your arm?"

I have psoriasis. I’ve had it since I was little, and when I was an insecure middle schooler, I tried, literally, everything to get rid of it. The problem? You can’t get rid of it. You can control it, but it’ll never actually go away. What triggers it? STRESS. Obviously, since I’m someone who is stressed out 95% of the time, I am the perfect person for this disorder.

So what do I do to control it? I moisturize a lot, occasionally sit in a bathtub full of salt water, and go tanning because UV rays are supposed to help. But for the most part, my attitude towards it is basically indifference, because at some point, you accept that you are going to be plagued with this forever and you just deal with it. What am I going to do? Wear a burka? Only wear long sleeves even though spending the summer in New York is like hanging out on the surface of the motherfucking sun?

In terms of diseases and disorders, I’m kind of okay if I get through life with only this one. At its worst, it’s just awkward. If you Google it, you’ll see extreme examples of it, which I don’t really have. It’s on my arms and legs, and most of the time, I don’t think it’s really noticeable. That is, until some douchebag brings it up.

It is always, always, ALWAYS the same question:

“What happened to your arm? Is it a rash?”

Okay, first of all, if I had a rash, even a temporary one, would I want to tell you about it? Who the fuck is like, “Yeah, man, let me tell you about this crazy rash I have!”

News flash: a rash is awkward. A chronic skin disorder is worse, and now you’re forcing me to tell you about it.

It’s fine that you noticed it. You have eyes—congrats! But honestly, why do you have to blow up my spot? It’s rude, plain and simple.

Am I all like, “Yo, what’s that crazy huge thing on your face?” and force you to say, “Oh, it’s my giant, unattractive nose.” Do I say, “Hey, what’s that crazy chair with wheels you’re sitting in?” and force you to say, “Uh, I’m in a wheelchair because I’m paralyzed from the waist down.” Do I come at you with, “What’s that ugly drapey fabric you’ve got all over your body?” and force you to say, “This a dress I just bought.”

It’s the same motherfucking thing. There’s a girl in my office who has a bum leg and she hobbles around all day. Do I say anything to her about it, even when she breaks off to take the freight elevator up to the mezzanine level of our office? No, I shut the fuck up because she’s obviously handicapped and probably doesn’t want another asshole asking her what’s up with her leg. Trust me, there’s no hilarious story that goes along with this.

And of course, after they ask and I say, “Uh, its psoriasis,” they have to continue with the awkward line of questioning. Do I put lotion on it? How long have I had it? Does it itch?

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.

Just walk the fuck away and fucking Google that shit if you want to know so bad.

Seriously, I think I’m just going to stab the next person who asks me about it. And when I’m on trial for murder, this blog entry will be used as evidence as to my mental state of mind and then I’ll be cleared because I’m obviously insane and it will be a victory for every person who has some sort of physical affliction that idiots love to point out to everyone.

Retweet This

2010-04-15T22:57:00.000-04:00

When I was 19, I got an internship at Righteous Babe Records. This was back in 2005, way before Twitter and FourSquare, and just when MySpace and Facebook were becoming recognized as viable ways to market things—music, in particular.

Because I was young, they decided I was hip to technology, and thus put me in charge of setting up and maintaining the record label's official MySpace page, then Ani DiFranco's official MySpace page. As the years went on, I started Facebook accounts for each as well. Every Sunday for the better part of three years, I would send Excel spreadsheets to my bosses, detailing friend requests, messages received, etc.

So I get it.

I get that these forums are important to utilize correctly in order to promote your product. And I get that they're important to have if you're insufferable and find it necessary for everyone to know where you are and what you're doing every second of every day (AKA: "Build a brand for yourself"—here's a tip, you can also build a brand for yourself the old-fashioned way, by like, uh, GETTING A JOB).

But for fuck's sake, if I hear one more douchebag talk about how they're "into social media," I'm going to scream. For the most part, it's just a new buzzword that makes unemployed idiots feel like they're a part of something. Saying you're into social media would be like me saying I'm really into print products with saddle-stitching. Who. gives. a. fuck?

Just because it's online doesn't mean it's "cool." These people act like it's 1982 and we've never used technology before.

Just because you check into Foursquare doesn't mean you're on the cutting edge of technology, and most of the time, when people say they're a "blogger," it's their way of telling you that they're "unemployed" (there are legitimate exceptions to this of course, some people make good salaries writing for blogs—those staffed at Gawker or The Huffington Post are examples).

All of this being said, it's hard to draw the line in the sand where the social media douchebaggery begins. Afterall, I have a Facebook, a Yelp, and a blog. Everyone has something. Some people I know have a Facebook, a Yelp, a Twitter, a Foursquare and a Tumblr. That might seem excessive, but people who choose to add more depth to their internet footprint with 700 accounts don't bother me as much as people who will not stop talking about it.

"I'm the Mayor of our office!"

No you're not. We ALL have to come here every goddamned day, you're the only one who feels the need to check in on Foursquare like you're an ex-convict on parole.

But, the upside to these oversharing outlets is that you have unprecedented access to people you hate. Twitter gives you up-to-the-minute ammunition, after all.

For example, co-worker of mine is starting a new job, and we've already thoroughly researched her new co-worker, laughing at ridiculous Twitpics that she posted of herself, dumb quotes, and more. We've already decided this girl is lame, and we've never even met her. So much for mystique.

More than that, I know way more about several of my enemies' lives because they choose to expose themselves online in such a way that would make them incredibly easy to track down if I ever wanted to get revenge. NOT THAT I WOULD EVER ACT ON IT, but you get my point.

Mainly, it's just fun to be able to laugh at how stupid people are for exposing every thought, weakness, and imperfection (or as Abi likes to call it, "Just catching up with Retard News 2010"). As far as I'm concerned, all of these things are better left bottled up until they come bursting out one morning and you find yourself on top of a strip mall with a shotgun.

If I'm feeling particularly upset, I'm not going to post some drawn-out, Livejournal-esque post that details my feelings so people who hate me can laugh at me like I laugh at them. No way. I'm in control of my internet life, and while it might not always be totally forthcoming, it sure looks rosy.

I'm the Mayor of my life.

Retweet that.

Impromtu Concerts for the Homeless: A Glee Recap

2010-04-13T21:51:00.003-04:00

If we were a smarter generation, our Facebook statuses would be blowing up whenever President Obama gave a State of the Union Address. Instead, everyone is "WATCHING GLEE TONIGHT LOL!"

But I can't make fun, because this show has stolen my heart, hijacked my iTunes, and even served as my Halloween costume (where I made Sue Sylvester proud by scamming bottle service from a club, forcing my way into a Halloween parade, and ending the night by knocking over numerous police barricades while my friend desperately tried to hail a cab to get us home).

So, tonight, it's back, and here are my thoughts:

1. Sue Sylvester, jokes about Mr. Schuster's hair cut will NEVER get old.

2. Sue Sylvester in bed with the principal. SCARY!

3. Finn's rendition of "Hello, I Love You" was weak at best, and the High School Musical-esque basketball montage was ridiculous. I can't decide if the guy is skinny and attractive, or squinty-eyed and sort of fat. Look at him again the next time he's wearing a sleeveless jersey. I know I probably weigh more than the guy, but I would do some bicep curls if I were on national TV. Just saying.

4. The singing and dancing that accompanied Lea Michele's "Give You Hell" rendition a tad precious, but it was an unexpected addition to the "Hello" song theme.

5. Speaking of unexpected, Rachel is doing the opposite by singing "Hello" by Lionel Richie with some douchebag who is obviously gayer than a black light/body paint party but has enough swagger to fool a few dumb girls until Sophomore year of college. Yawn. What's next? "Hello, Dolly!" Is that a song or a musical? Who cares.

6. This was before the song, but "I like to give impromtu concerts for homeless people" was fantastic.

7. Did anyone see that FOX5 News teaser that revealed Lea Michele's high school yearbook photo? You know, the photo that LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE SHE DOES NOW. She's fucking 23 for God's sake.

8. Those two dumb Cheerios on Rachel: "She looked like Pippi Longstocking, but Israeli."

9. IDINA MENZEL! "Take five, everybody drink a Red Bull!" Really, though, she looks like so much like Lea Michele that it's ridiculous to m that they didn't bring her on as Rachel's biological mother.

10. McKinley High Old Maids Club: "Take a seat, boy hips!" YESSSSSSSSSSS.

11. OHHHHHHH Terry does mean so well. My all-time favorite line from Nip/Tuck was when Christian says to Gina, "YOU LUBRICATE ACID."

12. "I CARRY A RAPE WHISTLE." Just like my parents made me carry at my very safe college for all of Freshman year, which sparked the rumor that I was a lifeguard.

13. Dear Rachel, when your new boyfriend giggles and says, "You're more of a drama queen than me!," he is NOT, I repeat, NOT straight.

14. "I even circled some dates on your crazy calendar"—Oh, Finn.

15. Is it me, or did the rendition of "Hello Goodbye" seem like a less lively version of that Target commercial?

16. SUE SYLVESTER'S "VOGUE:" I don't know what the fuck this is supposed to be, but I'm glad that they allowed Jane Lynch to sex it up a little bit. She looks great for her age, but I wish they would have used a softer lens on the close-up shots, though. Am I right? Why does every other asshole get airbrushing and not Janey?

Suck it, bitchez: My Neighborhood Rulez

2010-04-12T09:35:00.002-04:00

New York Magazine named Park Slope (my little corner of Brooklyn) the best neighborhood to live in in New York City.

Sure, it could be the lush park land, the scores of bars and restaurants, the safety, or the general beauty of the neighborhood on whole—or it could be that yours truly has taken up residence there for nearly 2 years.

Draw your own conclusions.

YOU DO NOT CROSS A SUGARBAKER WOMAN

2010-04-11T19:37:00.003-04:00

Okay, honestly. Dixie Carter is dead at 70, and even though saying this will yet again give myself away as a weirdo, I AM UPSET.

Yes, from the age of 9 years old I was the child who would have rather watched old reruns of Designing Women, Murphy Brown, and The Golden Girls on Lifetime than a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g on MTV.

I liked the liberal use of the word "slut" on The Golden Girls, but what I liked about Designing Women and Murphy Brown was that they both showed smart, clever women having careers, personal lives, families, and still managing to be hi-larious while doing it.

At one point, these shows were aired in such heavy rotation that I'm pretty sure if you put on any episode of Designing Women or The Golden Girls at any point in time, I would be able to say each line, verbatim, from memory. It's a skill. Or a sickness.

You decide.

Beers > Baseball

2010-04-08T10:04:00.004-04:00

My job has spoiled me, not with my salary, of course, but with free tickets to just about anything and everything I want to see or go to in Greater New York City. Last night, I went to my first-ever Mets game in the new CitiField.

Our seats? Row One. I'm sure it's safe to say that I didn't pay attention to anything during the game, but it was nice to see the stadium, drink some beers, and be outside.

Bucket List

2010-04-07T14:30:00.001-04:00

I started to write a bucket list, but it turned out to be more of a hit list than anything else.

I did my best acting work as a toddler

2010-04-02T11:10:00.000-04:00

I am officially obsessed with Very Mary-Kate.

Very Mary-Kate, Episode 8 from Mary-Kate Olsen on Vimeo.

Arbeit Macht Frei, bitchezzzzzz

2010-04-01T10:56:00.003-04:00

Last night, our team name at Trivia Night was "Work Will Set You Free, Jesse James."

Too soon?

Waving Flag

2010-04-01T08:38:00.000-04:00

Each week, we have a band come and perform in our lobby, and we shoot it as a webisode for our website. Usually, I'm not really into them (like the people that came and banged drumsticks on our staircase for 5 minutes—thanks for the headache, everyone!), but I was into this one:

K'naan—"Waving Flag":

The Cold

2010-03-30T12:10:00.003-04:00

I never get sick.

Honestly, never.

I keep thinking about that commercial for Wal Mart where the Dad is sick and we see the Mom running into the bathroom, flinging open the medicine cabinet, desperately looking for a remedy. The voiceover says, "You know you're going to need it..."

Well, I've RARELY needed it. In fact, the only medication I have in my apartment is a bottle of Tylenol. "Cold and flu season" means nothing to me, I just don't get sick.

I have friends who down Nyquil whenever they start getting a sniffle, but I usually soldier on. But now that I'm actually sick, I'm trying to remember the last time I even was congested, and I'm drawing a blank.

The tail end of last week meant that I'd be finishing up an especially hellish project at work. The end of day Friday would be the end of the project, which would mean that I could start doing normal things again, like working only 9 hours a day, going to the gym, having a social life, not downing vodka tonics alone in my apartment, etc.

I woke up on Friday morning feeling really sick. Congested, blowing my nose every five seconds, sore throat kind of sick that can only be associated with a head cold.

I think of friends, co-workers, and past roommates who seemed to always be perpetually sick, and had one thought:

HOW DO YOU PEOPLE LIVE YOUR LIVES?!

I seriously don't know how to function as a sick person. God forbid I ever come down with anything more than a minor head cold.

So, here's what happened:

1. I went to work on Friday because calling in sick isn't an option for workaholics.
2. Work all day. Our Production Director sprays me with Lysol.
3. Thought about actually keeping my plans of drinking like crazy with an old co-worker at 5pm.
4. Came to my senses and canceled my plans.
5. Took a cab home from work because I was too exhausted to deal with the subway.
6. Made dinner, which tasted like nothing, because my cold has robbed my sense of taste from me. This is perhaps the most tragic part of having a head cold.
7. I am pissed that this cold is taking away from me being able to get shithoused drunk to celebrate the end of my stupid project. I decide I'm going to have a few celebratory drinks alone—this is also a way to ensure that I will sleep soundly.
8. Wake up at 9AM. So much for sleeping soundly.
9. Fresh Direct arrives and I decide I'll make a quiche because I'm an idiot.
10. Eat the quiche. It tastes like nothing.
11. Give in to my mother's demands that I go to the store and buy some goddamned medicine.
12. The bodega by my apartment only has Nyquil.
13. I watch Labyrinth on Netflix Instant View and recall how fucking weird it was.
14. Take some Nyquil and sleep until 6PM.
15. Awake to texts from Tim asking me about going out tonight.
16. Because no pushy virus is going to ruin my plans (TWICE), I make plans to meet Tim and Abi at a bar in the East Village.
17. The F train is running all wonky, and I realize that it was a mistake to venture out.
18. Arrive at the bar at 9pm, where we drink until 12am. I keep a stash of bar napkins to blow my nose on. I am the most attractive girl in the bar.
19. I leave at midnight and get a cab home.
20. Take Nyquil even though you're not supposed to mix it with alcohol.
21. Sleep until 1pm.
22. Make chicken soup.
23. The day melts into Golden Girls marathons and chicken soup.
24. Wake up for work. Feel awful, still go into the office because I have time-sensitive things to do.
25. Take care of time-sensitive things to do, leave office at 2pm.
26. On the way to the subway, spend $40 at Duane Reade on Mucinex, some sort of nasal spray, and Tylenol Cold.
27. Get home, spray my nose, take some Mucinex, and eat some soup.
28. Go to bed at 9pm.
29. Wake up feeling much better.

Mucinex, you're my hero. I think I'll be 100% by tomorrow. If only I had gotten the medicine sooner. I'm an ahole.

This is what's happening

2010-03-24T11:30:00.003-04:00

Read the whole, terrible mess here and cry for me. Seriously.

Not to be dramatic

2010-03-23T21:06:00.002-04:00

Texts from this morning

2010-03-21T12:09:00.001-04:00

I just opened my computer and three windows were open: Scott's Facebook page, "Hey Daddy" by Usher on YouTube, and a Google image search of Sandra Bullock.

Happy hour(s)

2010-03-19T17:05:00.002-04:00

My Seasonal Affective Disorder is officially GONE—this weather is fucking amazing.

Let's usher in a long season of actually going out after work, wearing short sleeves, and drinking in courtyards.

Quarter Life Crisis/I'm Better Than Everyone

2010-03-18T15:07:00.003-04:00

I fully support the idea of a quarter life crisis, mainly because I'm sort of in the midst of one. Think about it: you're underpaid, overworked, propelled by a constant need to move forward—yet this recession has fucked everything up for you and now you're just supposed to be lucky you have a job. Don't even THINK about moving forward, just stay where you are and be thankful.

It's bullshit, and it's frustrating, but every now an then I'm reminded of how good I have it.

Whenever anyone asks what I do, I say, "I work for [my magazine's name]" and people automatically respond with, "That's so cool!"

I also saw a Facebook status from someone I went to college with and it was some sordid story about how she went to an interview only to be told that she wasn't qualified.

This is the girl who sat through journalism classes with me and yelled at me because I was trying to lay down the law on a group project, saying, "Not everything is about journalism and writing, Amanda!"

Right, not everything is about journalism and writing. Especially your career.

Update

2010-03-16T10:14:00.005-04:00

Lately, my blogging has been sporadic at best. I apologize to dozens of readers for the inconsistency, it's just that MY LIFE IS SPIRALING OUT OF CONTROL. Okay, okay, you know I come with a flair for dramatics.

Here are some things that are going on:

1. WORK: I'm working on a huge project for work. And I'm not only managing it, but I'm also writing 15 pages of editorial for it. In the past week, I have interviewed 19 filmmakers and stayed at the office until 9 or 10 every night. Breaking out my little voice recorder that I hadn't used since I was in college? Fun. Transcribing all of the interviews afterward and then editing them into coherent Q&As? Not so fun. All of this is exciting and it's a great opportunity for me, but I have taken to drinking so much Red Bull that I'm pretty sure that my heart could explode at any moment.

2. FREELANCE: I'm in the April edition of Every Day With Rachael Ray, giving advice about how to make the most of outdoor festivals. Yes, I interviewed the "Wing King" from Buffalo. I kind of had to.

3. DRINKING: Let's see, should I tell you about how I went to Hoboken for St. Patrick's Day and drank about 708954 beers but refused to pay a ridiculous $40 cover charge to get into a stupid bar? Or how about the time that Scott and I got kicked out of a bar because I spilled an entire pint of Bud Light on my lap while Scott puked all over the men's room? No, let's not get into that.

4. MISCELLANEOUS: I went to an advance screening of Alice in Wonderland, and for anyone who has seen it, there's no reason to be jealous. Tonight, I'm going to an advance screening of The Runaways, and I'm slightly more optimistic. I mean, Dakota Fanning! She's the Jodie Foster of our generation! Am I right, am I right?

Oh Lauryn Hill

2010-03-11T19:36:00.002-05:00

Sum up my life right now? Sure!

KILLING ME SOFTLY... WITH THIS JOBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB.

Thank You For Being a Friend: A Golden Girls Marathon (Season 2)

2010-03-07T10:00:00.000-05:00

Everyone is harping about Betty White's renaissance—her appearance in the Snickers Superbowl commercial, her Facebook petition to be the host of Saturday Night Live, her hilarious turn in The Proposal—but I know the truth: she never went anywhere. Betty White is a comedic goddess and truly, The Golden Girls is one of the funniest sitcoms with the smartest writing in history. And with Rue McClanahan recovering from a stroke, and Betty White supposedly sending her a card that said, "I hope you die, so I'll be the last Golden Girl!," it's time to reprise my Golden Girls marathon.

Day 1:

Episode 1, The End of the Curse, 5:32PM: The season premiere opens with Dorothy and Rose starting a mink breeding business, because, well, why not, right? Great. Blanche is having one of her fits again. How can you tell she's having a fit? Because she's a.) locked herself in her room, b.) eating like a maniac, c.) screeching like crazy. Finally, she reveals what the problem is. She's pregnant. How could a 70 year old woman be pregnant, you ask? I don't know, either. But then, Blanche comes home from the doctor.

Blanche: My life is over.
Rose: Oh, Blanche, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I thought all of those things when I thought you were pregnant. Like what a slut you were!
Blanche: I'm not dying, but I might as well be. I'm going through THE CHANGE.

"The change," of course, is code word for "menopause," and Blanche goes even crazier. Something about her womanhood. The girls make her go to a psychologist, because she won't get out of bed. Dorothy tries to allay Blanche's fears that she doesn't belong at a shrink's office, and as usual, Rose doesn't help: "No, Dorothy, psychologist is for "psych," like PSYCHO."

Of course, as always, Blanche gets over it because a handsome veterinarian comes over to look at the non-breeding minks. He says that the minks are too old, but people (such as Blanche) are NEVER too old to fuck. Of course, he put it a little more elegantly than that—it was on primetime network TV, after all.

Episode 2, "Ladies of the Evening," 5:56PM: This was 1986, and no one was hotter than Burt Reynolds (or, as Blanche refers to him, "Mistah Burt Reynoldssss"). Remember his Playgirl spread?

THIS was sexy back then, because hairy and rugged was a sign of verility. Apparently, Blanche has won passes for her and two friends to go to a movie premiere afterparty hosted by none other than Burt Reynolds. Since their house has termites and needs to be fumigated, they all decide to get a hotel and make a week out of it. Of course, because Blanche is a whore and chooses places because of the male to female ratio, she chose a hotel that was one of those "by the hour" places, if you know what I mean. They all get busted by the police for being hookers.

While in jail, a crazy black hooker starts a fight with Blanche after she calls them all (in her haughty Southern accent) "common gutter trash." Dorothy diffuses the situation by telling the black hooker that she did two years in Attica, a men's prison. She was there for two years before anyone found out that she was a woman.

Sofia came to bail them out of jail:

Sofia: Arrested for prostitution, I can't believe it!
Blanche: Sofia, we're innocent!
Sofia: I know that, I just can't believe these dumb cops believe anyone would pay money to sleep with you!

When Sofia realizes that they still won't give her a ticket to go to the afterparty, Sofia steals the tickets and goes to the party alone. The next day, everyone is pissed, as Sofia regales them with ridiculous stories from the party. They all conclude that Sofia must be exaggerating.

"Jealousy is a very ugly thing, Dorothy. And so are you in anything backless," says Sofia. Then, there's a knock at the door. It's Burt Reynolds, looking admittedly foxy in a tan suit. He wants to take Sofia to lunch.

Burt Reynolds says, "Which one's the slut?" and they all say, in unison, "I am!" What a bunch of old tramps.

Episode 3, "Take Him, He's Mine," 6:55PM: I had to take a break and make dinner in order to have enough sustenance to get through this. A moustachioed Stan shows up, sporting his toupee. He's lost his novelty business, and he's turning to Dorothy for support. But Dorothy, for once, has a date, and pawns him off on Blanche. Meanwhile, Sofia and Rose have started a business, selling bacon, lettuce, and potato sandwiches (they ran out of tomato). Blanche comes back from her date, and surprisingly, had a great time. Dorothy pretends not to care, until she has a hilarious meltdown in the grocery store. Obviously, she concludes, Blanche is sleeping with Stan, because she's a slut. Apparently, for once, Blanche kept her legs together. Dorothy apologizes.

Episode 4, "It's a Miserable Life," 7:19PM: If there's one thing I've learned from The Golden Girls, it's that old people do two things: have sex and do charity work. How many banquets and charity auctions have these old broads been to? A MILLION. Whatever keeps you busy post-retirement. This time, the girls are trying to save an old oak tree. They have a petition, but their neighbor, miserable old Frida Claxton, refuses to sign it. This makes everything terrible, because the tree is on Mrs. Claxton's property. They all go to the town hall to argue to save the tree. Rose, who always believes in giving people the benefit of the doubt, gets uncharacteristically mean, which, as always, is amazing. She tells Mrs. Claxton to drop dead, and she does. Rose is obviously upset about this, and Blanche tries to soothe her, much like I'd imagine my friends would try to soothe me, "Oh, Rose, get over it. You killed Mrs. Claxton two days ago."

Episode 5, "Isn't it Romantic?," 7:43PM: Dorothy's friend from college, Jean, is coming to visit. It seems her husband, Pat has just died. But the episode takes an "It's Pat!" turn, as we realize that Jean is a lesbian, and that Pat was a woman.

Dorothy is struggling as to whether or not to tell Rose and Blanche that Jean is a lesbo, mainly because this is 1986 and although gays were doing it in the streets, we're talking about people who were born in the 1930s and 1940s. Sofia muses, "Jean is a nice person. She happens to like girls instead of guys. Some people like cats instead of dogs. Personally, I'd rather live a lesbian than a cat," an accepting attitude that is one of the reasons why The Golden Girls is so beloved by the gaymo population.

Jean ends up falling in love with Rose, and Sofia thinks it's hilarious ("Jean in love with Little Miss Muffett? COME ON!"). Blanche gets "lesbian" confused with "Lebonese," which was a funny joke I had wth my sophomore roommate. We even put up a sign on our door that said "the Lesbian and the Lebonese." Jean tells Rose that she's in love with her, and Rose confronts Dorothy. Why didn't she tell her? Dorothy says, "Honey, I didn't know if you'd even know what a lesbian was!" Rose says, "I could have looked it up!"

Episode 6, "Big Daddy's Little Lady," 8:06PM: Ah, yes. The famous "Miami, you've got style episode." There's a songwriting contest, and Dorothy and Rose decide that they should team up. I'm always happy when Bea Arthur's scratchy baritone is showcased in song.

Dorothy: Rose, I have to confess—I dabbled a little in poetry in high school.
Rose: Oh, Dorothy, that's nothing to be ashamed of—a lot of tall girls who couldn't get dates wrote poetry in high school.

Meanwhile, Blanche's father, Big Daddy is coming up for a visit. It seems that he's getting married. To a woman who's about half his age. A ginger vixen, if you will. Dorothy makes things extra special awkward by introducing her to Blanche as "Big Mommy." More shit goes on, but really, the best part of this episode is the song:

Ohhh, Miami, you've got style.

Episode 7, "Family Affair," 8:30PM: Dorothy's deadbeat musician son showed up for a visit, just as Rose's very pretty daughter shows up. Here's the question: why does the word "deadbeat" go so well with the word "musician?" Is it because musicians carouse late at night, sleep all day, and are largely irresponsible and ridiculous? It's like that time I told my father that I wanted to get a guitar and he refused because he didn't want me to become a "beatnik."

Blanche tries to play matchmaker with Michael and Bridgit and they end up in bed together. Everyone walks in on them, and Rose is upset, saying, "I've never seen Bridgit in bed with a man. Unless you can count Raggedy Andy."

Then, they all stop being polite and start getting FOR REAL, and Rose calls Dorothy's son a loser. Dorothy calls Rose's daughter a tramp. Them's fighting words!

The next day, Sofia shows up in all black clothing and a veil—she's mourning Michael, because he's dead to her after he comes up in her house, "acting like a common gigolo." This whole scenario directly translates into my life—whenever my boss is gone for a long period of time, and she calls me to ask how everything at the office is, I tell her that everyone is wearing black veils, mourning her absence.

Everything is cleared up, as Dorothy and Rose reconcile the fact that their children are no longer children, and they have things like sex drives, condoms, and erections. As Bridgit is leaving, she says, "Thank you for having me," and Sofia says, "Don't thank me, thank my grandson."

Episode 8, "Vacation," 8:57PM: It appears the girls are going on vacation to some Carribean island. Sofia stays behind so she can seduce the Japanese gardener. This doesn't make sense to me, mainly because of my growing racism towards Asian people (try riding the subway around East Broadway sometime and you'll feel the same way), but also because he is ugly and doesn't speak English.

The girls arrive at their resort, and it is TERRIBLE. Where is their ocean view? Why is their bed vibrating? They have to share a bathroom with three douchebags.

Meanwhile, back at Maison de Miss Saigon, the Japanese gardener is trying to get Sofia to eat sushi, which she promptly dumps in her purse. The sushi revolution clearly hadn't spread in 1986. Nowadays, spicy tuna rolls are like chicken fingers.

Back on the island, the three douchebags have invited the girls on a midnight cruise. Obviously, they go, because they went to the Natalie Holloway School of Vacation Etiquette. They end up shipwrecked on an island that looks like Buena Vista Entertainment dumped a sandbox and some fake palm trees in a studio. They make a bunch of last-minute confessions because they're convinced they're going to die, but they don't, and the episode ends with them singing the "I'd like to buy the world a Coke."

Episode 9, "Joust Between Friends," 9:23PM: It's well-known that Betty White is a big animal lover, so the writers were always finding ways to introduce animal storylines for Rose. Rose comes home from the grocery store with a dog, and Dorothy HATES dogs, because she's a giant bitch.

Meanwhile, Dorothy gets a job working with Blanche down at the art museum. They begin to fight, because Blanche feels that her boss has begun to favor Dorothy. This, of course, is a true testament as to why close friends shouldn't mix business with pleasure. Blanche, in true Southern dramatic fashion, declares that she's quitting her job, calling Dorothy several ridiculous names. Finally, Sofia tells Blanche that the reason why Dorothy is getting all of her boss's attention is because they're planning a banquet in her honor. Blanche feels like an a-hole and apologizes.

Episode 10, "Love, Rose,"9:49PM: Rose is depressed because she can't find a date, even though Scott said that if he could have sex with any Golden Girl, it'd be Betty White. Blanche and Dorothy get the brilliant idea that Rose should take out a personal ad in some sort of senior citizen newsletter. Rose gets even more depressed because no one answers her personal ad. Blanche and Dorothy decide to write her letters, in a sort of a "secret admirer" turn of events. In an effort to make the letters extra believable, they sign the letters "Isaac Newton." They're going to yet another charity ball, and Rose opens the phone book, finds someone named Isaac Newton, and invites him the ball. A crazy loser shows up, and hilarity ensues.

Episode 11, "Twas the Nightmare Before Christmas," 10:10PM: Here's the obligatory Christmas episode, this one, for some reason, has about 25 different Christmas storylines.

Observe:

1. Dorothy says Christmas has gotten too commercial, so she suggests that all the girls make presents for each other instead of buying them. Rose gives everyone a maple syrup spigot that she whittled herself. "This will come in handy the next time I'm lost in the woods with a stack of pancakes." Blanche, on the other hand, made a sexy calendar for everyone called "The Men of Blanche's Boudoir." Sofia says, "I'm surprised you were able to walk in October."
2. We learn that Blanche has a kinky Santa Claus fetish. It's something about all that hot, sweaty flannel, she says.
3. Before they all leave to visit their own families, they have to pick up Rose at work at the grief counseling center. Some psycho in a Santa suit holds them all at gunpoint in the center, until Sofia shows up, grabs the gun, and chastises Dorothy for being a terrible Italian. "You can't tell the difference between a toy and a real piece?"
4. The girls leave, go to the hospital, and promptly miss all of their flights, which is nearly impossible since everyone was going to different parts of the country.
5. A storm has descended on Miami, and the girls run into a diner for shelter. The owner complains about how he's missing Christmas with his family. The girls offer to watch the diner so he can go home and be with his family. He agrees, of course, because in TV land, everyone is trustworthy. He leaves and they realize that it's snowing. IN MIAMI! Can you BELIEVEEEEE IT?!??

Day 2:
Episode 12, "The Sisters," 4:22PM: It's Sofia's 200th birthday, and Dorothy is flying her sister, Angela, in fromSicily as Sofia's birthday present. Sofia spends DAYS trying to get Rose to spill the beans about her surprise, but when it's revealed that her surprise present is Angela, Sofia shouts, "You call this old bag a present?" Hilarious!

Episode 13, "The Stan That Came to Dinner," 4:46PM: "Hi, it's me, Stan" is getting heart bypass surgery, and he's scared! So scared, that he confesses every affair he's ever had. And there have been a lot of them. For a bald schmuck with a bad toupee, that guy got a lot of tail.

Episode 14, "The Actor," 5:10PM: The main story here is that the girls are in a community theatre play with some "famous" soap opera actor, but as far as I'm concerned, this is the famous "Sophia in a pirate costume" episode.

Observe:

She got a job at some seafood place, and when Rose asks her if she's working at that restaurant, she says, "No Rose, I'm off to discover the Strait of Magellan. Yo ho!"

Episode 15, "Before and After," 5:35PM: Rose collapses and ends up in the hospital. When she wakes up, she tells the girls that she died and went to heaven. Dorothy tries to refute Rose, saying that it was a hallucination, like that New Year's Eve when she had four margaritas and thought she was the animated broom in Fantasia. Of course, I've had a couple of nights like that, but my favorite part is Dorothy's pronunciation of margarita, which sounds like "marg/GUER/rita," which is really a sad, pathetic attempt at sounding like she's "ethnic." It's like my old housemates who would say "mozerellllllllllll" instead of "mozzerella," because they were "Italian."

Rose returns home, saying that she's going to "eat life." She starts partying like it's 1989. Blanche says she's "abhorred" at her new lifestyle. Sofia shows up, purse in tow, and says, "Yeah, Blanche, you're abhorred. Abhorred, a slut, a tramp—glad to hear you're finally admitting it."

Jokes aside, the girls tell Rose that her new behavior and new friends are ridiculous—Rose moves out, and not a sitcom-style fake-out, she actually moves, to a condo right on the beach. The problem? Her new roommates could care less about her St. Olaf stories, and not in the feigned annoyance, eye-rolling, "we'll tolerate these dumb stories because you're our friend and we love you" way Sofia, Blanche, and Dorothy react to them, but in a, "I walk out of the room when you start talking" kind of way.

Finally, Rose realizes that she's made a huge mistake and moves back into the house, cheesecake in tow.

Episode 16, "And Then There Was One," 5:57PM: Sofia has joined a charity walk-a-thon, and the girls have decided to help out by babysitting the children of the runners/walkers. The day ends, and a baby is left behind.

Sofia comes home and gives the girls a play-by-play.

Sofia: The race was underway. I start off slow, I'm cagey, like a panther. But when the time is right, I POUNCE. The crowd is on its feet, "So-fi-a! So-fi-a!" My heart is pounding in my ears, but then again, it always pounds in my ears. And then, what every runner dreads: I hit the wall.
Dorothy: Oh, Ma. You ran out of steam?
Sofia: No, I actually hit a wall. They put up a new Wendy's on Collins Avenue.

It's late at night, and the baby's parents still aren't back. The police say they can either bring the baby to the police, or wait for the Child Protective Services to show up in 2 days. Blanche wants to raise the baby herself, but the next day, the baby's father shows up—it seems that he was busy in the hospital, his wife was having triplets. This guy was obviously the original Jon Gosselin—no sense of parental responsibility, and the reproductive power of a bunch of rabbits.

Episode 17, "Bedtime Story," 6:23PM: Picture it: another episode where all the girls sit around the kitchen table and reminisce. This time, about the sleeping arrangements they've made throughout the years when various sundry family and friends have stayed over at the house.

One particular night, the heat was broken, and they all had to sleep together to stay warm, completely ignoring the fact that they live in MIAMI and the coldest it could possibly get is about 40 fucking degrees. Rose couldn't sleep without saying her prayers, and in order to get her to shut up, we hear Dorothy's voice saying, "Rose, thanks for the lovely prayer, NOW SHUT UP AND GET INTO BED." Blanche commends Dorothy, but Dorothy says it wasn't her, leaving us all to believe that the voice of God sounds like Bea Arthur, which is comforting, if you think about it.

Day 3:

Episode 18, "Forgive Me, Father," 6:03PM: It seems that Dorothy has a crush on a teacher she knows from work. Blanche is going on and on about why the guy hasn't asked her out.
Rose: Who didn't ask you out, Dorothy?
Sofia: You got a phone book?

Personally, I love when they give Dorothy romantic story lines, because then you get to see what Dorothy thinks is a good outfit for a date. Observe:

As Blanche says, "Go back and change! That outfit might be okay for a gay funeral in New Orleans, but it's much too subtle for tonight!"

Finally, she asks Frank over for dinner. He shows up, and surprise! He's a priest!

Blanche tries to convince Dorothy that Frank wants to know her in the Biblical sense. Frank leaves after dinner, telling Dorothy that he's thinking of leaving the church—because of her! Sofia comes back from bingo, and freaks out. She tells her not to date a priest because it's bad luck, that Dorothy is throwing her faith down the toilet by going out with Father Happy Pants, and that if she makes the wrong decision, she'll burn in hell forever.

It turns out that Frank isn't leaving the priesthood, he's leaving the church—as in, St. Vincent's Church for St. Francis's Church. Dorothy laments that she made a complete ass of herself.

Everyone agrees.

Episode 19, "Long Day's Journey into Marinara,"6:26PM: Sofia shows up with her date, a 4 foot tall man named Tony. She opines, "He's got his own hair, his own teeth, and a totally unrestricted driver's license. For me, it's like dating Tom Cruise!"

Meanwhile, Rose lends a whole new meaning to "bird brained"—she's babysitting for someone's pet chicken, Count Basie. But this isn't any chicken, it's a showbiz chicken! She plays "Old McDonald" on the piano. Rose asks if anyone has any requests, and Blanche says, "How about "Bye Bye Birdie?" Good one, Blanche.

Sofia's sister Angela shows up, all the way from Sicily. Over dinner, Sofia and the girls convince Angela to move to Miami. While she's looking for a place to live, Angela stays with them, and Sofia is NOT happy. She constantly reminds Dorothy, "everything I have, she wants."

As the girls sit down for a nice fried chicken dinner, Rose busts in, distraught. Count Basie is missing. Since Angela lives in a little village in Sicily with a goat, it's not that much of a leap to conclude that Angela killed Count Basie and made a fried chicken dinner. Rose is devastated, lamenting, "Who cooks a musician at the prime of her career?"

Meanwhile, after much squabbling, Angela finds a place to live. Her new roommate is coming to help her move her stuff. They open the door, and it's Tony, Sofia's boyfriend. He says, "I thought this address sounded familiar!"

Can you imagine? Going to your girlfriend's apartment and not remembering that your girlfriend lives there? Oh, Alzheimer's—you so crazy. Tony and Angela brush it off as a coincidence, but Sofia knows better—she's convinced that Angela is trying to steal her boyfriend.

Blanche: Sofia's not eating dinner. She says she's had no appetite since she was stabbed in the back.
Rose: Oh my God, who stabbed Sofia?!

The next day, Sofia goes over to the apartment, telling Dorothy that she's going over there to kill Angela. Also, if she's not back by 8:00, tape The Cosby Show.

When she gets to the apartment, this hilarious little exchange occurs:

Sofia: You can run, but you can't hide.
Angela: Run? I can barely walk.
Sofia: Fine, rub it in! You and Tony have been fooling around all day!

Sofia finds out that Angela hasn't been fooling around with Tony, but Tony has been fooling around with someone else. The episode ends with Sofia and Angela hitting Tony with their purses, because that's what you do in a crisis.

Episode 20, "Whose Face is This, Anyway?," 6:50PM:
Rose has decided to make a documentary about the girls, using the latest technology in video cameras:

It's funny, because it's huge—like a Zach Morris cell phone:

Meanwhile, Blanche is going to the reunion for her old sorority sisters, and as usual, she has one of her emotional breakdowns because of aging. It seems that all of her sorority sisters had gotten facelifts, and she wasn't the prettiest anymore.

After a few days, Blanche gets over it, just in time for Rose to show the girls her movie. Of course, she sees herself in the video, and she freaks out. "My stunning good looks are fading!" she screams. "The camera does not lie!" Blanche declares that she's going to get so much plastic surgery that Heidi Montag (or as my mother calls her, "Heidi Montalong") would be jealous.

At the last minute, Blanche decides to cancel the surgery, mainly because her plastic surgeon railed her after their appointment. Great.

Episode 21, "Dorothy's Prized Pupil," 7:13PM: This commentary has come full circle. Why, you ask? Because it stars a very young, still very dimpled Mario Lopez as Dorothy's student. Did you know when you Google "Mario Lopez," the first suggestion that comes up is "Mario Lopez bulge?"

Well, check this out:

Looks like Mario Lopez did a naked homage to Burt Reynolds' bearskin rug Playgirl shoot in People Magazine.

But back before Mario's battle of the bulge, he was a cute little illegal immigrant, named, coincidentally, "Mario."

You see, Mario is like Andrea Fernandez, a Mexican immigrant that was in my Intro to Literature class freshman year of college. Our professor was about 700 years old, and she was letting us watch the movie version of Don Quixote. Every class, we would convince her that she never even started the movie, so we watched the first half of it about 25 times, until Andrea, who did NOT come to this country to watch the same half of a movie over and over when she was supposed to be getting educated, walked out.

"I didn't come to this country for this crap!" she shouted.

Obviously, smart ass American kids take education for granted because we're pretty much guaranteed a right to it, no matter how poor one is. Mario echoes Andrea's sentiment, and thus, he is Dorothy's best student! In fact, he's such a good writer that Dorothy entered his "I love America" essay into a contest and he wins, which, unfortunately, tips the INS off, and they come to cart Mario away. Here's a question: why doesn't Mario have an accent?

Ayayayyayyyyyy!

Episode 22, "Diamond in the Rough," 7:36PM: The girls are putting on another charity banquet and Blanche is smitten with the caterer, Jake. He's actually pretty foxy, which is a huge departure from the other men the girls usually date, who look like they're about a month away from life support.

Even though he's smoking hot, Blanche has a problem. Jake is a little uncouth, which is hard for Blanche since she's the prototypical Southern belle. Blanche ends up breaking it off with him, only to learn that Jake was planning on asking her to marry him. Blanche goes to the banquet and sees Jake in a tuxedo, and all bets are off! A monkey suit makes everyone look super classy, obvi. Blanche wants him back, but he's not having it. Blanche is depressed about it for about 45 seconds, until Dorothy reminds Blanche that there are a ton of other fish in the sea.

Episode 23, "Son-in-Law Dearest," 8:00PM: Dorothy's daughter is coming to town, and she knows that it means only one thing: she's going to be a grandmother! Stan shows up for the good news, only to learn that she caught her husband having an affair.

Dorothy and Stan are livid:

Stan: What kind of man has such a disrespect for the institution of marriage that jumps into bed with the first bimbo that comes along?
Dorothy: But enough about you, Stanley.

This is also a very special episode, because we learn that Rose was kind of a tramp in her day. It turns out that she had sex twice a day, every day, for her entire marriage. "Charlie said that's why we didn't have headaches and we both had really shiny hair!" she says.

Episode 24, "To Catch a Neighbor," 8:24PM: Let me just say that one of the great things about The Golden Girls is its commitment to reality. So anyway, the police bang down their door and they find out that their next door neighbors are a couple of jewel thieves. The police men (one of whom is a young George Clooney) ask if they can set up a sting operation from their house. Of course, the girls can still stay in the house, because how else would Dorothy establish a love connection with the older cop? This was like Law & Order before there was Law & Order.

Anyway, as you can see from this photo, they have a shoot out with the neighbors and Clooney takes it in the arm.

Episode 25, "A Piece of Cake," 8:47PM: It's another flashback episode, but what I like about The Golden Girls' flashback episodes, they're not recycled content from other episodes, it's new content that's tied together with a common theme. This time, it's birthdays.

First up, it's the time that Rose planned Dorothy's birthday celebration at Mr. Ha Ha's Hot Dog Hacienda.

Of course, Mr. Ha Ha looks like John Wayne Gacy:

The second trip down memory lane is quite the downer. Rose is back in Minnesota, baking herself a birthday cake and talking to her dead husband. This birthday is on par with the last birthday I had in college, when all of my friends except for Abi and Scott ditched me and called it a misunderstanding. But hey, I'm not bitter or anything.

The next flashback is to 1956 Brooklyn, for Sofia's 50th birthday. Sofia and her husband are having a fight, so she wants to call off her birthday celebration at Guido's (typical). They make up, and Sofia tells Dorothy she's going to be late to dinner, presumably because they're going to play "hide the cannoli."

The final one is Blanche's birthday, when she professes her HATE of surprise birthday parties, even though Rose is planning on throwing her one. Blanche comes around when she realizes that Rose only invited people from her little black book (aka ALL MEN).

Episode 26, "Empty Nests," 9:10PM: I cannot STAND when TV shows try to do a cross-over to another series. I've never seen an episode of "Empty Nest," but I know that it was a popular show set in Miami back in the 80's. Without any warning, their neighbor, Renee (played by the great Rita Moreno), shows up and talks to them like they're all best fucking friends even though we've never heard of her before today.

It seems that Renee is lonely because her kids have all moved out and she's suffering from Empty Nest Syndrome (GET IT? GET IT?) and she needs to find a way to tell her husband, George. Her husband George, oddly enough, is played by the same guy who played Isaac Newton in episode 10. They do this a lot, these lapses in continuity, like we, as the viewing public won't notice that Blanche's daughters are played by 700 different actresses. This whole thing becomes an annoying sitcom within a sitcom, and I'm left wondering, "Really, GG? That's the way you want to end Season 2, with this garbage?"

Cabin Fever: Blizzmania 2.0 (the conclusion)

2010-03-02T23:51:00.002-05:00

Basically, after Saturday afternoon, I realized that the sidewalks were fine, it had stopped snowing, and everything was back to normal, so it wasn't much of a cabin fever weekend.

Especially after I saw this video. Now THAT's cabin fever.

Cabin Fever: Blizzmania 2.0 (part 3)

2010-02-27T17:17:00.002-05:00

21. I woke up around 9:30 and tried to lull myself back to sleep by putting The Simpsons on in the background. I don't know what it is, but I need to have background noise in order to go to sleep at night. Am I afraid of silence? Probably. There are a lot of great things about living alone, but I hear one bump in the night and I automatically think someone's breaking in. Also, my bedroom window directly abuts the living room window of the building next door and the old couple that lives there is always speaking VERY LOUDLY. Really, I've woken up hearing their entire conversation and for a second, I think someone is in my bedroom.
22. It didn't work, so I got up and had macaroni and cheese for breakfast. Don't judge me.
23. I decide to do more research for work in an effort to avoid staying at the office until midnight this week. While I have a kitchen table and a desk in my bedroom, I want to be able to work while in front of the TV and the coffee table just isn't cutting it for the amount of research I need to do. This is book-referencing, highlighting, writing shit down on a legal pad and then typing it out type of work, so I need to be able to spread out. Solution? I move my kitchen table into my living room.
24. What a nice work station. I am a genius.
25. After about 3 hours of research, I'm getting antsy. Let's remember that I've not left my apartment or had personal contact with a human being in over 30 hours.
26. The sun is shining, and I decide that I need to go out.
27. My intention is to go to the grocery store to get food for the week, but I make a detour to the gym.
28. Elliptical for 30 minutes.
29. The grocery store is bedlam, and I wait in line for 20 minutes. The Hispanic lady in front of me tells me that she's waiting for her husband, but she can't find him. "I dunno why he didn't stay with me—now I'm in line, and he's somewhere with the cart? You wanna know why? Cuz men are STOOPID." I hear you, sister.
30. It's been awhile since I've actually carried my groceries home. I used to do it every week. I was like a fucking pack mule, but I've gotten spoiled with Fresh Direct. The problem? Fresh Direct and I are kind of in a fight since something has been missing, smashed, or rotten in the last 3 orders I've gotten from them. I ordered a six pack of beer that shattered. The glass punctured the six-pack of soda that was packed next to it, and all of this liquid soaked the toilet paper and paper towel that was also packed in the same box. MEGA FAIL. They refunded my entire order, but I'm protesting for awhile (read: until I need something heavy that I don't want to carry).
31. Of course, the problem with the grocery store is their sub par baked goods. The nice thing about living in a city? There are about 700 bakeries on my walk home. I stop at the bakery and pick up a baguette. I was planning on ordering Dominos tonight, but now I'm thinking that I'll make my world-famous goat cheese crostinis.
31. I put the groceries away and eat all of the calories I burned off at the gym with a bowl of coffee ice cream.

Cabin Fever: Blizzmania 2.0 (part 2)

2010-02-26T20:46:00.002-05:00

More news from the cabin:

16. I had to Macgyver dinner, since I don't have much of anything, besides beer and ginger ale. I made a portobello mushroom, roasted asparagus, and homemade salsa.
17. I decided to watch "Dear Zachary" again on Netflix Instant View, because apparently I wanted to sob hysterically for an hour and a half. Truly, I've never been so effected by a film before.
18. I know I'm only 3 beers in, but do you think drinking by yourself a sign of alcoholism? If so, I'm glad Abi and I did the research on my iPhone one night: AA is free!
19. Wii golf!!!
20. More Netflix Instant View, this time, "Serving in Silence" a lesbian-themed Lifetime movie starring Glenn Close about a lady in the miliary who is secretly gay. Not only am I confused why I am strangely attracted to Glenn Close, it's amusing because it stars a very young, very gap-toothed Ryan Reynolds as her son. Surprise! Mom's a lesbo! Also, I love that Judy Davis stars as her love interest, mainly because all I can picture her in is her star turn as Judy Garland in the straight-to-TV biopic, "Me and My Shadows: The Life of Judy Garland." Also, this is probably the gayest string of sentences I've ever written.

Cabin Fever: Blizzmania 2.0 (part 1)

2010-02-26T17:08:00.004-05:00

Blizzmania 2.0 has hit New York City once again, and I haven't been outdoors in about 24 hours, and the combination of the snow and the fact that the trains in Brooklyn aren't running this weekend, I really don't have any intention of doing anything for the next few days but adding on hours to that number.

So, I decided to keep a running narrative of the things that I've done during this Snowed-In Weekend:

1. Wake up at 8:45am. I am working from home today, and I'm SERIOUS about that. I literally did work from home all day today.
2. First order of business, check on my boss's flight status. She's in Miami for business and trying to get home during Blizzmania 2.0.
3. Exchange multiple text messages with my boss and spend an hour on hold with American Airlines, only to be told that maybe she'll get out, maybe she won't.
4. The main reason I stayed home today was because after the ice from the last blizzard started to melt this weekend, my kitchen window started to leak buckets. My realty company told me they'd be sending a roofer this morning to check it out.
5. Call the roofer after he's 45 minutes late for our appointment. He says that the weather is too bad for him to come out. I get indignant, because this is the 700th day I've taken off since I've moved here so I can let various repairmen in to make half-assed repairs, only to have the same problem crop up again.
6. I try calling my realty company to complain, only to get a voicemail. Everyone's out for a snow day. Perfect.
7. On the up side, my Netflix arrived yesterday, so I can watch five episodes of Ally McBeal in a row.
8. I'm writing all of the editorial for one of our biggest guides, which, as I just realized yesterday, is supposed to be done one week from today. I spend the entire day researching restaurants, bars, and shops in Tribeca, Union Square, and the East Village.
9. Break in research for Wii Tennis.
10. Break continues for Wii Golf, which I have to say, I KILLLLLLL at.
11. Got assigned an article on Glee from my editor! Engage in a back-and-forth with their PR people to set up a roundtable interview with the cast. Oh, the possibilities!
12. Back to work. With The Simpsons playing in the background, of course.
13. Mac and cheese for lunch. I'm running low on provisions, but am holding out to order pizza tomorrow.
14. Should I include Momofoku in the guide? I'm sick of everyone kissing David Chang's ass.
15. Decide to watch Carrie on Netflix Instant View. Have never seen it, and it was pretty ridiculous and cringeworthy. I always feel a sense of accomplishment when I cross something off of my Netflix queue, which is the root of why I'm such a psychopath: I approach everything, even forms of entertainment like Netflix, like a job.

Stay tuned for more updates from the cabin.

Blocked

2010-02-22T16:37:00.002-05:00

Side projects: everyone in New York City has them, presumably for three reasons:

A. Their job is not fulfilling them enough, and they seek to find satisfaction somewhere else in home-grown, grassroots, “Ima do this shit myself” kind of stuff.

B. Because their job doesn’t pay them enough, and they have to find a way to supplement their income that doesn’t involve a paper hat and a shirt with their name on it.

C. They are workaholics who need to have a million things going on at once because relaxing is not an option.

I, of course, am a conglomeration of all three of those things. I write and design every day at work, so I am allowed to be creative, but it’s in a controlled way. I’m writing and designing for the brand, not for myself.

I’m also lucky enough to make a decent amount of money freelancing for various magazines and websites, which supplements my salary.

The problem I have is that I’m always propelled by a need to move forward—I have so many things I want to do, and working full time and writing regularly for a few national magazines and a neighborhood blog isn’t enough.

And I don’t want to come off as a jerk, bitching about how “hard” it is to be creative, but I have to say that I’m finding it increasingly difficult to motivate myself to write. I’ve spoken with a few literary agents, and a couple of them have told me to send them my manuscript when it’s finished, and I just can’t bring myself to get around to doing it.

Lately, all I want to do when I come home is eat dinner and watch endless DVRed episodes of Intervention or Chopped.

I have a post-it note on my alarm clock that says “Just do it, asshole,” which has worked, for the most part, in terms of getting me to wake up at 6AM for an early morning work out, but you can’t force yourself to write, can you?

What I can force myself to do, apparently, is watch an entire season of the Golden Girls and blog about each episode (see forthcoming entry!).

I suck.

McAwesome

2010-02-18T13:10:00.000-05:00

Finally, finally, FINALLY—the full five seasons of Ally McBeal have been released on DVD, and more importantly, on Netflix. When the show premiered in 1997, I instantly became obsessed with it, which was ridiculous, because I was 11 years old and this was a lawyer/courtroom dramedy that focused on themes such as unrequited love and life malaise.

But watching the show as an oddly mature 11 year old is different than watching it as a disillusioned 24-year-old. I used to watch the episodes over and over so much that now, as I'm rewatching them, I'm having creepy deja vu moments where I know every word of dialogue in several episodes.

I also relate to Ally's ennui, where nothing is right, and nothing is wrong, and the weird feelings that goes along with that.

Observe:

"The truth is, I probably don't want to be too happy or content, because then what? I'm having a great time and I don't even know it."

"I know I've got it great, really. Good job, good friends, loving family, total freedom—what else could there be?"

I Choo-Choo-Choose You!

2010-02-16T11:42:00.000-05:00

Gabe came up for Valentine's Day weekend, and of course, we couldn't keep the Simpsons references under wraps.

Let it suffice to say that "I choo-choo-choose you," and "Let's bee friends!" was said/shouted a million times. Gabe even bought me a fake rose with a plastic bear attached to it while we were drinking 32oz. beers at Farrell's.

Now, if that isn't love, I don't know what is.

FIPS Throwdowns

2010-02-15T21:36:00.003-05:00

So, I started doing Food Throwdowns on Fucked in Park Slope. In the first edition, I tested guacamole from two different places: Barrio and Rancho Alegre.

Check it out here.

Thanks for Nothing, Mother Nature

2010-02-10T17:14:00.004-05:00

Mother nature hates me. Like, really. HATES me.

Why? Because she always manages to fuck up my birthday in some way.

Oh, there I am—at my 8th birthday party. A roller rink party with no one there, because a snowstorm had rendered the roads undriveable.

I turned 24 yesterday, and while it was nice, what with the flowers, cakes, multiple breakfasts, expensive dinner, and internet well-wishes from friends, I was supposed to celebrate tonight with trivia, shots, and 7,000 beers.

That is, until Blizzmania 2010 descended on New York City. CANCELLED.

Thanks for nothing, Mother Nature.

Also, I didn't get today off of work, so I wrote this about how you can create an in-office snow day.

My Favorite

2010-02-08T07:56:00.006-05:00

Simple, yet incredibly thoughtful.

It's been years and I don't think it's coming back

2010-01-27T17:28:00.002-05:00

Via Natalie Dee

Shameless Self-Promotion

2010-01-26T21:54:00.006-05:00

Things have been crazy, and I have a million posts I want to write, but for now, here are some things I've been cheating on this blog with:

Every Day With Rachael Ray, February Issue: I wrote "Tough Love," a piece where I interviewed Andrew Zimmern of the Travel Channel's Bizarre Foods and Lisa Lampanelli the raunchy, Queen of Mean stand-up comedienne about what they're doing for Valentine's Day. I also interviewed Jillian Michaels from The Biggest Loser, but she was cut—wah wah. They were all really surprisingly sweet, which was the whole point of the article. See, even caustic douchebags have a soft spot!

Poutine: Corner Burger's Homage to Canucks: My review of a neighborhood restaurant's new dish on Fucked in Park Slope—plus a million Celine Dion references.

Desperately Seeking Kook: My appeal on Fucked in Park Slope to a local graffiti artist named "Kook" to reveal himself. My fascination with him started last summer, when Scott and I were walking to a bar to find graffiti screaming, "KOOK WANTS YOUR SOUL." I figured I had to write SOMETHING when I saw his markings again this weekend, declaring, "KOOK HATES YOUR MONEY." Who is Kook? Why does he want my soul and hate my money?

Case of the Missing Mail: A bonafide Fucked in Park Slope-stigation, where I try to figure out why the fuck I stopped getting my mail for two weeks. Then, everyone responded, saying that they haven't gotten mail in 3 weeks, that they saw their mailman lurking in their apartment's hallway, that they found their mail in the recycling bin—shit up in the 11215 is NOT good. It all culminated in me setting up a sting operation by mailing a letter to myself and tracking it. Follow the story here.

Farrell's: Where Cheap Mofos Go to Binge Drink: Shirley McClaine FREAKED the fuck out here in the 1970's and demanded service, thus becoming the first unaccompanied woman to be served at Farrell's a neighborhood bar that is so blue collar that it looks like a bunch of Smurfs are up in there. But despite its humble (read: divey) atmosphere, you can get a 32oz. beer for $5! If you have 4 of them, you've had a gallon of beer, and you've only spent $20. It is EXTREMELY dangerous that this place is only a short walk from my apartment.

When I'm not working, I hate myself

2010-01-19T21:35:00.000-05:00

via asofterworld.com

Douchey Shit I Pulled in High School (the Aiming Higher Series)

2010-01-18T20:32:00.004-05:00

She was an English teacher, and while she was young compared to all of the dinosaurs in the school’s English department, she didn’t tolerate any crap. She also didn’t tend to tolerate anyone’s feelings.

And as someone who was voted in Senior Class superlatives as the person “Most Likely to Tell it Like it is,” I appreciated this. Asking a blind student if he got his driver’s license on his 16th birthday, evaluating students’ writing by shouting across the classroom that she could have eaten alphabet soup and crapped out a better essay—nothing was off limits or over the line as far as she was concerned.

She would stand outside of her classroom, casually leaning up against the doorframe (not unlike smartass high school students you see in movies) and stare at scantily clad, slightly overweight girls sporting muffin tops over their too-tight low-rise jeans.

“Hey, Amanda,” she’d shout across the crowded hallway. “I wish I had her mirror!”

And while I was a good student (in terms of grades, not in terms of behavior, of course), I prided myself on getting through the majority of high school without doing any of the assigned reading. The Good Earth, A Tale of Two Cities, The Awakening—it seemed like the curriculum was chosen specifically with the intention of making everyone want to kill themselves. Because I managed to bullshit my way through essays and exams and occasionally wake up from my daily naps in class to offer some sort of thoughtful commentary, I claimed the position as the darling of the English department for three years.

But during my senior year, Mrs. Cammarata was the first person to call me out, claiming in the comments section of my report card that I “wasn’t working to my potential.” Because this comment was listed alongside an A average in the class, my mother was confused.

“What does she mean you’re not working up to your potential?” she asked. “You have an A.”

My father was the one who got it. “Jeannie,” he said to my mother. “It means that Amanda’s being a lazy asshole and cheating her way through life.”

When I reminded him that he had only read one book in his entire life and that it was Private Parts by Howard Stern, he relented, saying, “Who cares about me? Just read the stupid books.”

Of course, I didn’t, because really, I would have rather eaten a box of thumbtacks than waste my time reading The Pearl or Things Fall Apart. Smug people and those who have devoted their lives to education would probably say that by not reading those books, I had only cheated myself, but I disagree.

I have the basic understanding of the plot lines and general themes of all of the classics—which is more than enough to fake my way through a conversation with a Shakespearean actor or pick up on references of the books in more worthwhile forms of media, like TV or movies. And so my general douchebaggery went on unchecked throughout high school.

That is, until Mrs. Cammarata called in a substitute for the day. Substitute teachers have a raw deal—they’re regarded by younger students as easy targets for pranks while they’re almost completely ignored by older students, generally possessing the air of authority over nothing more important than a hall pass. My friendship with Brandon, the kid who sat next to me in Mrs. Cammarata’s class, was largely reared on years of being forced to sit next together because our names fell next to each other alphabetically. With both of our last names being at the very end of the alphabet, we always found ourselves in the very back of the classroom, prime positioning that lent itself to screwing around and not paying attention.

On this particular day, Mrs. Cammarata had left instructions with the substitute to have us all write essays about some book that I didn’t read. As someone who walked into her AP Economics exam (the one that her father had to pay $75 for her to take), wrote “I don’t know” on the top of the paper, and drove directly back home to go back to sleep, an equal mix of brevity and apathy had become my strong suit. After Brandon and I had finished, I’m assuming that we started talking obnoxiously.

The substitute, who couldn’t be bothered to look up from her copy of Ladies Home Journal, seemed uninterested in our antics. Soon, as the other students began to finish their essays, the classroom became noisy with chatter, but not unruly or out of control. The following day, I walked into class and took my seat next to Brandon. “Hey, you jerks,” Mrs. Cammarata said. “The substitute complained that you two were noisy and disrespectful.” We, of course, denied it, but it was hard to defend yourself against an accusation that was so in line with your normal behavior.

Noisy, sarcastic, obnoxious, disrespectful—I was all of those things. Mrs. Cammarata didn’t take a punishing tone with me, presumably because she found me amusing. After all, I was the one who ran an “exclusive” report in the school newspaper, claiming that she had birds nesting in her hair for the past 10 years. She even posed for the pictures that I would later Photoshop pictures of birds onto her head to run alongside the expose. I was the one who ran a fake poll in the newspaper, asking students which book they preferred, The Grapes of Wrath or The Lord of the Flies with the results, 99% never read either book and 1% margin of error.

“Guys, I don’t care,” she said. “It’s my policy—if a substitute complains about the behavior of a student, that student has to write her an apology note.”

What a stupid policy that was. If I were to write an apology letter to every single person I had ever offended—no matter how mildly—entire forests would need to be bulldozed to provide enough paper. When weighed up against the offenses I had racked up at that point—dubbing a girl in school “crazy” and making the name stick so much it was listed in the yearbook as her nickname, throwing a teacher’s snow boot out of the window so she was forever looking for it all winter, hanging up signs at school that declared there was a keg party at a history teacher’s house that was BYOB—talking to my friend in the back of English class didn’t seem so terrible. In the end, my sorry note was, not surprisingly, insincere.

I wrote, “sorry for disturbing you while you were reading your magazine,” while Brandon signed his note with the closing salutation, “begging for forgiveness.”

Orange you glad I didn't say hallway?

2010-01-17T12:16:00.001-05:00

I've stopped trying to understand my landlord's thought process, mainly because understanding that kind of ridiculousness would guarantee the kind of headache that all the Tylenol in the world couldn't cure.
When I moved into my apartment, the hallway was in pretty bad shape. Picture really scuffed up walls, various water leak markings on the ceilings, and the kind of stairs that you would find in a tenement building in war-torn Kosovo. I was told that it would re-done after the apartment that they were renovating was finished. I figured, this couldn't take more than a month. I moved in on September 1, and they were already working on said apartment. Then, after a few days of work, they never returned. At the beginning of October, they were back again—for three days. Gone again, and returned at the beginning of November.

I don't own a building, but I'm pretty sure that when I can charge $1,600 a month for an apartment, I want to get it renovated and rented as soon as possible. These three-week long caps in construction didn't make any sense. The apartment could have been finished in September and rented in October, lining their pockets with extra cash. Apparently, my landlords are either retarded or so rich that losing out on an easy $4,000 doesn't matter to them.

The whole situation was crazy to me, because my apartment on the inside is so nice. Visiting friends would leave my apartment, enter the hallway, and express the feeling of entering some kind of crazy vortex—the nice apartment didn't match up with the shitty hallway.

But let me just say that a phenomenon started happening—every time I said to myself, "I'm going to call them and complain about this hallway!," they started working on it. They sanded everything down to prepare for painting. Then, they took a three week break. They came back and primed everything (and I mean everything. Abi said, "Does your door still look like someone threw a gallon of milk at it?").

Knowing the basics of priming walls (ie: you can't just prime a wall and then not paint it because it catches dust and dirt like a sponge, and it scratches easily), I figured this

was it. Finally, they would just fucking paint the walls and get it over with. After all, my building is four stories. If they have three guys working on it all day (which they did!), it could have been done in less than a week.

No such luck. We're taking radio silence on the homefront. Then, I came home to find that one wall was painted a pinkish orange color. Awesome, now I know what it's like to live inside of a gumball.

Then, they stopped again. One side, primer. The other side, Blanche Deveraux's be

droom. I left to go back to Buffalo for the holidays for two whole weeks, and all I wanted post-Christmas is to come home and have it be redone.

As I got out of the cab from JFK and got into my apartment, I saw it—an orange monstrosity. Now my apartment looks like the inside of a subway car. Brown, orange, and yellow everything.

They still need to redo the stairs, so maybe they can consult with Helen Keller to get a really, really ugly carpet sample or something.

FAIL.

This Shit is Bananas

2010-01-14T14:14:00.001-05:00

As I've mentioned before, my job is basically that I serve as Project Manager for all ancillary guides and inserts that my magazine produces. I'm the one who makes the trains run on time—making sure editorial is on task, the design is done, and the production and distribution plan are in effect. This role serves me well because I'm a power-hungry Nazi who craves control.

My company has had a few layoffs recently, claiming my designer as one who got axed. So now, it's all hands on deck—our Art Director jumping in to help out. Of course, for some extra-special fun, the original file for the guide (it's a playbook for a show that has something to do with bananas) we're working on is corrupt, meaning that editorial and design will have to do extensive work to restore it.

What can I do? You know, besides apologize in the same breath as I'm sending them more indecipherable instructions from clients? Oh, yeah. I can try to smooth things over with baked goods!

I guess I took a page out of my old college roommate's book—whenever we had a fight, I'd come home to a warm plate of cinnamon rolls or a freshly frosted funfetti cake. "YOU CAN'T BUY ME WITH BAKED GOODS!" I would scream, as I would take the cake into my room and close the door.

So here I am, buying people with baked goods. Well, let's not be so crass. It's mostly because it's funny, and also because when my job sucks, I wish that someone would say, "sorry," or "thank you," or "here's a bottle of vodka" (although my boss does give me bottles of wine on a semi-regular basis).

And in the spirit of the douchey, "be the change you want to see in the world" sentiment, I've decided to show my appreciation to my edit and design team by giving them a banana cream pie.

I sent out an email with the subject line "This Shit is Bananas," telling them where they could find the banana cream pie, along with the request that they eat it, rather than pie me in the face with it the next time I send them more work.

Breaking News: Milagra Shops at Hollister?

2010-01-13T14:37:00.002-05:00

I sent this to a friend who evaluated the situation.

"Okay, so you're legit living next door to a crazy person."

Honestly

2010-01-10T22:52:00.002-05:00

WTF SANTA?!

2010-01-09T17:02:00.001-05:00