Archive for August, 2005
So, apparently Coors Light is going to be one of the sponsors of the New York Marathon – they’ll be having promotions at bunch of bars and restaurants along the marathon route the week before the race and on marathon Sunday, and are going to make commemorative cans (available 10/1 in NYC), as well as taps, pennants and mirrors for the participating bars.
I can see it now – runners throwing drafts into their mouths as they run, winners doing a keg stand at the finish line. It’ll be just like a Michelob Ultra ad.
I’ve been accused lately of being too judgemental. Not in real life – in real life, I’m pretty nice. No, I’m too mean and harsh about celebrities.
While I’m not as clever as some other girls, I have a tendency to spew venom at the TV, or magazine, or website that carries celeb news. Quite frankly, I am just tired of seeing tacky and talentless people shown as the height of cool.
Celebrities are supposed to be the people that we look up to; they are supposed to be the people that we want to be like. But instead of having classy, cool, interesting people in the spotlight, I feel like all I see are train wrecks that make me want to throw up. Instead of thinking, “Wow, so-and-so is so cool,” all I ever think nowadays is, “Are you freakin’ kidding me? What the h*ll is wrong with these people?” No one seems to care about how they present themselves, or think about what comes out of their mouths. I miss “old Hollywood” – the days when stars were glamourous and sophisticated; when famous people were seen as people to look up to and admire.
We used to have Marilyn Monroe – a sexy, stunning, talented star. She made great films, lit up the screen, and kicked off Playboy magazine. But even with her string of marriages, nude photos, and personal issues, she always came across in public as a woman with style and charm. Contrast that with Paris Hilton – today’s version of a sexy blonde star. She can’t sing, she can’t act – she can’t even model well. She comes across as a trampy, dumb bimbo that doesn’t have a single attribute worth extolling. And she looks like her chihuahua! So why’s she famous? Why is she taking up space on TV and in magazines and online? Why does she get a TV show (which isn’t even entertaining), when there’s surely something better to put on there?
I’ve run out of patience, so here’s my plea:
TV: Stop throwing stupid reality shows, with their lame contestants at me. Original or interesting reality shows, such as “Project Runway,” “Trading Spaces,” even “Beauty and the Geek” are fine. But do we need 25 different “dump a guy/girl” shows? Do we need ANY reality show that involves plastic surgery? PLEASE show some creativity, revive the sitcom, do something to provide me with real stars.
Music: Stop churning out crappy musicians. I know you’re having trouble adjusting to the digital era, but here’s a hint – stop investing your money in talentless, computer-generated “singers” (especially ones that are really actors/models) that think mismatched clothes and too much eye make-up mean that they’re artistic. Sign some of the truly talented musicians/singers that are out there (I know they exist), so that I can read about interesting, cool, cutting-edge celebrities.
Movies: STOP GIVING FILM ROLES TO PEOPLE THAT CAN’T ACT. For a reminder of what a bad idea this is, see Fair Game. There are a million talented actors out there that would do a much better job, and would probably cost you less money. You wonder why you’re having trouble making money on your films? No one wants to pay $10 to see bad acting.
And finally, famous people: Stop talking just to hear your own voice – If you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything (you’ll seem mysterious). Wearing pasties and hot pants doesn’t make you seem sexy, it makes you seem desperate – leave something to my imagination. If you don’t know how to dress, hire a stylist, or copy someone whose look you admire. This does not include horrifying trends such as Mary-Kate’s homeless-chic. And for god’s sake, stop overexposing yourself – I don’t need your name on my clothes, make-up, perfume, etc.
I love to make lists. Love it.
So I decided I’d have a day of list-making. I thought about Top 10 Tuesdays, since that is WAY more alliterative, but quite frankly, making a top 10 list requires way more work than creating a top 5 list. And so, Top 5 Fridays has been born.
Aren’t you all lucky?
So here goes:
TOP 5 CHICK KARAOKE SONGS EVER
and I do mean EVER….
5. I Love Rock & Roll, by Miss Pat Benatar. Seriously, this song is great whether sung solo or in a large, noisy, group. While all karaoke sounds better when wasted, this song really works when you’re drunk, because you feel so very rock & roll.
4. Me and Bobby McGee, by Janis Joplin. SO much fun to sing to. End of story.
3. Hold On, by Wilson Philips. Show me a girl that doesn’t belt this song out whenever they hear it, and I’ll show you a girl that’s never hit a rough patch in her life. This song should only be sung if you have a group of three though.
2. Kiss, by Prince. You know that scene in Pretty Woman when Julia is singing in the bathtub? Well she’s singing this song for a reason – it’s fun, sexy, and irresistibly cool. Perfect for Karaoke. Best complemented by freakish-Prince-style dancing.
1. Here I Go Again, by Whitesnake. This is the best power ballad of all time. Best when sung alone (obviously), in front of appreciative fans that will yell occasionally, “Whitesnake!”
This morning, I heard a guy give himself a brazilian wax on the radio… I was hysterical for a good 20 minutes. As a girl, I obviously think it’s fabulous that this guy took a dare to wax himself, but at the same time, I can’t help but think that he’s crazy.
Quite frankly, I don’t know a single sane girl that would give themselves a Brazilian. In the first place, how on earth would you get around back? And past that, it is just too painful to do something like that to yourself – best to leave torture to the professionals. Listening to this guy this morning, I also couldn’t help but think that it’s probably a LOT more painful for a guy to wax his balls than for a girl to get her bikini line. I mean – that’s a whole lot more loose skin….
Besides, no one should be bald down there. That’s just scary.
On a side note, I was walking back from lunch about an hour ago, and there was this guy, late-20s, walking in front of me. He had no shirt on, baggy shorts with the boxers sticking out up top… and he was molesting himself. He had his hand reached all the way around his *ss, and was playing with his balls for a good five minutes – juggling, scratching, whatever. I couldn’t get around him, and I couldn’t stop staring.
Apparently this guy had just waxed his balls too.
Dear New York,
This last weekend was so fabulous – you can’t imagine how sad I was to leave you on Sunday. How I love to visit you. While I would never marry you (you just aren’t the kind of city one brings home to momma), I don’t know where I’d be without our hot, steamy, love affair. You make my weekends a more exciting place.
First, and most importantly, you keep things exciting with your multiple personalities – especially AlexisT, Ali, and Davey. Plus, you don’t mind if I invite my other friends along for an orgy. You’re so accepting of everyone – thanks for understanding that, for me, the more the merrier.
I love that you encourage me to spend money I don’t have, inhale calories I don’t need, and chug booze I eventually throw up. I love your cheap cabs (well, compared to Boston’s), and your willingness to provide excellent people-watching for my entertainment.
And don’t even get me started on how much I LOVE your pizza.
I’m so sorry our moments together are so short – stolen really. But don’t worry, I’ll find a way to see you again next month….
No, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. I haven’t become disenfranchised with blogging. I have however, become temporarily brain-dead… a combination of exhaustion and distraction.
I’m in the process of moving from Beacon Hill to Cambridge, and haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in about two weeks, which has caused SEVERE undereye circles, an intermittently operating brain, and a case of the mumbles (where no one can understand what I have to say). Even my typing skills have taken a beating, since my fingers aren’t quite working. So far, it’s taken me ten minutes to type this far, what with having to go back and fix typos. Plus, my mind is so caught up with thoughts like, “Will we have time to do this before we leave?” and “Where the h*ll did I put the lease?” that my mind keeps wandering off the topic I’m supposed to be on, which is usually something work-related. Sigh.
Anyways, just thought I’d let you know I was safe. For now. I’m going to NYC tomorrow for the weekend, to visit Alexis and celebrate Ali’s birthday.
I don’t imagine I’ll get much sleep this weekend. Maybe I’ll start drinking coffee like her….
I’m a huge Golden Girls fan, and have been for as long as I can remember. I used to watch the show with my grandma, snacking on “ants on a log” and graham crackers, laughing together at the girls “shenanigans.” I miss Grandma now, and watching the Golden Girls always reminds me of her, and the time we spent together. Sure, people have teased me about watching a show about old ladies – I always just chuckle and point out that they’re hilarious. I hope to god that I’m as fun and full of life as the Golden Girls when I’m that age.
Whenever I’m home (and my boyfriend isn’t), I watch The Golden Girls on Lifetime at 6. And if for some reason I’m home during the day (as I was for the entire month of January when I was in between jobs), I also watched it at 9, 10, and 11:30 am (interspersed with episodes of The Nanny, which is also awesome). I’ve taken the “Which Golden Girl Are You?” quiz, and found out that I’m most like Sophia – hooray! I’m kind of waiting to live with my three best friends when I get old, so we can have similar adventures. So you get the picture – I’m a huge fan.
Being such a huge fan, you can imagine my surprise at learning that there was a spin-off other than Empty Nest! Apparently Golden Palace picks up in Miami, sans Dorothy, to tell the story of Blanche, Rose & Sophia running a hotel. With help from Cheech (yes, of Cheech & Chong) and Don Cheadle (yes, Academy Award nominee Don). I’ve watched a few episodes over the past couple of days (Lifetime is airing it for a limited time, since it’s only one season), and it’s pretty freakin’ entertaining. I miss Dorothy, and think Cheech is a little too much for the show, but still laughed a lot.
Seriously – I hope I’m as cool as these ladies when I grow up.
Dashiell’s post yesterday about cleavage got me thinking about boobs. Heheheheh… boobs. Oh, okay, my Beavis & Butthead moment is over. Anyways, I was thinking about boobs, and this got me to think back over my life with my boobs. Good times, man, good times.
I was the one of the first girls in my grade to get boobs – one day I was a normal 6th grade girl, the next, I suddenly needed a 32B bra. After a few months of middle-school taunting, I finally got comfortable with them, and from that point on, a lot of my outfits centered around low-cut or tight shirts that showed them off. From bodysuits in middle school, to unbuttoned button-downs in high school, to tiny tanks in college, I tended to show some cleavage. While I’ve outgrown ridiculously lowcut shirts, I do still occasionally throw the cleavage around – just ask Alexis.
Anyways, as I said on Dashiell’s blog, girls know when a guy is looking down their shirt. And as long as you aren’t being skeezy and gross about it, we’ll let you get away with it. I mean, it’s nice to have a nice body part admired – as far as I’m concerned, a guy taking a quick look at my boobs (as opposed to a drooling stare) is a compliment. Kinda like when a girl compliments my shoes. So… looking is okay. Leering, however, is not. Talking to my boobs instead of my face is also not okay.
And one more thing… a low-cut shirt does not mean that a girl wants to get some action. It does not mean she’s looking for attention, or some guy to hit on her. All it means is that when she was deciding what to wear, that shirt was what looked best on her. So guys – stop acting like cleavage is an excuse to act like a jack*ss. Learn to be subtle.
Oh, and we know when you’re staring at our *ss, too. And just because it looks good in our tight jeans, does not mean we want you to grope it. Keep your hands to yourself.
I just got home from performing that most important of civic duties… Jury Duty. Now, I don’t have a problem with serving – I figure that since I do believe in the idea of having a jury of peers, the least I can do is serve without complaining. However, I am NOT a fan of sitting around an overly air-conditioned room with ridiculously uncomfortable seats for 3 hours, waiting to hear whether the judge will require our services.
I was a little cranky to start with – I had to get up a whole 30 minutes earlier than I usually do, and then take two buses to get to the courthouse I was assigned to. The next three hours were filled with the oh-so-fabulous “Jury Duty” video (no, not the Pauly Shore film), hosted by the Mass Chief Justice, Margaret H. Marshall (who pronounces all “R”s as “W”s, kind of like Elmer Fudd) , a nap, finishing up my book, another nap, a little thumb twiddling…. Around 11:30, the security guard took us into the court room, where the judge thanked us for our time and contribution, and dismissed us. Apparently our very presence terrified all of the defendants into changing their pleas to guilty and accepting their sentences. I feel like a superhero now. A bored superhero, but…. now I have the rest of the day off. Huzzah!
I haven’t been going out to the bars much lately – things have been crazy what with getting ready to move, a ton of events (like weddings, weekends away, etc.). But sadly, this money-saving, non-drunk spree came to an end on Saturday night, and I ended a personal record. I threw up.
To fully understand my history of drunken booting, you would have had to live with me in college, and the first year afterwards. Since most of you haven’t had that pleasure, here’s the skinny…. I used to drink a lot. And when I got sufficiently drunk, I threw up. When they’re wasted, some people get the spins, some people black out, some people piss the bed… I threw up. Nine out of ten times that I was drunk. Now don’t worry, people – it wasn’t too gross. I wasn’t a sloppy barfer. I always made it to a toilet or trash can before booting, and it didn’t usually happen until I was at home. So….
My record as the one that puked the most out of everyone I knew lasted about five years – all four years of college, and the first year afterwards. But then, something happened. I’m not sure what changed, I just suddenly stopped throwing up when drunk. I think this is both good and bed – less barfing, more hang overs. I can’t tell which is better.
Anyways, I can’t actually recall throwing up in the past two years (Emily, if you read this and know differently, comment on it!). Sadly, this streak came to an end on Saturday night. After sharing pitchers of John Harvard’s beer, a couple of StoliRaz&Sodas, and a bunch of scorpion bowls, I became a sloppy mess. Upon arriving home, I knocked over glasses of water, plates of food, passed out briefly… and then ran to the bathroom to boot. Yuck.
On the bright side, no hangover on Sunday.
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