Strange Bru

Yep, I'm weird.

2008-02-03T11:03:00.000-05:00

1. I am a woman who actually gives a fuck about the Super Bowl.
2. I am a woman who never got the fuss about Tom Brady. Dude has a butt chin, and his facial features take up a small spot on his very spacious face.

Let's go Giants!

Mmmmm, Kiwi.

2008-02-01T13:47:00.000-05:00

So. Maroon 5 has performed "Kiwi" live in Europe. What, do they think European fans are more mature? Probably!

I found this in "the official download thread" at the Maroon 5 boards (so much batshittery, so little time). It's from their Dec. 15 concert in Munich, and it's amazingly good quality for a boot.

Enjoy!

Seeing hatred on my way to work

2008-01-23T13:09:00.000-05:00

There are several houses along and above Route 3 westbound in Secaucus, just before the bridge over the Hackensack River leading to Giants Stadium (GO BLUE!!!) and that Xanadu thing they're building.

From one of those houses hangs a strange flag, in clear view to the drivers on the busy highway below. It's black and white and red, and sort of creepy looking. My gut tells me it could be a neo-Nazi symbol.

A visit to the Anti-Defamation League's site (which has an entire section documenting the many symbols of hate), confirms my suspicions.

It is the Reichskriegflagge - the war flag of Imperial Germany. Use of this particular design ceased in 1919 (thus before the rise of the Nazis), but it has been co-opted by the neo-Nazis, as display of the symbols and flags associated with the Nazi regime is now illegal in Germany.

Here's more on the flag from Wikipedia, though no mention is made of it as a contemporary hate symbol.

So, we have this blatantly inappropriate flag flying five miles from New York Fucking City, and right in perhaps the nation's most diverse state. Obviously, this is free speech, so nothing can be done about it. Still, every time I see it I am reminded that vile, vile people are among us; it makes me angry, and definitely is not what I need before I head to work.

Counting the signs on the New Jersey Turnpike

2008-01-23T09:12:00.000-05:00

The Outreach Center is presumably some sort of charity that implores people to donate their cars. And if you're in the New York Metropolitan Area(tm), you've definitely seen their billboards, which look something like this.

I saw at least four billboards between the Lincoln Tunnel and New Brunswick Sunday, including two right across the highway from each other. The week before, I saw a purple-trimmed tow truck, complete with that ugly kid on the door, zooming down the Turnpike right near one of those billboards.

I ask myself repeatedly, "They sure spend a lot of money for advertising; how much are they really helping the kids?" Practically the only neutral source on the billboard deluge was from a blogger called Maurice - I probably missed some other blogs, since "Outreach Center" is a pretty frigging ambiguous name.

Thankfully, The Record answered my question on Sunday. As the "Outreach Center" is religiously affiliated, they don't have to submit detailed breakdowns of where the money they raise goes. And so they don't.

Also, type in "Outreach Center" into Charity Navigator, and you don't get anything on this particular group. Should raise some alarm bells.

Yes, Maurice was onto something. That girl with the pigtails is the face of evil.

Believe in blue!

2008-01-21T19:04:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm beyond thrilled the Giants are going to the Super Bowl. Last night's game was insane and made me realize that yes, football is growing on me like a fungus.

(By the way people, Super Bowl is two words. Every time I see it spelled "Superbowl," I kill a hamster.)

♦

I really don't give a fuck about Cloverfield, although I hope the Gucci little piggies the film centers on were all eaten by the monster.

♦

I always wondered who lived along the river, really. It seems as though people are there, and yet, they don't exist. I've never seen them online. And if you're not on The Internets, you don't exist.

I've been cleaning out my home computer's inbox today and came across a link I sent to myself months ago that I intended to post here. It is about all the condo developments popping up on the New Jersey banks of the Hudson River, between the Holland Tunnel and George Washington Bridge.

I remember how it was more than 20 years ago. At 0:06 into the video for Blondie's "Union City Blue," you can see how the area looked - it pretty much consisted of forgotten docks wasting away.

I don't want to live on the "Gold Coast" because it was a Superfund site. Granted, basically all of New Jersey is a Superfund site, but I have a feeling the developers' cleanup of the riverbanks wasn't thorough.

This article from the New York Times adds fuel to my paranoia.

The real reason why I saved the link to post here is for this doozy of a quote.

Indeed, says broker Michele Kleier, being so-close-yet-so-far may actually be a liability. "You’re always going to see those views and be frustrated you’re not in the city," she says. "It's like being on a diet and walking past ice-cream stores constantly."

I know it's a stupid comment, and obviously, it's not to her benefit if people look to live outside New York City limits.

But what she says still hits me in the gut. There is so much in what she says that embodies obsessions with image and prestige, and above all, Manhattanite snobbery.

And maybe that's the reason why I so badly want to live in Manhattan - so I could feel superior to everyone who didn't. Plus, I can get away with saying stupid things like "I don't have a living room, because the whole city is a living room" - even though I'd rather go on the Internet or knit on a big couch.

Never mind that were I to live in Manhattan, I would be living amid people far more superior than me, thus making me feel inadequate.

I can never win.

Who are those guys?

2008-01-16T02:34:00.000-05:00

Forget the goalie - I think I cursed the whole fucking team. Either that, or Stars center Joel Lundqvist came in from Dallas and strapped on his brother's goalie gear. This is no time for twin-switching hijinks!

Then again, there's no way the hijinks could be pulled off.

This is Joel.

This is Henrik.

And here they are together, chatting with MSG's Al Trautwig in 2006.

And yet Joel's official bio states that they are identical twins.

Then again, Joel, who is a forward, has taken more pucks to the face and, as he is based in Dallas and/or Des Moines, doesn't have access to the services of whoever does Henke's hair. Never underestimate the power of a haircut.

And certainly they did look the same when they were drafted into the league in 2000 (a photo is shown 40 seconds into the video).

Really, they're the Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield of the NHL. Henke would be Jessica since he obviously spends time on his appearance; Joel is Elizabeth by defaulalike t.

As for the people who play in front of Henke, it's gotten to the point that putting Jagr on waivers doesn't seem so bad. And I don't give a fuck if he's a future Hall of Famer.

But hey, frustration is what being a Ranger fan is all about. Is it a coincidence that if you take away the first and last letters of "Rangers" you get "anger"? (Do the same with the Devils and you get "evil"; with the Islanders, you get "slander.")

I take solace in the fact that today's Rangers only embarrass themselves during games, although Ryan Hollweg comes close here. Once upon a time, long before I could remember shit, they (well, not the current crew) peddled skin-tight designer jeans.

That's Dave Maloney, Anders Hedberg, Phil Esposito and Ron Duguay. And yes, these four appeared in a TV ad. Singing. And it goes downhill from there.

Apparently, the ads were such a success that Espo and Hedberg came back for more. However, the sequel had another Maloney (Don) and another modelizing Ron (Greschner). It also proves that puck fucks are not a recent phenomenon.

That's right - fucking jazz hands.

Ranger fans blame Denis Potvin for the team's loss in the 1979 Stanley Cup finals (for they believe Ulf Nilsson in the lineup would have made the drought 39 years long, instead of 54). "Potvin Sucks" makes a great chant, and shockingly, the Garden condoned it for a time (I would like to blame the Dolans for putting the kibbosh on it, since the Dolans provide me with cable service and therefore suck). You can also buy the T-shirt (not sanctioned by the New York Rangers, Madison Square Garden, Cablevision, or the National Hockey League).

Potvin may suck, but I'm growing more and more convinced that the Rangers lost the Cup in 1979 because they were spending too much time at Studio 54 in their Sasson jeans and possibly snorting coke there (of course, it would be libel to state that they actually were; however, they'd had to have been on something to agree to do those ads).

Why do I get hung up on the Rangers' slump? I've got another blue-clad team to get excited about! If the Giants can defeat the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field, they'll be in the Super Bowl. And if not, well, I've got Brett Favre to cheer for. He's hot! And he's a goofball! He has no strategy when he throws! And most of all, he is not Tom Brady! That's right, I don't find Tom Brady attractive, and while I don't hate the Pats as much as I do the Red Sox, I really would like Boston to lose something big.

Edited on Jan. 23 - Lundqvist twins video added

God save The King, because I think I cursed him.

2008-01-10T23:25:00.000-05:00

For Christmas, I got The Boy tickets to see the Rangers play the Habs on Dec. 30. Tickets came to about $160 each for the 300 level. Going to see a show on Broadway is cheaper.

As it turned out, we were on the side of the Garden where the visiting team shoots at twice. So we had a good view of the suckitude that was the Rangers' second period.

But for the other two periods, the King of New York - and I'm not talking about Christopher Walken, although that also would be awesome - was sitting before us.

The King is the Rangers' top goalie, Henrik Lundqvist, winner of The Golden CD With A Ribbon Strung Through It, and a Most Beautiful Person.

Left: "This does not look like an Olympic gold medal. But I'll take it!" Right: " I'm beautiful, bitches." Click on the images for full-size yumminess.

There's no chance of ogling during the game, given his position mandates he cover his pretty, pretty face. That's fine with me, since he's (generally) amazing to watch in the crease.

Martin Brodeur said, and I quote, "Lundqvist is weird." And so am I - we're like, OMG, so totally perfect for each other!!!1!

Seriously, even if Henke looked like Brent Sopel, he'd still be my favorite Ranger. He's the reason why the Rangers made the playoffs the last two seasons.

And I love the fact that arguably the most popular guy on the team wasn't an established star acquired via trade or free agency like so many Rangers are, but was drafted into the organization ... in the 7th round!

The Boy insists The King had a couple of good saves at the game we went to, but I heard the arena erupt in the "HEN-RIK! HEN-RIK!" chant (which to me sounded more like "HEN-RY! HEN-RY!") just once. I did the "We're not worthy" move - which I picked up at BU - a few times. It baffles me why that hasn't caught on at the Garden, given how it was the faithful who dubbed Lundqvist "The King." Wouldn't they be all about bowing down before him?

Then again, it really wasn't a good game for him. Three goals allowed, 18 saves, and a save percentage of .857 (a good save percentage for him is at least .900, with 1.000 representing a shutout). Ah well, at least he didn't lose.

Since that game, he has gone from merely unspectacular to 100 percent pan-fried ass.

I then realized something. I cursed Henrik Lundqvist. It was my presence in the same (vast, vast) room with him that did it.

I didn't think I would have cursed the guy, since I didn't let The Boy get me his jersey. It's the four words athletes fear most: "BRU HAS YOUR JERSEY."

Before the game, we stopped into Cosby's - the sporting goods store right outside the Garden entrance - and The Boy was pressuring me to have him buy me a jersey. Those are fucking expensive - at least $230 for a pro-quality version with the lettering and numbers stitched on.

I didn't want The Boy to splurge on me so impulsively, given that he spent too much on me for Christmas. As for replicas - no fucking way. They look like ass!

And what would I do with a jersey? It's not like I go see the Rangers constantly, what with my working at night and my lack of money.

I do have an Adam Graves pro jersey I got the summer before I left for college (fight strap and all!); I wore it the few times I went to see the Rangers visiting the Bruins, and had it hanging from a wall in my dorm room. I don't wear it anymore. The man himself signed the 9 at the team's 2000 toy drive. I'm thinking of framing it, perhaps when I finally move so I can design a room around it. I don't think I'll go so far as to use the officially licensed Glidden paints, though.

A T-shirt would have been a better buy, since it wouldn't fit like a burlap sack on me, and I can use it all year. The only ones I like resemble the Ranger uniforms, with the diagonal RANGERS wording in the front and the player name and number in the back. They were out of Lundqvist's. Not a surprise, given how he's probably the current fan favorite (although things may have changed after tonight's dreadful game against the Flyers).

The Boy then eyed a keychain with a photo of Henke in his crease. I told him I already have a Henrik Lundqvist keychain. Tigger gave me this for Christmas, but in black. Before The Boy came to my house for New Year's Eve, I printed out a photo of Henke doing his job from the Internet and put it in the keychain. Ta-da!

So, The Boy and I walked out of Cosby's empty handed, and throughout the game he kept ribbing me about my refusal to let him buy a jersey.

"Those girls in those jerseys over there are so hot."

"I wish I could rest my head on a Lundqvist jersey."

"I want to have sex with Dancing Granny." (She wears an away Lundqvist jersey.)

The Boy still teases me about the jersey. Every time Henke has been in net and lost - and it's been FOUR times since the game we went to - I send The Boy a text message asking him if now he's glad he didn't get me the jersey. He always answers "no."

I don't think it helped Henke when I posted his page from People's "Most Beautiful 2006" at Oh No They Didn't. The eye candy was much appreciated, but the next night he let four goals in (thankfully, the last one came after he was pulled).

But then, it has been revealed that Henke's father recently had brain surgery. He refuses to blame his recent play on that, but it's clear that's been on his mind. Even if he's picked for the All-Star Game, he really should go see his dad during the break. Actually, I wish the team would force him to go to Sweden now (since he's the type of person who will force himself to play even when he feels like ass).

I better stop before I blame myself for Papa Lundqvist's aneurysm.

Still, maybe I should remove Henke's photo from my keychain before Saturday. It couldn't hurt.

Finally, some belated thoughts about the game we went to, the last game the Rangers have won.

It went into overtime after a more entertaining third period. The game-tying goal was scored by Chris Drury, whom The Boy and I saw play at our college. We both shrieked "Go BU!"

Brendan Shanahan scored the goal in OT. The video they show of him on Gardenvision (the jumbotron) when he scores is amusing - it's a clip of him in uniform and off ice (I think black and white)? All the players have one, but they just sit there or move their heads. Shanny, meanwhile, does this thing with his hands - I think he starts out with his palms flat and facing the floor, then he pushes his arms out a bit and does a smirk.

Cute. Almost makes me want to have him cheat on his wife (who he poached from his linemate in St. Louis) with me. My boyfriend teased me about his posing, and the fact that as we were leaving, the TVs in the Garden lobby were showing him being interviewed, his jersey still on but his pants off. Yay for black shorts!

But the real highlight of the game (other than than perhaps the last stick salute for a while) was that as we were leaving, a Canadiens fan was engaged in a shouting fight in the corridor with another fan. Said fighting was in French. Awesome.

I say goodbye to the way of life I thought I had designed for me

2008-01-09T09:36:00.000-05:00

Another post with a theme song - this time, it's Nelly Furtado's "Try."

No, he hasn't proposed. But it's pretty much the same shit, without the ring.

He told me Sunday that he wants to buy a place with me.

And another goal of mine - that I would live by myself before settling down with a man - may have to fall by the wayside.

You know the script I had for my life - I was going to move to NYC after graduating, first with roommates and then on my own, then I'd live with a guy, and then I'd marry him - or some other guy. Or maybe I wouldn't get married at all. But I'd have still been staying in NYC.

Work kept me in Jersey, and so did love. The city has a better image, but this side of the Hudson is the strangest place in the world. That's actually a good thing, but it can be frustrating as well. After all, the cost of living comfortably here may be even more expensive than living in the city (there are the property taxes, and the need for a car) - and it's still an international joke! You know I give too much of a fuck about image, so of course I'd rather be living in the city. But who am I to question Fate?

So, Fate kept me in Jersey. But I still wanted to live on my own for a couple of years. But with my salary not enough to comfortably do so, I'm going to need to rely on someone else. I suppose life is all about giving up on dreams, but too many of my dreams have been cast off.

Well, The Boy says home prices in Jersey will be going down soon, and that we CAN afford to buy.

Of course, given the fact I read njrereport.com, I am confident he doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about.

He tells me to look into various areas in the state, but he won't tell me how much he makes, or give me price ranges. I mean, the fuck?

And I believe he's going about this the wrong way. The jump from (figurative) basement-dweller to homeowner is akin to jumping to college from grammar school. But The Boy refuses to rent - even if it's just for a year to see if we can, you know, actually live with each other. To my shock, my dad - he whom I had to lie to for years when I would go away for weekends with The Boy - WANTS us to live together before we get married. He suspects I need to audition The Boy before making a legal commitment with him. And it's hard for me to disagree that maybe The Boy is difficult to live with.

Everyone can tell that I'm not confident. I slump in my chair, I get distracted, I'll stare into space. I sell my insecurities well, which is why I often wind up trapped.

No, he's confident in me. He's confident I will agree to everything he proposes, even if at first I refuse. I've kept telling him I don't want kids, but he thinks he can change my mind. And I fear he probably will; he's good at persuasion, and I have horrible self esteem. He tends to believe he's always right, and I do tend to give into his ideas.

And yet, I can't even get him to lose weight or pluck the random hairs growing on his back.

I love him, and while I know no one is ever perfect (Henke played like shit last night!), there are all those various levels of imperfect. Few people could ever understand me, and if they do, they're still not good for me.

The GLP awareness movement

2008-01-07T16:30:00.000-05:00

I wrote the following last month, but never got around to posting it.

I am doing my best to get the word out about Gucci Little Piggies. Yes, I'm obsessed.

At the New Jersey Real Estate Report blog (where I post as Bru)...

http://njrereport.com/index.php/2007/12/20/loanperformance-october-2007-house-price-index/

Post 244
I have so much to say about this thread…

First, here’s my theory as to why people want to move to the NYC area.

As New York is the center of media, it's easy for anyone in the remotest spot of America to be exposed to glimpses of how fabulous it is. The many TV shows set in Manhattan sell the dream (everyone knew "Friends" was crap, but that didn't stop real people from trying to live the life presented there). Young women reading magazines are seduced by tales of incredible shopping and the chance to snag a wealthy man who works downtown.

When I was growing up, Los Angeles was the hotbed; I had L.A. Gear sneakers and watched "90210." The kiddies today have "Gossip Girl." Just as women's magazines this decade have consisted entirely of advice that only applies if you are living the "Sex and the City" life in Manhattan, magazines for teenagers run stories of Park Avenue princesses living the "Gossip Girl" life.

So I believe the role New York has in the media has a lot to do with people wanting to be there.

The other lure of New York is that there's so much going on. I went to BU, and found Boston very limiting in what it had to offer in terms of entertainment and culture. I also found Bostonians meaner than New Yorkers.

I'm sure parents would love their kids to go on field trips to the UN and Broadway shows, or a TV show taping, just as I did. Raise your kids in Scranton, and all they'll get is the Anthracite Heritage Museum. ;)

Stay tuned for my next post, on young people being sold on the post-college Manhattan life.

Post 256

When you're smart, attractive and have ambition, you are told that NYC is the only place to be. Once again, media – magazines, movies, TV shows – play up how fabulous living there is. It's what you’re supposed to do – graduate college, get the hell out of your hometown and be the envy of everyone there.

After I graduated college, I moved back with my parents in Hudson County. Perhaps you may find that pathetic. Much ink and vitriol has been spilled on the "boomerang generation."

But then, why isn't society up in arms when parents pay their kids' Manhattan rent? Because those kids at least APPEAR to be independent? Sure, it's only on the surface, but we all know how superficial Manhattan is.

Skep-tic at #83 mentioned the young adults having their NYC lives subsidized by their parents. Really, it's a phenomenon we don't hear anything about. I talk a lot about those kids in my blog – I call them Gucci Little Piggies.

Then again, New York is the perfect place for them to live – the streets are paved with superficiality. Really, read Gawker. You must live in Manhattan to be respected, although certain parts of Brooklyn are somewhat acceptable. Jersey is a foreign country, its flag made of acid-washed denim. I remember the time I chatted up a hot guy in a Manhattan bar several years ago, but he fled as soon as he heard "201" as I was giving him my number.

I suppose you can say I am bitter. I thought I was smart, attractive and ambitious – and therefore HAD to live in Manhattan. Instead, I couldn't afford to move there, and at times I feel I wasted my 20s because I failed to live the life I was "supposed to."

I've accepted that Jersey is my destiny, and so I plan to stay because it's my home. And New York is great to have nearby. Unfortunately, that means that my boyfriend and I have to continue living with our respective parents so we can put a downpayment on a POS cape or plywood town house five years from now instead of 10 (and we've been saving for years). Sigh.

On Fark (where I post as Trixie Firecracker)...

http://forums.fark.com/cgi/fark/comments.pl?IDLink=3290879

I grew up on the banks of the other side of the Hudson, and I constantly dreamed of moving to NYC. I never fit in (at my hoity-toity suburban prep school), and I thought it would be the perfect place for an outcast like myself to live in.

New York, being the media capital of the U.S., beams its awesomeness into every TV set and movie screen. Any smart, pretty and ambitious young woman, whether she's from across the river or across the country, is inevitably seduced by "Friends" and "Sex and the City." She is poisoned by countless chick flicks (the book "P.S. I Love You" was based on is set in Ireland, not Manhattan!). She is rendered a zombie by "Felicity" (I swear to God, NYU wouldn't be a Useless News top-tier school if it didn't get all those applications from girls who wouldn't have been interested in NYU if it wasn't for that farking show). She may not have had the "Gossip Girl" experience growing up, but she hopes she can marry some i-banker and give that lifestyle to the kids she hopes to have with him.

You have the ladymags (Glamour, Marie-Claire, Elle, Vogue), which are clearly put together by people who refuse to believe there is a world outside their island. The products they show can only be bought in Manhattan. The articles are written by Manhattan dwellers - real-life Carrie Bradshaws who will inject details of their fabulous Manhattan lives into any story, even it's about vitamins or scented candles.

These Gucci little piggies fail to mention they are subsidized by mommy and daddy, since the magazines only pay them $35,000 a year.

Farkers love to slam those who still live with their parents - but really, how is it different from those kids whose parents cheerfully foot their Manhattan rents?

I suppose when you have money, you can afford to cover up how pathetic you are.

I love New York, and I couldn't ever live far from it. True, I may be bridge-and-tunnel trash, and I have never lived there, but I'm more of a New Yorker than most of the rich people ruining that city today.

New year, new Bru?

2008-01-06T10:09:00.000-05:00

Do I live in my parents' basement? Sort of. I sleep in the same upstairs bedroom I've had all my life, which I shared with my sister. It's a tiny space, so there are two twin-size beds; Mom refused to remove my sister's bed (she comes by every few weeks or so), so I don't sleep in a big-girl bed.

I have an "office" in the basement's laundry room (it's not as bad as it sounds). The walls and shelves are a T.G.I. Friday's of youthful distractions - paraphernalia of a popular children's book character who has my name (for the purposes of this blog, she is Eloise); Hello Kitty stuff; a sheet of Muppet postage stamps; stuffed characters, pins and other stuff that my boyfriend brought me from Disney World; and a Barbie doll dressed as a flapper. There is the ticket stub from when I saw Debbie Gibson at the Meadowlands Arena on Sept. 22, 1989. I was 11.

There are the more adult items cluttering my space: Hanging from the bulletin boards are the two bouquets I caught at two separate weddings (Next to get married? HA! Then again, if I do, I've got two garters packed up that can be the "something old" - or is it "something borrowed"?). On the wall hangs the front page of the Daily News from not long after Sept. 11, 2001 - "I ♥ NY MORE THAN EVER."

There are things I picked up on my travels - A bottle of Budvar beer I picked up in Prague, the word "Budweiser" prominent on the label, the contents long consumed. The red polka-dotted wrapper from a Túró Rudi I ate at the Budapest airport last year. A black and white photo I took back in high school of a stop sign in Quebec, the word ARRÊT wriiten on the familiar red octagon.

And straddling the line between youthful and adult are the many, many images of the stylish and whimsical illustrations used to promote Stila cosmetics. They've been an obsession of mine; my profile picture is a Stila girl.

My home office is like a high school girl's locker, or a college girl's dorm room. And as the year in which I will be turning 30 began, I realized I had to do something about it. Let's say I was living on my own - would I still have all these doodads hanging around?

So I've spent my non-work and non-sleep time for the past few days rearranging my shelves and walls. I removed everything that wasn't hanging on a bulletin board, so that the walls could create some breathing room. I brought some of the childish knickknacks to my bedroom and threw out things that didn't have personal meaning to me. I was reluctant to throw out anything my boyfriend gave me, no matter how silly. My Eloise dolls are still on the shelf. There still is an air of childishness, but the reduction of clutter has brought some maturity to my space.

Next task - my makeup collection. Ack!

Kicking screaming Gucci little piglets

2007-12-30T12:05:00.000-05:00

So, a Texas mom prodded her daughter to lie to win a trip to see Hannah Montana in concert. The girl claimed her father was killed in Iraq. It was only after they won the contest that the truth came out and the mother was forced to admit her wrongdoing.

"We wrote whatever we could to win. It said to write an essay. It never said it had to be true. I never said it was true. ... It was just an essay. We wrote whatever we could to win."

This sort of fuckery reminds me of America's Most Smartest Model, where host Mary Alice Stephenson (a fully grown Gucci little piggy who works for Harper's Bazaar) applauded every backhanded and unethical move her pet VJ made.

Oh, it's OK VJ took the dictionary from the other models. It's great that VJ eavesdropped on the others practicing the script for the body wash ad. It's perfectly fine that VJ called his friend to tell him everything about the new Jaguar convertible for the presentation ... except the fact that the car maker isn't "Jagwire." After all, Mary Alice didn't say VJ's moves were forbidden - indeed, she said they were smart.

But, in contests as well as in life, aren't many rules implied? On the bus, there are posted rules - no littering, no eating or drinking, no loud radios, no attacking the driver. Nowhere does it say you can't attack a fellow passenger, or scream "fire" when there isn't one.

Mary Alice applauded VJ's strategy. She even bended the rules at her whim to make VJ come out on top, as demonstrated when the Jaguar executives thought Angela had the best presentation and Mary Alice twisted their arms to have VJ share the win.

If VJ lied about a family member dying in Iraq, Mary Alice would definitely applaud his determination to win.

The Hannah Montana essay scandal is pretty fucked up on its own, but just as disturbing is the contest sponsor, a chain of stores called Club Libby Lu.

I've passed by one of those stores, at Menlo Park in Edison. I thought it was merely Claire's for younger girls - cheap accessories and such.

This story prompted me to look into what this Libby Lu business is all about. It's the Stupid Spoiled Whore store come to life.

It's been written at least twice by the Washington Post - an article, and on their parenting blog. A columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle cites it as a reason why she doesn't want children - and I can't blame her.

This blogger talks about it here and here.

And this blog post even has a picture of the made-over girls (shudder).

The cool thing among us growing up in the '80s was to have roller skating birthday parties at The Rink in Bergenfield, or pizza-making parties at Cooktique in Tenafly. Today, the girls want makeover parties at Libby Lu, so they can be dressed and styled as heiresses (the Paris Hilton variety, not those classy snobs you read about in Vogue and Town and Country) and princesses and pop stars. Call it Build-A-Whore Workshop.

Today's girls can pretend to be Gucci little piglets for less than $25, even if their parents can't afford to have them grow up to be real Gucci little piggies.

And that's the problem. The birthday parties of my youth stressed activity; Libby Lu parties are all about passivity. Roller skating was about being a kid; Libby Lu is about pretending to be an adult.

Fabricating a tragedy to get what you want is absolutely vile. But given that the contest sponsor is a store that instills consumerism and entitlement into young girls, I suppose I can't be surprised.

The best gift ever!

2007-12-27T09:53:00.000-05:00

That would be the fact my boyfriend didn't propose to me.

Seriously, I was paranoid, since we're both pushing 30 and we've been together for 5½ years. I was warning him how I'd kill him if he asked my dad for permission to marry me (because I'm nobody's fucking property!).

He did get me a sweet cardigan from Anthro. And he knows how I refuse to shop there because the owner loves him some crazy Republicans - Santorum may be gone, but there are plenty of anti-gay, anti-abortion groups he's giving money to.

Well, I'm not angry at The Boy, because while I fancy myself a self-righteous babe, the underlying reason why I imagine an Anthro purchase as a donation to right-wingers is really more an excuse to keep me from spending money there.

The gift from him I'm really grooving on is one I never would have thought I'd wanted - a pink Nintendo DS Lite! I suppose I should be insulted that he gave me a pink gadget (I do own a pink Razr, but I see it more as a pale orchid color, and thus it's practically purple, my favorite color!). However, my brother isn't going to play with something that's pink. Well played, Boyski.

He also gave me "Brain Age" to play on it. Nintendo gave Fucking Bushie a DS and "Brain Age" for his birthday. Hysterical and awesome, but is The Boy trying to tell me something?

The fact is, I have a shitty memory, perhaps because there's so much crap cluttering my mind. Part of the reason I have this blog is to help me purge the terrible thoughts that haunt me at inopportune times, whether they're about Adam Levine, my "wasted" twenties or people being dismembered. So I'm not surprised my "brain age" is 69 years old.

"Brain Age" certainly is addictive - hopefully it will instill in me a habit of paying attention.

Speaking of Nintendo, enjoy The Angry Video Game Nerd, a favorite of The Boy, who has played most of these shitty NES games as a kid.

I recommend you start with the "Bible Games" rant. Baby Moses, Baby Moses!

Respect the Jerz.

2007-12-19T12:35:00.000-05:00

New Jersey is a weird - yet wonderful - place. It's an international joke - but right now, it's an international point of pride.

Ti amo, Roma!

As I mentioned in my last post, The death penalty has been abolished.

I can spend hours elaborating why I am against the death penalty - even though I loved it when Adam Levine got his at the end of Maroon 5's "Wake Up Call" video (the director's cut - not that lame-o version that's on MTV and iTunes).

Being strapped to a gurney and injected
with poison just doesn't make for an edgy visual.

Anyway, I oppose the death penalty for several reasons...

It is racist in its application. The Green River Killer - who is white - has among the most murders attributed to one American's name, and he avoided execution. I believe he would have been sentenced to death had most of his victims not been prostitutes, but that's another rant.
There is the margin of error.
And there's the absurdity of showing it's wrong to kill people by, well, killing people.

Unfortunately, in this blue state, the lust for revenge overrides common sense. I'm not a fan of The Sopranos, but I'm sure that was one of the themes woven in that show. And how many years have I dreamed of being more successful than Amy Hill from high school?

A poll showed that 53 percent of New Jerseyans want to keep the death penalty. Thankfully, it wasn't 53 percent of the lawmakers.

A trip to City-Data's New Jersey forum (I know, I know) made me feel like I live in an ignorant backwater.

Holy bloodlust, Batman!

The voice of reason is SWB, who isn't even from Jersey. His username stands for Scranton/Wilkes-Barre, where he's from. Too bad he's not nearby, because I'd love to be his hag!

As for the fuckwads on that thread, I hope this drives them to move to Texas, where they can have their dark, dead souls indulged.

Quote me!

2007-12-17T21:58:00.000-05:00

From an IM with my boyfriend, where I was recounting getting wine shipped to my sister in NYC because wine can't be shipped to New Jersey...

I dig civil unions, laws against pharmacists letting morals getting in the way of their jobs, disapproval of abstinence-only sex "education" and - now - the abolishment of the death penalty. I don't dig that I can't have wine shipped from out of state.

Of course, I'm glad the state got the truly important stuff taken care of first.

Yeah, I'm poor.

2007-12-14T21:35:00.000-05:00

If the definition of "middle class" can include those making $100,000 a year, does that mean I am poor because I don't even make half that much?

The Boy is delusional if he thinks we're going to have kids. I suppose he thinks we're Tommy and Gina - but since we went to college and have better jobs than they did, we're set.

Tommy and Gina couldn't live in Jersey today, where it does make a difference if you make it or not.

I always knew there was no money in journalism - unless you were Peter Jennings - and I wouldn't exactly want Peter Jennings' job, anyway. He was so kick-ass, and that's something I'm really not. I'm not ashamed to say he was my first crush, that I always got a kick when his Canadian accent slipped out, and that I cried when he died.

When I was in college, I thought that when I got a job I'd be living in a shitty apartment with four roommates. I never thought I'd still be living with my parents as I was pushing 30. Things have changed over the last decade, and while I could crack it on my own if I really wanted to, I need that safety net that my mom (who hates it when I drink) provides. I save money, yet if I were truly on my own, I'm one paycheck away from disaster.

Society favors those whose parents will fund them behind the scenes. No one is independent - those who thrive managed to acquire the image of independence.

I am the Sedusa.

2007-12-04T11:41:00.000-05:00

As I poked around The Internets and Facebook, I found photos of three guys I'd fucked years ago. And I am absolutely fascinated that they are not looking as good as I'd remembered them. Fine, two of them were 6 on a scale of 1 to 10. They are now 5s. But one of them was a 9. And now he's a 6.

I like to say the reason why I didn't lose my virginity until I was 21 was because I knew my sexuality is powerful, and I wanted to make sure I was mature enough to handle it.

I didn't realize that the power it had was to transmit ugly vibes into men's cocks and - eventually - up to their faces.

It's certainly a delicious power - it sounds so much fun to fuck porny men - and many of them - knowing that they will cease to be porny with time. Of course, I'm pretty sure most men can tell that I'd steal their beauty - hence, why I only had sex with six men in my life.

But where does Almost Lover fit in? He went from an 9 to a 4.

The farthest he'd gone with me was fingering, unless you can count going to sleep, naked in each other's arms...

That's it! He looked at me when I was naked! It's as though I'm Medusa, but only when my clothes are off.

And thus, I am justified in my years and years of body image issues.

While I am thin, I don't have a starlet's figure. I have a relatively large waist-to-hip ratio, which doesn't go with my small breasts. My stomach isn't flat, and my thighs are covered in cellulite. And did I mention my small breasts?

Up until I was in college, whenever I took a shower, I would cover my breasts with a washcloth. I didn't want to see them, and I didn't want them exposed, even if it was just to porcelain tiles and shampoo bottles. Yes - I admit it ... I was pretty much a Never Nude.

I'm sure my body image issues helped prevent me from becoming sexual at an earlier age. I didn't realize that once my time came it would create problems.

Well, if stripping men of their attractiveness can be considered a problem.

It should be mentioned that The Boy never fell to the Sedusa. In the years I've known him, he has gained weight, but in his face, he's always been an 8.

Plastique, c'est chic!

2007-12-03T22:25:00.001-05:00

The Record reports that some lawmakers here in New Jersey are seeking to get supermarkets, large drug stores and big-box stores to phase out use of plastic bags, adding that plastic bags have been banned in Paris.

Unless things have changed since I was there in July, that's not quite true.

At the Monoprix chain - basically a grocery store combined with Target-like clothing and cosmetics departments - you can buy plastic bags for, I believe, 0.15 € each.

But these are not the plastic bags Americans are familiar with - they were made to be reused. They're huge - they easily hold twice as much as American-style plastic bags. The plastic is sturdy, and the handles are thick and firmly attached to the body. They also have rectangular bottoms, so they stand up straight when filled. Apparently (my French is verrrry basic), Monoprix will replace the bag free of charge when it wears out, and they'll recycle the bag for you.

That's not much use to me, of course.

So, I assume the ban in Paris is on plastic bags intended (and therefore constructed) to be used once.

For the past few months, I have been using the two bags I got in Paris almost every time I go to the supermarket. Often, I only need to use one of them. The Monoprix bag pictured on the left side is filled with three large yogurt containers, three bags of frozen vegetables, some kiwis and a few other stuff. Compare that with the flimsy offering that comes free at Pathmark.

One of the Monoprix bags has a small hole in it, and it still holds up. Even if I finish knitting the Everlasting grocery bag from Knitty (so tedious!), I'll keep reaching for the sacs Monop' until they collapse.

The supermarkets here have been dipping their toes into encouraging shoppers to reuse their bags. Unfortunately, the plastic bags are still free. But - and this is if the cashiers actually remember - ShopRite and Pathmark give you a 2-cent credit for any bag you bring in to tote your groceries home, whether it's their own flimsy bags that somehow survived the initial trip from store to home, or that fucking I'm Not A Plastic Bag that people seem to use as handbags.

I've seen Pathmark-branded tote bags for sale near the checkouts for $1 - they're canvas, but there's no way you can fit a gallon jug of milk in them! Really, if the supermarkets want to encourage people to buy reusable bags, they need to make them a practical size.

I don't know if studies have been done on whether Monoprix shoppers are actually reusing their bags, and how many times they are reused. Still, I'd love for the Monoprix model to be adopted stateside. The Monop'-style bags will cost more to manufacture, but customers would be charged for them - perhaps between 25 and 50 cents. Making customers pay for them will encourage reusing, as well as promising that every tattered bag brought in will be recycled and replaced. Paper bags can still be available for free.

It's easy to get me into bed.

2007-12-02T01:04:00.000-05:00

I need obscene amounts of sleep - 11 hours, I have learned, is best.

I'm not narcoleptic, nor do I have chronic fatigue syndrome. I suppose my need for sleep has to do with my clinical depression - my doctors tell me my need for sleep isn't something I should worry about.

But I do.

I didn't want kids anyway, but how would I function if I had to hold down childcare and my job? Or, what if I needed to take a second job to help pay the bills?

Don't fucking judge me. It's my health problems that are keeping me at my parents' house.

Or are they? Maybe I use sleep to escape my parents and brother. Alas, there's no way to know if that's the reason until I move out. Maybe I should spend a non-vacation week at an extended-stay hotel. Perhaps it will help me subsist on 8 hours of sleep, and eliminate my tendency to procrastinate at work. I have an appetite for distraction.

No, I'll be so bored I'll sleep even more.

No, living on my own will allow me to have more sex. Yes, that's what I need. After all, like any other human, I love sex, even though, despite the fact I have a boyfriend, I don't get it often.

Again, there's no way to know until I'm living on my own.

Just as there's so much clutter in my workspaces at home and at work, there is so much clutter in my mind. I was reprimanded at work Saturday because I was procrastinating - I suppose it's a habit I learned in high school, when, while using the toilet, I overheard Amy Hill* at the next stall, telling a friend at the sink that procrastination was her secret, because she worked best under pressure.

At my high school, Amy Hill was the motherfucking princess. Bitch was on the lacrosse and tennis teams (captain of both senior year), mock trial, school paper (she was the one who forced me out), a better pianist than me - and was consistently making high honors. Amy Hill was also my tormentor, who reached out to me in a time of despair, and then tortured me on the telephone and made sure that everyone knew I was an awful person.

Amy Hill was the motherfucking princess, and yet, she couldn't fucking get into Dartmouth. It was Amy Hill's rejection from Dartmouth that introduced me to the orgasmic feeling that was Schadenfreude. And yet, I clung to her life philosophy. And I still do.

Maybe I need more sleep to eliminate all that clutter in my head. Or is it sex? Or perhaps a massage or a bubble bath?

All I know is that the solution will come while I'm lying down.

(So if not any of the above, then death? Egads!)

* Not her real name. But I can assure you, she is a real person.

Konichiwa, bitches!

2007-11-30T01:21:00.000-05:00

So, the NHK Trophy (brought to you by the Japanese TV network that brought you Domo-Kun) is under way. It's the last Grand Prix event before the final. I hope DelSchoes win in ice dancing, and that NavBoms put in a respectable finish.

You're saying, "what?" I hate amalgamated celebrity couple names. Brangelina? TomKat? Fucking annoying. I must confess that I do love the practice when applied to ice dancing teams.

Delobel and Schoenfelder of France are my favorites - and I have to love a team that's close to my age. Really - Isabelle Delobel is three days older than me! Last season, they were European champions, but couldn't crack the podium at Worlds because the technical caller assigned to the event doesn't like them.

While America's No. 4 team, Navarro and Bommentre, probably won't make the podium at NHK, I am super excited for them. They should give charisma lessons to most of the top teams these days - if last season's free dance to selections from Abbey Road doesn't wow you, then we can no longer be friends.

Figure Skating Universe is abuzz over the Canadian and Russian teams. Both are pretty much locks for the podium, both have red-headed ladies - and either could upset the French. Unfortunately, I can't warm up to these relative upstarts.

I liken Virtue and Moir's skating to my opinion of Brad Pitt's looks - they have the stuff, but for some reason I can't explain, it doesn't work for me. Also, Tessa Virtue looks exactly like Sydney Andrews from Melrose Place. That's not good, because I when I look at Virtue, I expect to see some blackmailing, husband-stealing and snappy comebacks - and naturally, I wind up disappointed.

Khokhlova and Novitski are more avant-garde, but not in that Denkova and Staviski way that I love so much. Jana Khokhlova is ridiculously flexible, but I see their programs as nifty tricks placed between the required elements. Sergei Novitksi can easily get the Khokh into some great lifts, but I'm sure a big part of it is the fact that he's significantly taller and larger than than she is. I prefer my ice dancing teams to not resemble pairs teams. True, Olivier Schoenfelder is roughly 8 inches taller than Delobel - a similar height difference as K&N - but to my eyes, DelSchoes don't look as jarring since she isn't small-framed.

When DelSchoes win everything (or at the very least a medal at Worlds) and retire, then maybe I'll throw my weight behind one of the redheads.

Then again, maybe I'm just not feeling V&M and K&N because their names don't make for good amalgamations. Obviously, VirMors and KhokhNovs just aren't catchy.

Thank you, gossip!

2007-11-22T00:50:00.000-05:00

Today is Thanksgiving. I have to work tonight, but that means I get to eat dinner twice - at the office and at home!

I am thankful for many things - particularly love, my job and Henrik Lundqvist. I am also thankful for Oh No They Didn't, the gossip clearinghouse on LiveJournal. I post there - rarely - as mi_dulce_locura. I've had two entries approved - both having to do with Adam Levine, of course.

Yesterday, an Us magazine interview with Dr. Drew Pinsky was posted. Dr. Drew rules. I remember sending for free DrDrew.com condoms after I graduated from college. I never actually used them for their intended purpose, as I was between frivolous fucks, but come on - Dr. Drew condoms!

Given that he's probably the most media-friendly addiction specialist around, Dr. Drew was summoned for insights on the legendary Miss Britney Spears.

The following really resonated with me.

US: Court documents indicate that her father cheated on her mother and Britney allegedly cheated on Justin, did she learn that from her parents?
DP: It would be hard to learn to value sacredness in marriage with that as an example. But, if you want the moment in her life when it started to unravel, it was when she got involved with Kevin Federline. The crazy thing about the human is that traumatic experiences in childhood get repeated as attractions in our adult life. We are attracted romantically to that very kind of person that was so terrorizing to us in childhood. It's a crazy mechanism. So Dad and Kevin are the same guy.

(Emphasis mine)

Most of my childhood terrorizers were female, and perhaps if I were a lesbian I'd be attracted to Gucci Little Piggies. Boys bullied me too, but it hurt more when it came from girls.

It was reading what Dr. Drew said that made me realize that my obsession with Adam Levine had to do with Almost Lover. Yes, I was 20, but it took me a very long time to mature. Intellectually, I was on track, but emotionally, I was probably a few years behind.

Now, let me explain what a brainy American in Paris has to do with a douchebag pop star.

It was VH1's I Love the '80s that sparked my crush on Adam Fucking Levine. Sure, there was the "Harder to Breathe" video, but despite the Adam Levine Crotch Shot, my eyes were on Ryan Dusick, pounding away on his drums while wearing an unfortunate drug rug.

He's got rhythm, he's got music...

I Love the '80s was great. Adam, like me, thought that Marc Summers (the host of Double Dare) was awesome and had a Hypercolor shirt that stopped working. That's right - just like me! He looked like he was 90 pounds soaking wet and bore a striking resemblance to some sort of bird, but I love a boy in black-framed glasses (says this girl in black-framed glasses). At that moment, I said to myself that if there was a candidate to replace my boyfriend, this nerdy-looking nerdy-named geek would be it.

Super geek! Super geek! He's super geeky ... yow. The gentleman on Adam's right is James Valentine, in case you care.

(His obvious love for the '80s, um, makes me wonder ... what the fuck is he doing with a girl who's too young to have watched Double Dare or worn a Hypercolor shirt?)

At any rate, Adam was working the skinny geek look, and I suppose that reminded me of Almost Lover - who was an authentic skinny geek. Adam probably is not smart enough to complete an application for MIT, let alone get a bachelor's and master's from there like AL did. Still, Adam pulled off the posing. Certainly, I wouldn't have thought in a million years that he was a spoiled Brentwood brat.

Then came the video for "This Love." The glasses were off, and so were most of his clothes. And then I learned he was fucking the model in real life ... sigh. And then I was made aware of the fact that he is a douche. Just like AL, who broke my heart while probably knowing how much I wanted him. And given that I liked Maroon 5's music, it was hard to not think about Adam, the man who practically became Almost Lover.

Of course, Adam Levine could also be a stand-in for anyone who treated me like shit. Certainly, if I had grown up with him, he'd have treated me like shit.

So thank you, ONTD, for helping me make sense of my Adam Levine issues. While I should probably be thanking Dr. Drew, it was ONTD that made me aware of his wisdom, since I'd never read Us magazine's Web site.

Come what may: The comeback

2007-11-19T22:35:00.000-05:00

The America's Most Smartest Model extras on VH1 prompted me to revisit this post.

Keep in mind that in the VH1.com outtakes, these models have said "fuck" without being bleeped. But that doesn't mean anything goes.

If the above clip is giving you more attitude than Mary Alice Stephenson, I'll summarize: The models are riding to a challenge, and Blonde Rachel (yes, that's how she was credited in her talking heads to distinguish her from Aussie Rachael) says that she's "in the middle" regarding her sexual orientation. There are some words bleeped out that I can't make out; I'm assuming they're describing sexual acts. Fair enough.

Then, Blonde Rachel says she hooked up with a woman who had a boyfriend, and she boasted, "Her boyfriend could not get her to (BLEEP) and I did." Oh, come ON! I can't see how "fuck" is OK to say on the Internet footage but "come" (in a sexual manner, of course) is not.

By the way, Nick Lachey is a chump, and it has nothing to do with his women and everything to do with all the time he spends in the gym. I never found that meathead attractive.

As for the latest model to be purged (yes, that's how they say "eliminated" - it's so mean it's awesome), he's in print ads for Hellmann's mayonnaise, which is a step up from posing for costume packaging.

He's the one who sucks.

2007-11-19T18:59:00.000-05:00

Remember Office Space, where one of the guys in Intech was named Michael Bolton - but he wasn't that Michael Bolton? He went on a rant, saying that there was nothing wrong with his name "until ... that no-talent ass clown became famous and started winning Grammys." Then, when Intech's Michael Bolton was asked why didn't answer to "Mike," he responded, "Why should I change? He's the one who sucks."

What makes this amusing is that the No-Talent Ass Clown's real surname is Bolotin - meaning that Intech's Michael Bolton had that name first.

One of my rituals is punching in "Adam Levine" into Google blog search. Most of the results have to do with the Maroon 5 frontman, but there are other Adam Levines out there - perhaps bitter because that no-talent ass clown (and his band) became famous and started winning Grammys. Unfortunately for these Adam Levines, I don't think nicknames for "Adam" exist.

Today, in addition to crap from last night's American Music Awards, I found this Adam Levine. He's from New York and goes to Dartmouth, so you know he's verrrry smart (as opposed to someone from Wyoming who goes to Dartmouth, who is merely verrry smart). This Adam Levine was just named a Rhodes Scholar; he's not as porny as Adam Fucking Levine, but he does have Jim Halpert's haircut.

Also surfacing today was this blog from a Rutgers professor, who talks about her trip to North Korea, accompanied by some guy from CNN named Adam Levine. I don't watch enough CNN to determine if I've ever seen this guy, but I guess he writes for the Web site since this was attributed to him.

One day, I Googled "Adam Levine" and "herpes" (since I wanted to know if Adam Fucking Levine had it), and I got this. Really, how perfect is it that there's a gynecologist named Adam Levine? That's right - if you're a woman in the Tampa area, you can have Adam Levine up in your vagina.

When people say Adam Levine is evil, I like to tell myself they're talking about this guy, who worked in Bushie's press office.

All this leads to an Adam Levine in Los Angeles who is not the frontman of a Grammy-winning yet critically panned band. Since I've had my bizarre love for Maroon 5 since 2003, I've been aware of I'm Not That Adam Levine for a while. See, back when M5 had their breakthrough, the only Adam Levine listed in the L.A. phone book was not the chief Maroon. And the bulk of the messages left on this guy's answering machine were intended for said Maroon.

(You would think people would realize that celebrities have unlisted numbers. But when Olympic gold medalist figure skater Alexei Yagudin used to live here in Jersey, some of the posters on Figure Skating Universe said he was in the phone book. Maybe he got his share of phone calls from fangirls, but they probably didn't come too frequently given that the guy wasn't on MTV.)

Not That Adam Levine hasn't updated his site in ages and the phone call MP3s are no longer accessible from his page, but but you can download all of the insanity here. The file you want to open is index.html.

Looking back on what I just wrote, I realize I am more pathetic than I thought.

There are no fucking words.

2007-11-16T00:38:00.000-05:00

That's right, there are no fucking words.

Actually, I should say this: the fact that Tormentor Mom apparently didn't feel so bad that Megan Meier killed herself - because Megan was clinically depressed - is just one of the most fucked-up fuckeries I have ever heard.

(There are no fucking words when the only words I can think of are deviations of the word "fuck.")

I don't want to make this tragedy about me. However, I do think I should mention that in high school, there was a popular girl who reached out to me freshman year. And then, during the summer, she made many, many harassing phone calls to me, telling me I was a loser, I was weird and I was fat (keep in mind I wasn't fat at all). Since she was the queen of the school, she was able to convince everyone - even those not in her circle - about how awful I was. She ruined my confidence in people, and she still haunts me to this day.

I am thankful there was no MySpace when I was in middle school or high school (I was a high school junior when I discovered AOL in 1995). Nor were my tormentor's parents involved in a calculated attempt to destroy me. I don't know if I would have killed myself were I in Megan's situation, but I could easily have cut myself deep enough to do so.

This whole story reminds me of why I don't want to have kids - especially daughters. What if my daughter isn't the queen bee? What if she reminds me of who I was once upon a time?

The world is horrible, and that's why I refuse to bring anyone into it.

Sweden: The greatest country I've never been to

2007-11-14T00:38:00.000-05:00

I may have fucked a guy from Norway years ago, but Sweden is better because they are responsible for Volvos, Henrik Lundqvist and Gob Bluth's theme song.

And now, I'm adding these guys to the list.

If Adam Levine knew what was good for him, he wouldn't share a stage with Howlin' Pelle Almqvist. Even for a few seconds.

Now I really wish I caught Maroon 5 on this tour - just to see The Hives!

I downloaded the songs they played on the M5 tour, since I figured they're the songs The Hives themselves would recommend to people new to their music. The setlist is as follows.

Bigger Hole To Fill
Main Offender
Walk Idiot Walk
A Little More For A Little You
Try It Again
Hate To Say I Told You So
You Dress Up For Armageddon
Tick Tick Boom

They're OK, although most of them sound indistinct from each other. Actually, I owned Veni Vidi Vicious once upon a time, but sold it on half.com because it just wasn't my thing.

But now, thanks to the magic of YouTube, I have recognized that these guys must be seen as well as heard.

And watching Pelle's antics live is probably more fun than having sex with Adam Fucking Levine.

Now when will they come back to New York?

Goodbye, my hopeless dream

2007-11-12T14:38:00.000-05:00

This is an EPIC POST. That's right - it's very long. Since I am an editor by trade, I have tried to prevent this from being a long ramble; alas, it's still rather lengthy. Also, it is self-indulgent and really makes me look pathetic.

However, this is my way to put the past behind me. And this is the last time I will tell this story. It has taken me hours to write; however, it had to be done because if you want to understand me, you need to know about the following.

This post is so epic, it even has a theme song!

I touched upon a fight I had with a friend over a guy years ago here. I also touched upon my overprotective parents.

I'm surprised I haven't written at length about the story behind that guy, because he has haunted me for years. Thankfully, this is no longer the case, although I did Google his name Thursday night.

We shall call him A.L. No, it's not Adam Levine (I think I would have been closer to suicide if that were the case). A.L. stands for Almost Lover, from a song by A Fine Frenzy that really captures my tale of unrequited love; I have conveniently embedded the video above. Indeed, "Almost Lover" perfectly describes him because we were unsuccessful at having sex, or a relationship beyond three days in Paris.

Should've known you'd bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do

Nearly nine years ago - Thanksgiving break in 1998 - I, along with two other friends from school, went to Paris to visit a friend studying there. We'll call her Tigger. We were juniors in college; I was 20 back then.

Tigger lived at Fondation des États-Unis, the American dorm in Cité Universitaire, which houses American students from various programs; A.L., who was in an MBA program at a French school, was one of her friends from the dorm. A.L. was three or four years older than us. He grew up on Long Island and got his bachelor's and master's degrees from MIT.

Tigger was, strangely, rather distant with all of us. But especially me ... I thought she would meet me when my flight got into Orly. What was her excuse? She met the others the day before at CDG, and that airport was farther from her. I didn't learn practical French words because I thought she'd be by my side the whole time, acting as my interpreter.

All of us stayed in Tigger's dorm room, and she, along with an American girlfriend from the dorm and A.L., took us around town to see the sights - it was my first time in Paris. But Tigger wasn't the same girl who left us in America. And I was sad because my dream always was to be in Paris with someone who loved me. I blame Jem and The Holograms' song "Twilight in Paris."

A.L. was what I needed. He was intelligent and friendly, and made me feel glad I made the trip. He also put me at ease - it's very difficult for me to talk to people I've just met, or even people I know.

This post may be one of the most difficult things I've written. I take pride in this - it shows that I am truly over A.L. - even if I did Google him the other night.

I loved The Phantom of the Opera when I saw it on Broadway, so I wanted one of my friends to take a picture of me in front of the Opéra Garnier. As I got into position, A.L. ran to my side and put his arm around me. I asked him why, and he told me he didn't want me to be alone.

All of us went out to Les Bains Douches, one of the most famous Paris nightspots, that night. I looked fabulous, but I wasn't really having a good time. I guess as much as I dreamed to have had a fake ID so I can hit Landsdowne Street and M80 every weekend, I suppose I didn't miss out on much. Going out at night simply wasn't me.

And then, a couple of hours later, A.L. asked me to dance. Neither of us could dance. And then he kissed me. And it was magic. We ran upstairs, and somehow we found ourselves among model wannabes. We made out in a banquette for quite a while.

Then it was time to go. He fingered me in the cab. This was the first time anyone ever got that intimate with me. I stayed at his room that night, and the next two nights. We fooled around with our clothes off, but neither of us performed orally (I had my period that week, and I didn't think it would be fair for me to give him a blow job when he couldn't reciprocate). I loved how he would smell like soap after he took his morning showers, how he called me an angel. Sappy and dumb, but remember, at that point in my life - and pretty much afterward - the only men who took an interest in me were men I didn't want. And I wanted A.L.

When I'd run into Tigger, she was more apprehensive toward me. I didn't think much of it, since she was more or less like that during the whole trip.

We walked along a crowded street
You took my hand and danced with me
Images
And when you left, you kissed my lips
You told me you would never, ever forget
These images

On my last day in Paris, I bought a pack of condoms from one of those machines in the Métro stations, and a purple velvet bra-and-underpants set at Etam - all my underwear at that point was boring black bras and white cotton knickers. I never thought anyone would take a liking to me.

That night, we walked on the Champs-Élysées. We stopped for snacks at Quick. There was a Minitel terminal in the dining area, and he explained what it was.

Coincidentally, it was the Quick that I was standing in front of when I was present for the final stage of of the Tour de France a few months ago. The restroom hadn't changed. However, the Minitel terminal was no longer there.

After we walked the streets and rode the Métro together, we went back to his room, and he got to take my purple velvet underpinnings off. There were three condoms in the packet. One, two, three ... he kept going limp. He said he didn't want to do something we'd both regret. I told him that's what I wanted him to do. Indeed, he told me the night before that he wanted to be my first.

I think I would have not been so hung up on A.L. if we did have sex; there would have been at least a sense of completion.

The next morning, he kissed me goodbye, and I flew back to Boston.

I did not expect to see my mom waiting for me at my dorm.

As it turns out, she suspected I'd had sex (obviously, Tigger told her mom, who then told my mom), and so she took me to a gynecologist, since she wanted to know whether I was still a virgin.

Mom tried to sugar-coat the gynecologist visit, saying she was worried A.L. may have raped me. Bullshit. She wanted me to know that she was in control of my life, even if I was legally an adult.

It was my first trip to a gynecologist. It was difficult for her to use the speculum on me; at that point, I'd never even used tampons. But she was able to give my mother the answer she wanted.

My mother made me call Tigger to tell her I was sorry, and obviously, she didn't want anything to do with me anymore. The thing was, Tigger never told me she had a crush on A.L. She admitted to me years later, when we reconciled, that she was paranoid I'd tell him. I told her that if she had trusted me with that fact, I would have stayed away from him.

Then I had to call A.L. and tell him that my parents didn't want me involved with him anymore. He said he wished it didn't have to come to this, and I said I agreed.

My parents also nearly pulled me out of my forthcoming semester in London, lest I wound up going to Paris to see A.L. again. In the end, they let me go, but not without force-feeding my head with countless warnings.

I haven't forgiven my parents for this intrusion. Yes, it happened years ago, but it's the most egregious example of how they can get away with controlling me and manipulate me into "behaving," even to this day. My mom would have made a fantastic cult leader.

You may ask why I didn't put my foot down and tell my mother I wasn't going to have a purity test. Really, I simply couldn't.

Because of her, I never strayed too far from the sidewalk. Because of her, I learned to play on the safe side so I didn't get hurt. Because of her, I find it hard to trust not only me but everyone around me. Because of her, I am afraid.

(Who knew the first American Idol winner and a couple of Evanescence refugees could perfectly capture my relationship with my mom?)

♦ ♦ ♦
I was always told that if I defied my parents, bad things will happen, and I will be held responsible. My mom authorizing an invasion of my body was pretty fucking bad, and I didn't want to run the risk of something worse.

A few years ago, I ran into the resident nerd in my grammar school class, who, like me, was also Cuban and white. His mother died around the time that she learned that his fiancée was black. My mom told me - seriously - that Grammar School Nerd killed his mother. (You see, the white Cubans who came to America post-Castro tend to be very racist. In fact, I tend to believe that racism helped lead to the revolution.)

The death of Grammar School Nerd's mom happened long after I went off to London. Still, when I was growing up, I'd hear stories about friends of friends who died of heart attacks because their kids did something they weren't happy about. Were they true? Maybe not. But I didn't want to take the risk - sure, I had my issues with my parents, but how could I live with myself if I (indirectly) killed them?

♦ ♦ ♦
In January 1999, I left for my semester in London. It turned out to be one of the most miserable experiences of my life. Then again, I would have had horrible regrets had I stayed in Boston, since everyone says that study abroad is the greatest thing ever. Everyone except for me.

I believe I am the only person in the history of Boston University's London Internship Programme who hated it.

Here's the thing: I love being abroad. Unfortunately, I don't like it when I'm surrounded by Americans. No, I am not xenophobic against my country (although Bushie has tempted me). The fact is that the Americans who do study abroad tend to be Gucci Little Piggies. One of my flatmates was born and raised on the Upper East Side, for fuck's sake.

My flatmates didn't want to be my friends, since they already arrived with their own friends. I had hoped to go back to Paris and see A.L. again, but I had no one to travel with. On weekends, they'd go to Paris and Amsterdam and Dublin and Rome. Meanwhile, I'd be alone in the flat watching Blind Date and moping in my journal.

I was still obsessed with A.L. I lost a pretty significant friendship over him, and I wanted something to show for it. Namely, him.

I called A.L. every now and then from pay phones, and we had good conversations. I never received a call from him, but I figured that was because we only had one phone line for 10 women, and my flatmates were notorious for not relaying messages to me.

I'd hoped A.L. would come visit me, but he didn't.

You may ask me why I didn't go take the train to Paris on my own. Well, I was afraid. My parents would have found out. Even if I paid for the ticket in cash. Even if they couldn't get through to the flat's phone. They find everything out.

That's one of the biggest regrets of my life - that I didn't go to Paris during my time in London. I felt I needed to try harder to win A.L., and I was too much of a pussy to do so. If my parents found out, they'd probably have refused to pay for the rest of my college education.

See? They are experts at controlling me, even to this day. I was once diagnosed with atypical Asperger's syndrome because it was so difficult for me to "read" people. I really do believe that my problems aren't attributable to Asperger's, but to the way my parents conditioned me to live in fear and to not be confident.

♦ ♦ ♦

I cannot go to the ocean
I cannot drive the streets at night
I cannot wake up in the morning
Without you on my mind
So you're gone and I'm haunted
And I bet you are just fine
Did I make it that easy
To walk right in and out of my life?

I returned to New Jersey, turned 21, started my senior year at BU, cut myself a few times, had to withdraw from half my classes because my depression was ruining me, pissed my dad off on a ski trip to Vermont because of that, went back to Boston, lost my virginity, dated some guys, had a one-night stand with the captain of the soccer team, graduated and moved back with my parents.

Through all this, I couldn't stop thinking about A.L. I would listen to Elvis Costello's "I Want You" repeatedly. I would frequently cry myself to sleep, wishing that A.L. was lying beside me.

One day in October or November in 2000, when I was temping at an ad agency, I Googled A.L.'s name. He was working at a venture capital firm in TriBeCa. After work maybe twice a week, I'd take the train down and loiter about in the neighborhood. No sign of him. I had wished I knew how to play guitar or cello so I could busk at the subway station; he'd easily be able to spot me that way.

Google then told me the venture capital firm moved to the financial district. It was right across Broadway from where the World Trade Center would put up their "Peace on Earth" sign for the holidays. I loitered in that area after work a few times.

One evening, I took a spin in the revolving door. A panel of glass separated me from someone who vaguely looked like A.L. - things were fuzzy after two years - wearing a green Patagonia fleece pullover, just like A.L. wore in Paris.

"(Almost Lover)?" I asked.

"No, Gunther," the young man in green fleece said, smiling.

I was devastated - it had to be him! When I got home, I tore up the photo of us in front of the Opera House. I should mention that none of my photos from Paris came out right; there was no Opera House, and A.L. and I were fuzzy.

♦ ♦ ♦
One day, probably around May of 2001, when I was working at the PR firm, I Googled A.L.'s name. He was living in Manhattan, on the Lower East Side. He was actually listed in the phone book! I would call him from a pay phone during my lunch breaks so I could hear his voice on the answering machine. A few of times after work - perhaps once every month - I would eat or have drinks at the restaurant below his apartment. Eventually, I gave up.

That fall - this was a month or so after Sept. 11, and not long after I had seen Amélie twice at the movies - I was inspired to put all my energies to make A.L. want me. Forget Jesus or Brian Boitano - I would ask myself, "What would Amélie Poulain do?"

I plotted to draw a declaration of love on the sidewalk with chalk, but when I went to his building, I discovered his name no longer was on the mailbox. I checked his name against the Sept. 11 victims'. No, he just left town. And Google was not able to give me more clues.

I wasn't so good at stalking. If stalking paid off for Felicity, why couldn't I get the same results? (Obviously, I was ignoring the fact that Felicity was a fictional character. I hated that fucking show because everyone kept harping on about how "realistic" it was. Felicity was the least popular girl in high school and had no friends, and then she arrives at college and people like her?! Things like that don't happen. Or maybe they do happen - but not to me.)

♦ ♦ ♦
All of this brings us to Thursday night, when I Googled Almost Lover and found a recent photo. This does not mean I am still obsessed with A.L. - when I'm bored, I Google people I have known, whether they're old co-workers, classmates, former teachers or enemies.

I am not surprised A.L. is making a lot of money. I am, however, surprised that he looks like shit. He is balding (and not in that porny Gob Bluth way), and his once-endearing face looks haggard. He also lives in Boston (bleh!).

And even before I saw that picture of him, he no longer was the debilitating obsession he once was.

Nine years is a lot of time, but it has been more than 11 years since I left high school, and I still live my life trying to figure out ways to get back at my bullies. Isn't unrequited love supposed to haunt more than the cruelties of peers?

After all these years, I still have trouble relating to people. But I also have fallen in love with someone who loves me in return. And while The Boy may not be tall, as academically accomplished or as wealthy as A.L., I know that fate was right all along, and that A.L. simply wasn't for me.

But it's unfortunate I had to suffer for several years pondering what could have been. I was naïve and I wanted a fucking fairy tale. It would have been so perfect for those real-life love stories you read about in shitty women's magazines. Falling in love - in Paris! - then torn apart by forces on the way to a happy ending. I never thought I'd ever get over him.

I have been to Paris twice since that fateful trip in college. A.L. did find his way into my mind a few times, but time had slain the ghost's power over me. Besides, I just wished The Boy was with me.

On my last trip there, the cab taking me to the airport passed by the Opéra. "Almost Lover" was playing on my iPod. And I smiled.

Miss me?

2007-11-11T00:13:00.000-05:00

Of course you don't. But it's been several days since my last post.

If Maroon 5 isn't enough of a guilty pleasure, let it be known I love ice dancing. That is, if you couldn't tell from my links. Well, maybe you didn't know who Barbara and Maurizio are, since the site is in Italian. They are Fusar Poli and Margaglio, the 2001 world champions and 2002 Olympic bronze medalists. But - outside of Italy and ice dancing fandom - they are better known for staring each other down at the 2006 Olympics.

That's too bad, because Barbara is arguably the best female ice dancer to not come from a country affiliated with the Soviet Union. You can make a case for Jayne Torvill, but in my book, Barbara wins on acount of being fiercer. That's right, I want to be Barbara Fusar Poli when I grow up.

FPM detractors say that they don't deserve their accolades because Mauri's skills aren't on par with Barbara's. I actually admire those detractors, because they were able to actually take their eyes off of Barbara. Mauri is a gorgeous, gorgeous man (and an absolute sweetheart to boot), but you know Barbara is something special if every time I watch them I focus on her instead of him. Indeed, Dick Button and Simon Reed have mentioned that it's hard to take your eyes off Barbara.

And honestly, I don't think Mauri is as bad as people say he is, even though he's fallen off his blades in two Olympics. Regarding elite teams, Roman Kostomarov is probably on his level (and the guy won Olympic gold!), and Ruslan Goncharov is far worse.

But let's talk about today's ice dancers. I'm shocked that Belbin and Agosto came up with a free dance that didn't make me want to gouge my eyes out from perky overload. And I hope Navarro and Bommentre can make the team for Worlds next year.

But the highlight of this weekend's Cup of China (the third of the six events of the Grand Prix Series) was the original dance from British team Kerr and Kerr.

This season, the theme of the OD is country/folk, which is great because there's so much variety. I really love the teams that take advantage of exploring cultures other than North American and European: Navarro and Bommentre have a Zulu dance, while France's Blanc and Bouquet do Hindi.

The Kerrs (siblings Sinead and John) hail from Scotland, so they opted to pay tribute to their heritage. The ISU, which forbids men from wearing skirts or tights, made an exception for this season's original dance, since John got to wear a kilt. Well, with black shorts underneath.

I love the kilt, but alas, it draws attention to John's legs and thus the fact that he's not as good a dancer as his sister. Still, authenticity rules. OK, the shorts underneath aren't exactly authentic, but given that competitive Highland dancers and athletes are expected to wear undergarments, I see no issue. After all, John is a dancer and athlete!

Next weekend is the Trophée Eric Bompard (aka Grand Prix Paris). Eric Bompard is a French clothing label that specializes in cashmere. They don't sell in America, so when I was in Paris a few months ago, I made sure to go to one of their stores and buy something. What can I say? They support figure skating, so I have to support them. And thankfully, the cardigan I got is absolutely yummy.

My Adam Levine issues explained! (I think)

2007-11-01T23:53:00.000-04:00

The first rule of douche club...

Although I'm pretty self-aware, sometimes, an outside party is needed to help me make sense of things.

I asked my boyfriend why I have such a debilitating crush on Adam Levine. Why don't I have the same intensity of lust toward other members of my imaginary harem, like Henrik Lundqvist? (He's got an Olympic gold medal, for fuck's sake!) Or John Krasinski? (He's Jim from The Office, for fuck's sake!)

My boyfriend's theory: Adam Levine represents everything I hate.

True, I do like his music, but I'd still like it if my boyfriend made it. No, my Adam Levine issues aren't about his band's retro grooves and unabashed sexuality. However, there's really more to hate than love about him.

He represents privilege: Born and raised in L.A.'s moneyed set, it seems his only tragedies had to do with girlfriends. He's just another testimonial that if you have looks and money, you win at life.

He represents classlessness and douchebaggery: Having sex with someone hours after meeting them is nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, if sex matters most to you in a relationship (as I'm sure it does to Adam), by all means, see if the person you're interested in is good in bed as soon as possible so they're not wasting your time (and you're not wasting theirs).

However, it's pretty much bad form to share that that you and your girlfriend were very early to bed on Howard Stern ... while she's in the room. Oh, and nice to know you'd dump her if she was disabled or disfigured. Then again, should we be surprised his definition of "love" is "must be sexually useful"?

Then again, everyone has a secret. But can they keep it? Oh no, they can't. If only the secret Adam shared was why the fuck his band is called Maroon 5. I'm honestly believing it has to do with menstruation. To that end, I've taken to calling my period "Maroon 5" - the blood is maroon (more or less) and it lasts for five days (more or less).

He represents political apathy - which in my book is just as bad as disagreeing with my politics. Really, what does it say when his attempt at writing an anti-Bush song turned into a sex-soaked disco number?

He represents the dreams we had that never came true: While other stars stay in their own atmosphere, he chose to be with a "normal" girl. Never mind that she looks 35 even though she's only 22, or could easily pass for a celebrity ... or porn star. The official story of how they met is a fucking fairy tale, but perhaps the truth is she's just a groupie who got lucky. Still, it's tempting to believe that if I worked hard enough at my appearance and were partying in Vegas that night, Adam could have picked me. It amazes me that I'm obsessed about this, given that I doubt we'd even be compatible. But the sex would probably be great.

And of course, he represents a world where the only thing that ever goes wrong is a critic saying the opening act stole the show.

Then again, maybe Adam Levine's life hasn't always been so perfect. How could the lead singer of a band that had a major-label release as teenagers - even though they flopped - wind up at this college? I'm assuming Five Towns has a good music program, but until I read Mr. Levine's biography, I'd never heard of that school ... and I'm from the New York Metropolitan Area™! The College Board says Five Towns has a 69 percent acceptance rate, which makes it seem as though Adam could have still been accepted if Kara's Flowers were just playing house parties in Southern California. Either Adam isn't smart, or he simply wanted to go to some obscure college on Long Island for whatever reason. And why was he (along with Jesse the keyboardist) there for only a semester?

So other than presumably not having been good in school, Adam Levine always had a charmed life. And today, it's even more so. He's in a critically panned yet Grammy-winning band (I love Maroon 5, but I can't believe that they have ~~a Grammy~~ two Grammies and Tori Amos doesn't have any), he fucks girls who are hotter than me and he struts about like he owns the world. And we all believe he owns the world. Gimme a break, gimme a break, break me off a piece of that douche Levine.

I may frequently say I want to be in that world he's in, but deep down, I know I don't. In fact, that world is everything I hate. And it's not because I am jealous that it's out of my reach - it's because it's just not compatible with who I am. I suppose being in that world would make my high school nemesis jealous, and there have been times when I felt that my life's purpose was to make her sorry she ever fucked with me. Unfortunately, in being obsessed with that goal, I lost sight of myself. It didn't help that I've constantly been told there's something wrong with me; what I took from that was that I needed to be anyone but myself.

Well, I can be proud of this: My high school nemesis kicked me off the newspaper because she didn't like me, but I'm the one who made a career in journalism. I never really thought of it this way, but she didn't completely destroy me.

Strip away all my layers of social conditioning, self-doubt and self-loathing, and I find that Adam Levine's world really isn't a place I want to be. Sure, it would be great to tag along with a sexy rock star around the world, but as his arm candy, I would be plunged into a personal hell. I wouldn't have the freedom to leave the house without blow-drying my hair, or to decide I'd rather knit over hitting the concert after-parties. I can't imagine life without my boyfriend - he is my rock and the greatest friend I've ever had - but I ultimately prefer solitude.

And although the last time I was there was 1992, I fucking hate L.A. ;)

As for Adam himself, he's definitely the douchiest douche who ever douched. Badly wanting someone who is without a doubt bad for you is human nature; that's why there is that "bad boy" archetype in soaps and boy bands.

Adam Levine knows what he's doing. And he does it well. He doesn't know me, and yet, like a sworn enemy, he does precisely the things that get me riled up. And that get others - even those who have little in common with me - riled up.

Adam knows he's an asshole. He knows how to play it up to make him appear sexier; he exploits the bad boy/angry sex fantasy.

Adam takes himself too seriously; I think the best way to describe him is Robbie Williams without a sense of humor. Really, if Robbie did "Wake Up Call," the song and the video would have fucking ruled.

Adam knows how to push straight women's buttons, whether it's stealing the socially savvy Jesse's "feminist" T-shirt (because cool women love men who aren't ashamed to call themselves feminists) or co-writing a song where he vows he'll eat you out. So many straight women and gay men believe he's hot, and we all can tell he agrees. As you can see from the photo up top, he uses Halloween as an excuse to wear little clothing. Of course, so does his girlfriend, Becky. Look at how hot she is - sigh.

Don't do this to yourself, Bru, don't do this. You were at peace with yourself a few minutes ago ... Any guy who goes as a shirtless Tyler Durden for Halloween is gay. Any guy who goes as a shirtless Tyler Durden for Halloween is gay. Any guy who goes as a shirtless Tyler Durden for Halloween is gay. Um, or just arrogant and cocky and a douchebag.

Combine Adam Levine's embodiment of what I hate with his bizarre charisma and knack to get my basement moist, and frustration is inevitable.

Meanwhile, I can't get as worked up over those other guys in my harem because I'm hard-pressed to associate them with anything I hate. Henrik Lundqvist lives with a Kewpie doll he brought with him from Sweden; she's cute, and while I'd rather he be with me, I love that he didn't dump Therese for the model wannabes in New York. As for John Krasinski, I know it's more because of the character he plays. My boyfriend probably has more in common with Jim Halpert than he does.

Ultimately, Adam Levine represents the fact that I draw more passion out of negativity. It's an aspect of my personality that I don't necessarily hate, but I know I need to have the same level of passion toward the things I love.

So I should be thankful that I'm not so hot that a scorchingly porny celebrity will bed me hours after meeting me (like Adam did with Becky) - let alone get serious with me (like Adam did with Becky). Adam Levine can fuel a great fantasy, but when it comes to my reality, I need more rainbows and butterflies.

(Last edit: Nov. 4 at 12:07 p.m. I've been updating this entry frequently because I always keep thinking of new explanations for my Adam Levine issues.)

La vie est plus belle quand on l'écrit soi-même.

2007-11-01T11:22:00.000-04:00

That's supposed to mean "Life is best played without a script," although it literally translates to "Life is most beautiful when it is written oneself." It's from an old magazine advertisement for Guerlain's Champs-Élysées perfume, which coincidentally, I used to wear before fragrances started giving me splitting headaches.

You know things are fucked when Madison Avenue (or whatever the French equivalent is) makes more sense than magazines' editorial content.

♦ ♦ ♦

Mother, can't you see I've got to live my life the way I feel is right for me. It might not be right for you, but it's right for me .... I believe this is heaven to no one else but me...

-- Sarah McLachlan, "Elsewhere"

Well, it's not just my mom. It's my boyfriend. But most of all, it's people I don't know. See, I'm certain one of the reasons why I feel so pathetic about myself has to do with magazines. I know I should know better - YM's advice on how to be popular exploded right in my face - but I keep believing that they have the answers. Certainly, my mother doesn't.

Four years ago, when I was 25, I was reading an old copy of Shape that was lying around a doctor's waiting room. And then I freaked out.

I was reading "Have a No-Regrets Birthday," by Donna Raskin. It was an "advice" piece that maps out what you're supposed to do in your life before you reach a birthday that ends in 5 and presumably beat yourself up over not accomplishing what you wanted at that point.

The very first "smart move" she says you need to make before you're 25?

Live on your own. Sure, you can save money by stretching out your welcome at your parents' pad. But you pay a price: your independence. Living on your own builds self-confidence, and even making simple decisions (blue sofa or leopard loveseat? tuna salad or sushi for dinner?) will allow you the pleasure of learning how you like to live.

So there I was in tears, already 25 and led to believe that I fucked up my life.

I think the reason why this really stabbed me in the gut was because I had just lost my job at The Wall Street Journal. If I had survived there, I probably would have ended up renting an apartment somewhere near Princeton (I was working at Dow Jones' South Brunswick complex ... the commute, which I often did using public transportation, was brutal).

I know the thought of moving out came to me a few months earlier on my 25th birthday, as it does on every one of my fucking birthdays. But I wanted to make sure I had a steady job before taking such a big step - at that time, I never made it through one year at a job. And as it turned out, the job I had at the time would add to that string of employment failures. What if I did end up stuck in the Princeton area with no job?

I will be 30 before long, and I am still paying for my shelter with my independence (or so Raskin says). However, I now have the clarity to dissect her instructions for living.

I bet Ms. Raskin has no issue with the Gucci little piggies who have their "own" apartments. Note how the examples of "independence" Ms. Raskin gives are superficial (food, furniture). She doesn't mention things like paying bills or tackling household responsibilities - signs of true independence. After all, if you have rich morons for parents, they can dump money into your checking account so that you can have your sushi and your leopard loveseat. But they're the ones signing the rent checks and paying for the cable. You may be living on your own, but you're not functioning on your own. I doubt that's how self-confidence is built.

Does Ms. Raskin's advice to "live on your own" mean that you shouldn't have roommates or live with your significant other either? Very few people under 25 can afford to live all by themselves without getting financial help from the parents. Ms. Raskin's mini-bio at the end of the article says she lives in New York City. So shouldn't she have a fucking clue? Or is she a Gucci little piggy herself?

Really, I know living on my own is best for me - my parents can be batshit, and I'm sure their parenting has rendered me fearful and naïve in some respects. (I'll elaborate on that in a few days.) I am sure moving out would have helped build my self-confidence. But I don't know if it would have been any better on me emotionally. I'd be swapping one set of problems (my family) for another (money).

I've done the math - since I get home from work after midnight, I need an apartment in a safe area that has a guaranteed on-site parking spot. Those go for $1,300 per month in North Jersey; as I've said before, I make $600 a week. Then, I'd have to furnish and decorate the place (because I need my home to make me happy); I'll likely wind up spending one month's salary on that. Then there are the utilities. I want to switch my cell phone provider from Verizon - as of now, I'm on my family's plan. I'd definitely need the Internet, and very likely cable. Granted, the only thing I'm watching on cable these days is America's Most Smartest Model on VH1. Jeff Pickel is practically Adam Levine's doppelgänger!

I guess I could look into getting roommates, but I don't trust people (and if you've had my life, you'd understand). I also fear I'd get kicked out when they find my Prozac and Wellbutrin - who'd want to live with someone who's crazy? For most of college, I had a single room - even during my freshman year (my parents insisted, and they had my psychiatrist back then write a note). I did have a roommate my senior year, and it was OK, but she was a bubbly girl-about-town type who thought I was very weird. Then again, who doesn't think I am very weird?

Living on my own would keep me from having fun with my boyfriend. For instance, The Boy and I love spending Sunday afternoons in Hoboken, drinking wine and watching football. Since I work Friday and Saturday nights, that's the extent of my going out. Still, on a tight budget, I may not be able to do such a thing. Sure, The Boy and I could watch the games from my apartment, but he'd rather be out toasting great plays with strangers, and he likes watching NFL games from other markets. And I'm not going to be able to afford DirecTV and NFL Sunday Ticket!

The Boy isn't going to like it if I rent an apartment, but if we're going to buy a place together as he keeps saying we will, it would be nice if at least one of us has had experience living alone. And since The Boy will only move out of his parents' house when he secures a mortgage, it's up to me.

♦ ♦ ♦

Continue reading Raskin's Rules, and you realize she really doesn't know what she's talking about.

She recommends the Let's Go travel guides, which - and I've traveled a lot, so I know - suck. She also mentions that once you have a mortgage, it's hard to go traveling. Wouldn't paying rent (so that you can live on your own like she says) also put a huge dent in your vacation funds? Perhaps she is actually talking about those post-graduation trips to Europe - funded by parents, of course - that spoiled college kids consider mandatory.

(Disclosure: My parents pay for my travel costs. However, it's only if I'm traveling with them and my siblings. It seems like a big deal, but many douchebags would rather stay at home if not having to pay for airfare and hotels in Europe means they have to be with their parents.)

Raskin implies that finances are nothing to worry about in your twenties; she provides information on debt counseling, which you would probably need when you're following her advice and don't have the luxury of wealthy and moronic parents. Maybe she does have some awareness of how expensive it can be to have "a richer life" after all!

She should have urged readers to "ask your elders about your family history of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, mental illness and other conditions" a lot sooner than before 35. Chances are, many of those elders will die before the reader reaches 35.

She closes her written lecture by telling readers to "embrace your true self." Of course, this comes after telling them how to live their fucking lives. Maybe she just means you can stop following the rules after you turn 45.

I simply can't fathom why an article setting firm deadlines to life decisions would be presented as key to well-being. Feeling like a failure is inevitable if any of those deadlines aren't met. How the fuck can this be filed under well-being?

Introducing the Gucci little piggies

2007-10-26T11:22:00.000-04:00

If you come from a well-to-do family - or rather, a family that's well-off enough to put you through a major private university without scholarships or loans - you may expect certain things of them based on what you see among your peers.

For instance, you feel as though you are entitled to your parents putting you through your adult life. After all, sending money for groceries and paying the rent on a Manhattan apartment is no different than room and board.

Much ink has been spilled on people like myself, my boyfriend, and my two lawyer friends - college-educated and gainfully employed, yet still living with parents for financial reasons. But there is a trend that isn't so obvious, as this letter to The New York Times points out.

"'Twentysomething,' and Home Again on L.I." [Jan. 31, 1993], on the adjustment involved when a college graduate returns to live in his or her childhood home, focuses on one trend affecting the "twentysomething" generation. But you ignore another equally as important trend, parent subsidization of children's postcollege life style. Growing numbers of college graduates are becoming part of a new "subsidized generation," in which financially able parents cheerfully underwrite apartments in the city so that both their children and they themselves may continue to enjoy their independence. The trend is furthered by the possibility, in some cases, of declaring a portion of the apartment a city "office" and of realizing tax advantages.
George Haber, Jericho

This was back in 1993, but the trend remains epidemic, and yet few are pointing it out.

I know that there are parents who don't want to have to deal with their adult children on a daily basis, yet don't want them to be homeless either. It's not the case for those of us from certain cultural backgrounds.

My parents come from Cuba (it pains me to admit it because I fucking hate the Cuban-American community, and I hate that this particular ethnic identity is tied to the Republican Party. If there were no Cubans in Florida, Al Gore wouldn't have won the Nobel Peace Prize because he'd be too busy being president. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating, but you get the point).

Yes, so my parents come from a very family-oriented culture, where parents don't mind - or even want - their kids to stick around. Same goes for my boyfriend, who is of Polish descent; both he and his sister still live with the parents.

I am ashamed to admit that I am bitter that my parents aren't subsidizing my twenties. It's a sign of how sick things are when there are times I think that if my parents could easily put me through college, they very well could throw a few thousand at me every month. Yes, I have a sense of entitlement - but it came out of looking at the lives of many of my peers.

The fact is, my parents taught me the value of hard work. They both came to America without money or family. My dad, who owns a successful business, is the embodiment of the American Dream. They still remember what it's like to suddenly lose money, so while they wanted me to have a comfortable existence, they also wanted to instill humility and self-sufficiency.

This is why I never fit in with the rich kids in high school and college. It's not about having or making money - it's about how money makes you. Warren Buffett would likely have a miserable time if he were having dinner with the Park Avenue elite.

Young women working at magazines make less than $30G a year - it ensures that the magazines are hiring girls from money, whose parents will put them up in Manhattan apartments big enough to throw cocktail parties that may be photographed for the magazines. And those parents will buy them Zac Posen to wear to the office. However, we all know the only way to live in Manhattan on a $30G salary is ... drumroll please ... through Mom and Dad. Well, there's also prostitution, but that can be a bit troublesome.

Why do I lust after a job in magazines when I know I'd be miserable? If through some miracle I wound up at a magazine, I wouldn't be able to fit in with the work environment, or my co-workers. I had a taste of that world when I worked in one of New York's top PR firms, where I was among recent college graduates whose parents subsidized their Manhattan lives. However, there were also some who lived with their parents on Long Island. Apparently, it's 100 times worse at magazines, where my understanding is everybody there is living "independently" in Manhattan - courtesy of mom and dad.

This trend isn't just in the media world, either. Last weekend, I talked to a U.S. Olympian who came to the decision that she won't be trying to make the team for Beijing. It was simply too expensive for her to continue, and she wanted to get on with a career. She told me a lot of the top women in her sport are - that's right - subsidized by their parents. This particular sport is not a high-visibility moneymaking sport like basketball or gymnastics, so the athletes don't get much corporate sponsorship or financial help. Nor can everyone on the team get a job at The Home Depot (the employment program they have for Olympic hopefuls isn't quite how it's depicted in the ads). I'm sure there are a lot of people out there who are better at the sport than many of those who are on the team, but they had to abandon their Olympic dreams because they didn't have wealthy parents.

So not only are spoiled brats destroying New York City, they're representing America on a global stage. Of course, when the country is being run by one of those people, should I be surprised?

I need to create a name for these spoiled douches (that isn't "spoiled douches"). We educated adults who find ourselves moving back with the parents are called many things, whether it's the boomerang generation or parasites. At first, I thought the spoiled douches already had a catchy name - trustafarians - but that term suggests they're "slumming it" - expensively, of course. A lot of these spoiled douches are living lives of glamour.

My college friends and I used to call the rich bitches "candyasses." But thanks to the WWE, many people see the term as another way to call someone a pussy. Then again, the adults subsidized by parents are pussies in a way - they are ill-equipped to deal with reality.

I think about this line in Radiohead's "Paranoid Android": "When I am king, you will be first against the wall." And so I propose these spoiled douches be called Gucci Little Piggies, and I will call them GLPs in future references. They have the veneer of glamour and independence (that's the "Gucci"), but they are no better than those of us still living with our parents (that's the "piggies"). In fact, they may actually be worse, but in our society, image matters more than truth.

A crushing crush

2007-10-25T00:04:00.000-04:00

Can a celebrity crush be so debilitating? So consuming? So ... pathetic?

"Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go," by Wham!, came on my iPod today, and for some strange reason, I started comparing George Michael to Adam Levine. Yes, I realize I'm obsessed, but it's something worth exploring, even though we have no idea how successful Adam's solo career will be.

(This makes me wonder - no pun intended - what about the rest of the band? Obviously, all would be right in the world if Ryan returns ... as the lead singer. Or, they could grab some of their pals in Rooney, and change their name to ... wait for it ... Marooney! Har har, I slay myself.)

Wham! - and especially George Michael himself - were huge in the '80s, and by that I mean bigger than Maroon 5 is now. Yes, M5 can sell out Madison Square Garden. I have no idea if Wham! played the Garden, but I'm sure they could sell it out for more than one night. After all, that's exactly what Michael did on his own in 1988.

I vividly remember the Faith era ... I doubt Adam's girlfriend does. I was only 10 back then, though - I thought "Monkey" referred to a love rival, not a drug addiction! And I remember freaking out whenever "I Want Your Sex" came on the radio. I'd cover my ears, shriek and - unless I was in a car - I'd cower in the corner. And I just realized that I have probably explained my issues with sex.

Back then, most people (I think - there was no Internet in 1988) believed George Michael loved women. His videos featured beautiful women (hmm, sound familiar?). And, as we all knew, he was seriously involved with his (female) makeup artist, who appeared in "I Want Your Sex" and had "explore monogamy" written on her back in lipstick. Of course, that doesn't mean Michael wasn't seeing men behind Kathy Jeung's back. Or was Kathy a willing beard? Someday, we will know.

Like any famous, attractive male celebrity, The Levine has gay rumors surrounding him - it's not just because my boyfriend says he's gay! Can this blind item be any more obvious?

This lead singer of a popular group which has a Gilligan's Island connection has never set very high standards when it comes to the women he dates. The easier the better. This has given him the protection he needs as he totally gives up the ladies and concentrates on men. In the past several weeks he has been spotted in several nightclubs in LA picking up guys for the night. He has to take them to hotels or back to their place, because his current boyfriend would be none to [sic.] happy to know he has been getting a little something on the side.

As we all know, Gilligan and those other guys were marooned on that island.

This item dates back to March, so perhaps Lucky Bitch Becky has kicked Gene Hong out of Maison Levine. Or perhaps Gene merely housesits while Adam and Becky fuck their way through North America.

Or maybe Adam is gay. It's possible he hired Becky for beard duties, since all the "hot" female celebrities (no way Adam would have a character actress for a beard) didn't want to put up with sacrificing their sex lives to be his arm candy. How many 21-year-olds would sell their souls for the Hollywood high life?

As George Michael demonstrated, a common attempt to counteract rumors of homosexuality is to put hot women in videos and be filmed enjoying their company. (And now I'm starting to wonder if anyone in those hair bands - which I'm also old enough to remember vividly - turned out to be gay.) How many Maroon 5 videos are there where Adam is not being sexed, groped or otherwise placed in physical contact with Very Hot Women? There's "Harder to Breathe" of course, and then maybe "Sunday Morning," although I can't tell if the karaoke girls are pawing Adam. That's right, only two out of the seven videos they've made have Adam NOT being narcissistic.

Oh, and "Sunday Morning" makes it clear that while Adam Levine has great presence, he can't dance. It actually reminded me of George Michael in the video for that song he did with Whitney Houston. He hits the floor - badly - at 2:10 in the clip, and it only gets worse.

So maybe Maroon 5 videos are less about proving Adam Levine's heterosexuality and really just about him showing people how fucking hot he is. It's probably his own little way of making the world miserable - we get a glimpse of how good he is in bed, and we feel denied since we know that unless we're young, hot and work in food service at celebrity hangouts, we will never ride that ride.

If Adam gets caught with his pants down in the company of men who aren't his bandmates, it would make me feel so much better about him having Becky on his arm - because it would make it clear that what happened to her wasn't a fucking fairytale after all.

Dude, they can't even spell "socks" correctly.

2007-10-22T23:17:00.000-04:00

I am back from Boston, which, alas, has been drowning in Red Sox fever. I was walking up Newbury toward the Public Garden on Saturday afternoon, and I heard church bells ringing out "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I am convinced that at least 25 percent of people in town were decked out in Sox paraphernalia. And of course, given that we were visiting Boston people, we were sort of dragged into going to bars to watch games six and seven Saturday and Sunday nights.

It really made me feel uncomfortable, especially since I'm still not over the 2004 World Series; although I honestly couldn't tell you the ins and outs of the game, I was raised to side with the Yankees. (An aside: I think team president ~~Larry~~ Randy Levine may actually be a bigger douchebag than Adam Levine. I wonder if they're related)

I must admit I love how an entire city, state and region are united in their passion for a team. I honestly have never seen anything like this, even when the Yankees and Mets played in the 2000 World Series; then again, while New York loves its baseball, there tend to be other things going on that prevent people from assigning all of their passions to the sport.

And that is why I didn't want to stay in Boston after graduating from BU. Well, OK, it's only one of the reasons. But I will always love that city, even though it did a very good job of annoying me this weekend (and it would have even if baseball didn't exist).

Edited at 11:49 p.m. - because it's Randy Levine, not Larry.

The NY Post is pure evil (as if we didn't know it by now)

2007-10-19T13:57:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, I worked at The Wall Street Journal. I only lasted five months there.

I've long been over it, but now that fucking Murdoch owns the thing, I'm thankful I was let go before I made a career there.

I don't know how I'd live with myself if I wound up working for a cousin of Fox News (yes, the Journal's editorial pages are conservative, but they have nothing to do with the news content), or - worst of all - the sister newspaper to The New York Post.

If I had time, I'd run through every tasteless, cruel and outright false thing the Post has committed. I'll mention but one - their house editorial cartoonist is a raging homophobe who - I shit you not - puts a sheep in the panel whenever one of the subjects is gay.

Most recently, half the Page Six crew threatened rape on a New York magazine writer. Again, I shit you not.

As for us being "emasculated," Grigoriadis ignores that fact that half the Page Six staff is female. The male half might take her someplace private and disprove her theory, but we don't like a woman with a mustache.

In other words, "We'd gang-rape her if she wasn't ugly." I don't give a fuck if they're "joking" - rape should never be joke fodder. If you hang a noose, whether from a tree, or in The Home Depot, you will get in trouble with the law (and rightfully so). Threaten violence against women in a newspaper, and all you'll get is outrage from the blogosphere.

I demand you to go over to Feministing and read their entry on this fuckery.

My heart grows colder with each day

2007-10-18T11:18:00.000-04:00

My theme song?

I'm going to Boston with my boyfriend this weekend.

I'm finding packing stressful. Over the years, I've noticed I've bought quite a few things I rarely use; frilly lingerie is one of them. While I love wearing something fancy and saucy under the casual clothes I wear every day, the problem is that I always wear form-fitting tops. Lace and embroidery don't make a good impression - pun intended.

Then there's the nagging fact that my boyfriend is not Adam Levine.

I know I'm too fucking old for a celebrity crush to get in the way of my reality. Just as I'm too fucking old for Adam Levine (did I mention his unfamous girlfriend is six or seven years his junior? And I'm nine months his senior?)

I remember that time a few years ago when I bought Girl Scout cookies and polished off a box of Samoas in one sitting. I never wanted to eat another one of those cookies for a while. We all know Adam Fucking Levine loves, well, fucking; I'd probably wind up hating sex if I had it at least twice a day every day, even if it was with him. Not that I'm crazy about it now ... then again, I never did have realistic views about sex.

I've been saying I'm not so crazy about The Boy, but the truth is that he's the only person who ever understood me. True, he could stand to lose 20 pounds. But what's been filling me with dread is the fact that he wants kids, and I definitely don't. I see our relationship suffering a slow death. He doesn't see anything alarming.

I'm not stringing him along ... we're two weirdos, and thus are pretty much stuck with each other.

And now, some snark about the new Maroon 5 video. I'm glad Adam didn't get the girl ... Alex Rousseau, erm, Linus is too young for him.

My favorite quote from the article?

Adam Levine does not chase after girls. Adam Levine sits at home in a pile of money, drinking champagne, wearing a velvet robe, and talking about "rainbows and butterflies" until girls begin to show up in their underwear. When these girls leave, Adam Levine snaps his fingers and a new crop of girls rushes in to fill the void.

If you're afraid of clowns, keep in mind that in the video, there's a closeup on one in the parade scene.

"Notting Hill," MTV style

2007-10-12T11:06:00.000-04:00

It rained yesterday, and my misery returned. The sun is out today, and I feel slightly better.

Maroon 5 played the Garden Wednesday night, even dragging Kanye West out of his Hoboken hideaway. Since my voice remains shot, I'm glad I didn't go. If they'd played "Kiwi," however, I'd be absolutely BITTAH!

Also, his girlfriend, Becky, was in the house.

I wish Adam could have saved me from my pathetic life, like he did with his girlfriend. Well, I don't know if Becky is pathetic; girl sure is lucky. How many celebrities go into relationships with civilians? Particularly random ones they pick up on vacation?

See, why couldn't Adam's girlfriend be independently famous? If she was a starlet, I wouldn't be so BITTAH. But he fucks some random girl he bumped into while she was celebrating her 21st birthday, and then he makes her his girlfriend.

Then again, maybe we don't know the truth about how they met. Maybe she was a groupie who got very, very lucky. Damn, where did Groupie Central go?

I sound like a fucking 15-year-old. Then again, a 15-year-old has a better shot at Adam than someone as old as me.

I think I can explain why I am so hung up on this. It has to be the fact that we've all dreamed of having a celebrity fall in love with us. We all eventually get over it when we realize that stars tend to date other stars.

But in that rare event a celebrity winds up with one of us, we recall the dreams we had when we were younger. Most of us don't give a shit. I, alas, am not "most of us."

There are few celebrities I lust after, and if one of them falls for someone who isn't famous, I seethe. I ask myself why it couldn't be me, and tell myself if only I'd applied myself, I could have him. Also, I admit I believe that I am entitled to live a fucking fairy tale. I've been emotionally abused by so many people in my life that I feel I deserve a prize. A very coveted prize.

I don't understand my obsession with Adam Levine. He's a human petri dish whose current hairdo makes him look like a plastic applicator tampon, he is not respected, and of course, he is the world's greatest douchebag. Do I hate myself that much?

Besides, maybe "Kiwi" is false advertising.

Back to Prozac: An epilogue of sorts

2007-10-11T01:44:00.000-04:00

The sun came out a couple of hours later, and I felt better.

Back to Prozac

2007-10-10T13:45:00.003-04:00

I hate cloudy days. They remind me of my semester in London, when only the thought of my body having to go through customs prevented me from killing myself. I'll talk about my experience some other time.

I think my crazy psychiatrist - who tried to put me on fucking Zyprexa - may have actually been right this time ... I needed to stay on Prozac.

I stopped taking it, without his approval, because I thought it was killing my sex drive, and with a weekend away with The Boy approaching, I didn't want to have to dread sex. I also was prescribed Wellbutrin, so it's not like I'd be drug-free.

I was OK without the Prozac for a month. Then today, all hell broke loose.

I pissed my dad off last night - I've been rather abrasive lately, perhaps thanks to my Prozac-free existence - and when shit like this happens, I look at apartments online. I can't afford anything more than $1,000 a month; you need at least $1,300 if you want to live in a safe area. More if you want a guaranteed parking spot.

Maybe if I made just a little more per week, I could move out and therefore stop being so pathetic. But I fucked up at work one day, and now my whole life is fucked up.

I didn't get a raise last year because I had a meltdown at work a few days before my review. It stemmed from a fight on a message board. We were talking about some celebrity, who said she didn't want kids because of overpopulation. I said I agreed, and that infertility was nature's population control. This was a very liberal board, and since I thought my opinion was a liberal one, I wasn't prepared for the shitstorm that ensued. Since I don't like to hurt people's feelings, I spent my time at work crafting an apology and crying instead of, you know, working.

And so, despite otherwise doing a good job the rest of the time, I didn't get a raise. It's devastating, especially when you only make $600 a week in New Jersey.

This year, I had zero meltdowns, and I was told I could have had a raise, but no one's getting them because the company is struggling financially. So I am still only making $600 a week.

It's a chain reaction: I get pissed at my living situation, then I start looking for apartments. Then I tell myself I could have been able to afford living on my own if I got that fucking raise. And so I dwell on my failure to get the raise, and beat myself up over that.

I know I need to stop. I know I need to get over this. But tomorrow I will get paid and once again be reminded that I could have made more if I didn't fuck up that one day, and if I wasn't such a cruel person to not sympathize with the infertility issues of people who are better than me.

I annoyed The Boy via text messages - and I throw a lot of my shit on him - but who else do I have? I have my therapist tomorrow, but I must reschedule because my voice is still shot from The Cold That Refuses To Die and my boss suddenly decided I have to come into work early.

As for my sex issues, maybe they have nothing to do with my meds and everything to do with no longer being attracted to The Boy. He's the greatest friend I ever had, but while I no longer care about him in a romantic or sexual way, I still need him. Unfortunately, my sexual needs need to be addressed, and the rabbit can't do it all.

My month without Prozac has come to an end. While I had a meltdown, at least it wasn't at work, and least I didn't try to kill or hurt myself (although in today's chaos, scratching myself with a scissor blade was nearly an option).

Random bullshit

2007-10-08T10:42:00.000-04:00

1. Never go out to a sports bar when you're coming off a cold. Now I absolutely can't speak.

I lost one week of workouts - I was on Cathe Friedrich's beginner DVD rotation. I used to do Cathe's more advanced workouts, but in the past couple of years I've fallen out of shape. I'll try to get back on the wagon tomorrow, but I feel guilty (even though my body couldn't handle it).

2. I am listening to the U.S. version of We Are The Pipettes (by, duh, The Pipettes), which, in addition to having two new tracks, has had every track remixed. I actually have had the import since April; I prefer the production on the original version, since it sounds more like a relic from the 1960s. It's fun to think girls were singing about enjoying hip-hop and one-night stands back then.

3. I really need to get so absolutely trashed that I can get myself to throw out most of my makeup collection. It's not like I would miss much of it when it's gone - I only wear makeup maybe once a week - definitely not to work, since I can't give the creepy guy across the room any ammo to flirt at me.

I always could swap on makeupalley.com, but no one seems to want what I have (which baffles me, since most of what I have was based on things so many of the girls there were obsessed with at one point or another).

Makeupalley is the most dangerous site on the Internet, hands down. Oh, it's great for product reviews - although so many of the heavily favored products don't work for me. Still, there were times I'd go buy three tubes of a MAC Lipglass that will be discontinued when the season is over. And would I ever wear it? Of course not - it was valuable. And then it would go bad, and I'd never have used it at all.

Admittedly, although Makeupalley didn't help, my tendency to buy more makeup than I should likely stemmed from that time in college when Clinique suddenly discontinued a favorite foundation and I felt regret for not having stocked up. Never mind that I found better ones as time went by.

I think could get rid of most of my makeup, although not my Stila eye shadows.

4. I'm going to get my hair cut like Posh Spice's next week. That should get rid of much of the black "temporary" dye that damaged all the hair that was on my head 18 months ago.

5. I've been reading reviews for Maroon 5's shows online - most will say that opening act The Hives stole the show. All the teenies on the M5 boards speak of hanging out in the halls during the Swedes' sets; after all, they bashed M5. Oh, for fuck's sake, that was The Hives being The Hives. They could be touring with and they'd be bashing them; after all, The Hives are the greatest band in the world!

(Granted, a Hives/M5 ticket is perhaps one of the biggest WTFs ever, and to me they sound like random noise, but from what I've seen on YouTube, they put on a great show. Those teenies don't know what they're missing.)

Here's a rare positive review of M5 from their Columbus show; it brings up the fact that only Billy Joel (WTF?) knows why they called themselves Maroon 5 (well, the Maroon part, anyway). Lots of people think Maroon 5 is a shitty name for a band - fuck, even I think that too! - but shrouding the reasons for the name in mystery isn't going to make people think any better of the name.

I do have theories.

It is a reference to the color of menstrual blood. Obviously, any disclosure of this would expose them as assholes to their teenybopper fans.
During the all-important "name the band" meeting, one of the guys, perhaps stoned, blurted out that maroon was his favorite color. And the rest of them, also perhaps stoned, decided to go with that for their band name. Remember kids, drugs are bad.

6. Oh yeah, Adam's girlfriend. It's like a fucking fairy tale - rock star meets random girl on a weekend trip, and then they fall in love. I'm too old and non-trashy for this to happen to me, although I wish it could, so that Amy Hill (my high school tormentor; this is not her real name, by the way) would be jealous of me. Then again, Amy Hill probably finds him repulsive.

My boyfriend thinks Adam is gay (why else would he always be pawed by hot women in his videos?), and since no one famous wants to be his beard, he goes to Vegas to pick up some young bimbo who will put up with that shit.

As for me? I think this girl is the only female who can match him STD for STD.

7. At my home computer, I have a Steelcase Leap chair - regarded as one of the best for ergonomic seating. Unfortunately, no matter how I adjust it, I frequently find myself cross-legged on the seat.

8. The Arbot hasn't called anymore, but I'm wary of going to events held by the local young professionals group. Maybe I'll do speed-dating for people in their thirties (when I turn 30, of course). Maybe I'll be done with the boy by then. Besides, men aren't so much into MLM busllshit.

Unchain my mind

2007-10-06T11:59:00.000-04:00

In two weeks, I'll be in Boston with my boyfriend. As we both still live with our parents, the trip is as much about us sharing a bed as it is visiting old friends from college.

Unfortunately, I don't have much of a sex drive.

My psychiatrist has me on 40 milligrams of Prozac and 150 milligrams of Wellbutrin. I stopped taking Prozac a few weeks ago, against the doctor's request - Prozac is notorious for killing sex drives, as opposed to Wellbutrin. But on Wellbutrin alone, I feel the same as I did when I was just on Prozac - both emotionally and sexually.

Perhaps I really don't have depression - maybe I am just haunted by the cruelty heaped upon me all these years.

If sex - which had been denied to me until I was 21 - is supposed to be so great, why is it that I wind up thinking about brutal deaths? I think about tragedies all the time, compiled by years of being a news junkie and working in the news business, but they come surging at me at perhaps the most inappropriate time, blocking my path as I try to meet happiness and bliss.

I am certain my sex issues have nothing to do with my Catholic upbringing, or society's view of female sexuality, or anything like that. Perhaps it's because there's something wrong with me, if so many men - who didn't have girlfriends - have turned me down for sex. Men are all about wanting sex 24/7, or so I have been told repeatedly.

It probably has to do with coming to believe that I do not deserve happiness.

It could stem from six years ago, when I used sex as self mutilation when things weren't going well at work. I was bruised and jackhammered and bruised some more after work for a week by a guy I met at a club. To him, I was a fuckdoll, and I didn't care. I certainly didn't deserve any pleasure.

It was on Sept. 10 when I called and told him I wanted out; thankfully, he let me go. What happened the following day made my personal problems insignificant, but it's hard to weather unspeakable chaos when you are at the height of fragility.

Maybe it's just that I'm not sexually attracted to my boyfriend because he has put on weight over the past few years. I know I'm being superficial, but I tend to be as hard on other people's looks as I am on my own; also, I always found men who are skinnier than me attractive.

With Boston looming, I have been trying to work on strengthening my sexuality so that it can engulf all the news of brutal deaths I think about. Last week, I dug up a copy of The Best American Erotica 2002 that had been hiding in my bookshelf; I don't remember why I decided to buy it years ago.

I couldn't get turned on. Typos and misspellings grabbed me more than the erotic prose.

First, from Jamie Callan's "Talk About Sex: An Orientation," on page 23:

...imagining that I live in a loft apartment on Walker and Lisbernard with a poet boyfriend who beats me...

The street is Lispenard. And although Walker is one block over, the streets never meet. I know this, and yet New Yorkers think I'm some sort of foreigner!

From Maggie Estep's "Joe," on page 37:

...she had a nice shape, hips rounding out slightly from a miniscule waist.

It's spelled "minuscule." Think "minus."

From Adelina Anthony's "Cowboy," on page 81:

That's what I need to do, just get him up and off that stool so I can take a peak at his package.

I'm sure you can spot the typo, so I won't point it out.

And finally, from Paula Bomer's "Two Years," on page 217:

He'd be listening to Neil Pert drum solos, playing air drums...

I don't listen to Rush, but Neil Peart is so revered, even I know the difference between him and an all-in-one shampoo and conditioner.

What does this tell me? That bad spelling turns me off? That I am a copy editor first, and a sexual being second or third?

If prose doesn't do the trick, music can, right? While writing this post, I've been listening to The Afghan Whigs' 1965, which is my go-to music when I find myself alone with my rabbit. (I realized why I have Adam Levine issues - he's like a better-looking, less hateful Greg Dulli. This opinion isn't so unique).

Alas, I'm not feeling anything now. Fuck, even "Kiwi" has lost its notoriety.

I've got two weeks to clear the clutter from my mind. I am overwhelmed.

About fucking time

2007-10-04T11:29:00.000-04:00

Since I talk too much about Adam Levine and his confirmed douchebaggery and alleged doability, he now has his own label on my blog - "Adam Fucking Levine," of course. And to celebrate, here is a post about Adam Fucking Levine and his fucking band.

Adam made a hilarious appearance in the latest Saturday Night Live digital short. Still, while watching Jewish guys sing a love song to a homophobic anti-Semite is funny, it doesn't hold a candle to dicks in boxes.

I'd love to see Maroon 5 turn the "I Ran" hook into a full-blown song, like how they turned the hook on Hoboken dweller Kanye West's "Heard 'Em Say" into "Nothing Lasts Forever." Still, I prefer "Heard 'Em Say" - Kanye's rhymes are frequently dreadful (although "The way Kathie Lee needed Regis/That's the way I need Jesus" is so bad it's awesome), but he is a brilliant producer. Plus, he chose to live in Jersey. Moreover, it turns out he does have a sense of humor, since on that same episode of SNL, he pokes fun at his behavior at awards shows. Nothing like making your case for the Nobel Peace Prize for Physics [sic.] by acting violently.

You may ask why I won't be going to see the Maroons at MSG. Well, Ryan was my reason for ever wanting to go see M5, and obviously, he's not there anymore. And sadly, his departure from the band wasn't as amicable as originally claimed. From the Rolling Stone cover story...

The way to make a member of Maroon 5 stop short is to mention Ryan Dusick, their former drummer, who suffered severe enough injuries that he had to retire from the band. He was a founding member, dating back to Kara's Flowers. "It makes this whole thing bittersweet," Levine says. "I love Matt Flynn, but the bottom line is I wanted to do this with Ryan. It will never be precisely what I wanted."

In the middle of the Jane tour, Dusick's body started to give out, due to a combination of stress, sleep deprivation and an old baseball injury. The band told him to go home and get better - but every time he tried to make a comeback, he quickly regressed.

"I'm in better shape than I was," Dusick says. "But I don't know if it'll ever go away. I've got tendinitis in my right shoulder and left wrist, and some residual nerve problems. Some carpal tunnel. And there's some tear in my right shoulder that's not showing up on MRIs."

When the band started work on the second record and it became clear Dusick wasn't physically able to handle it, Maroon 5 sat down for a meeting. Dusick says they were worried that even if he made it through recording, he wouldn't be able to handle the rigors of touring - and that by then, his regular replacement on tour, Flynn, would have moved on to another job.

"I would be lying if I said I was totally happy with the way the band handled it," Dusick says. "I wish the agreement that we came to for me leaving could have been more open-ended. But once I got over the initial shock, it was a relief."

"That was the hardest thing we've ever been through," [guitarist James] Valentine says of Dusick's departure.

The band asked Flynn to officially join. Dusick was named musical director and kept coming to the studio, but the situation proved too awkward, and he stopped. He has enough money to retire, but he'd like to be a producer and is also writing songs. He says he's doing OK now. He doesn't even have to flip channels anymore when Maroon 5 come on TV."

Ryan is now singing in a Black Sabbath tribute band called Sábado Negro. They played at the Viper Room last month, and all the Maroons came to cheer Ryan on.

I was hurt that they offically replaced Ryan with Matt. I guess I'm used to Bon Jovi's way of handling a departure; they fired Alec, their original bassist, but wouldn't officially replace him out of "respect" (and so, you don't see Hugh in band photos, and he'll get blink-and-you'll-miss-it shots in some videos). Hugh - who actually played bass on "Runaway," which was recorded before Jon formed the band that came to be Bon Jovi - doesn't have stage presence, but it seems he's been their bassist longer than Alec had been in the band. Alec was fired for erratic behavior and drug problems - why shouldn't he be formally replaced?

Maroon 5 probably felt they had to be a five-member unit. But then again, Ben Folds Five was a trio. And Matchbox Twenty isn't made up of 20 people.

As for the circumstances of Ryan's departure, I know the feeling from being let go from jobs ... you are told you have to leave because you were in over your head, but you never believed that - you are a fucking talent, dammit! But the truth is, the job was too much for you, and when you move on with your life, you realize that losing the job was a blessing in disguise. Perhaps "Nothing Lasts Forever" and "Better That We Break" could be about Ryan. In a non-gay way, of course.

Another reason why I won't be seeing Maroon 5: There's no guarantee they'll play "Kiwi." Already they've played three shows on this tour, and there has been no sign of "Kiwi" (I know this from the message board at maroon5.com - hello, I'm pathetic!). Really, they should play it, if not for Adam waxing poetic about eating pussy, then so James can do that guitar solo at the end that would let him rock out with his cock out. Figuratively, of course - Adam's not going to let anyone else upstage him. Hmm, maybe that's why Ryan was asked to leave.

Finally, it would be quite embarrassing to ask my boss for a schedule change so I can hang out with teenyboppers at a Maroon 5 concert.

If you managed to get through this post, here's a special treat for you: A snarky look at the "Wake Up Call" video. And here's the video for reference.

Mole person

2007-10-04T10:13:00.001-04:00

I never bothered to count how many moles I have on my body. Constellations form on both my arms and on my back, while my face and legs are lightly marked. TMI alert - the largest one is on my labia. That would definitely come into play should I ever be involved in a sex scandal like Bill Clinton or Crazy Evil Michael Jackson.

Other than the fact that my moles prevent me from looking like a porcelain doll, my polka-dotted existence never really bothered me, until three years ago, when I saw a dermatologist whose MO was to remove every fucking mole on one's body. This would be akin to a doctor deciding to remove my breasts because my grandmother died of breast cancer.

He removed two - one on my back and one on my arm, where a scar still remains. Thankfully, he never saw my ladyparts.

I ran crying to a more highly regarded dermatologist (who didn't take my insurance, so I had to pay out of pocket), who basically said I went to a psycho. And so I went to her husband, who did take my insurance (Yeah, they're like a skin care dynasty - their daughter is a dermatologist too!).

There are two schools of thought regarding moles: either get rid of them before they morph, or just keep your eyes peeled for any changes. The latter option is better for me, because resembling Swiss cheese just isn't sexy.

On Tuesday, another mole was removed by the good dermatologist. It was on my upper inner thigh. It always was raised, but I never remembered a dark cluster forming on the border. I don't go to the beach or pool, so it hasn't been exposed to the sun for the past few years. It was the only mole out of dozens that concerned the dermatologist, and so it was removed.

My dermatologist says I could live in a cave for the rest of my life and still have moles that morph in sketchy ways. I knit driving gloves for my hands - if you get melanoma on your hands, you're probably going to die - but obviously, moles can thrive in darkness. Remember, my largest mole is in an area that has never seen sunlight!

This is October, so the onslaught of pink for breast cancer awareness is on; I'm sure that once again, my city will tie pink ribbons around lampposts. I ranted about how I felt about pink ribbons and pink crap back in May. And keep in mind that my grandmother died of breast cancer.

I'm sure that there are so many people out there who believe that melanoma and other skin cancers are absolutely preventable - stay out of the fucking sun, they say. Stop sunbathing with baby oil and Coke (do people still do this?). Bullshit - the latest mole to go was only exposed to my jeans.

I feel like no one is trying to find the causes of breast cancer because chances are, the movement will cease to be a marketing goldmine. After all, what if makeup - remember, Estée Lauder is one of the most prominent "pink" companies out there - is the cause? Ignorant people can get behind the breast cancer movement, unlike all those other cancers that they are convinced only hit the non-virtuous.

Lung cancer: People who smoke have it coming.
Liver cancer: People who drink have it coming.
Cervical cancer: Sluts who have sex before marriage have it coming.
Breast cancer: Uh, erm, how does one avoid breast cancer?

Skin cancer is the most common cancer in America - and perhaps because 90 percent of occurrences are preventable, it doesn't make for a "safe" cause. I'd love to see more done to promote awareness, including ribbons (perhaps white with brown polka dots) and corporate support.

And I want to see serious steps taken toward finding a cause for breast cancer.

Something new to file under "overrated"

2007-10-03T21:36:00.000-04:00

I was home sick from work tonight, so I caught the premiere of "Pushing Daisies." I won't be watching any more episodes ... the concept could make for a good movie, but it's too tedious for a TV series.

The Boy did not find Chunky Pam amusing. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he's really not so Jersey after all ... he was born in Texas and lived in Virginia until he was 4 or so.

Oh yeah, and he hates Bruce because he believes he could have saved Asbury Park, that city on the Shore he often waxes poetic about, from its present status as a dump.

Represent, bitches!

2007-09-29T13:00:00.001-04:00

I was born in Secaucus, so that makes me the motherfucking queen. Bow down to me, bitches!

You can find the lyrics at Chunky Pam's MySpace.

Edit Sept. 30: The people behind this all live in New York Shitty (boo! hiss!) - but they had me fooled! And Pam (who is Milli Vanilli-ing the thing) is played by a Broadway actor who hails from ... Arkansas?!

Also, I didn't realize the abrupt ending was a nod to the Sopranos finale. I guess I'm really not so Drrty Jerzy, since I hated that show. And another thing: while I respect and admire Broooooce's talent, I unfortunately haven't been able to get into him. He will, however, live forever in Bru's List Of Totally Awesome People for what he said at his Nov. 24, 1996, concert (scroll down to "Red Headed Woman").

Springsteen for Governor 2009: He might be corrupt ... but it's in a good way.

Read more about the Chunky Pam project from newspapers that weren't name-checked in the song: The Press of A.C., and The Record.

I thought I lived in a blue state!

2007-09-25T23:58:00.000-04:00

It's not easy to plot a move from your parents' house when you're in the New York Metropolitan Area® making $600 a week after taxes.

I have come to terms with the fact that I probably will never be able to buy property. The problem is, my boyfriend disapproves of me renting since, as it has been commonly regarded, it's throwing money away (of course, paying thousands in property taxes in addition to your mortgage also is throwing money away). He lives with his parents too (obviously he's saving up to buy something, but he makes more money than I do), so you can imagine our sex life.

My boyfriend is, for the most part, the most grounded and practical-minded person I know. But what may be right for him isn't right for me.

There are plenty of resources online if you want to move to New York City - but not so many when it comes to New Jersey. Really, in my travels around the Internets, everyone seems to live in New York City (and yet, they all seem to worship the Red Sox).

In order to get my apartment search going, I need to learn which towns and areas are safe for a single woman who gets home around midnight, as well as where there's easy access to good food and a good vibe.

Alas, the primary resource for living information in New Jersey (and perhaps the only one I'm aware of now) is city-data.com, and their New Jersey forum. It is a distressing place, yet I keep coming back, hoping I can find something useful among the garbage.

It seems most of the people there are bigoted dickheads who want to move to a Southern state (or who have done so), where things are cheaper and there are fewer Democrats running things (because, you know, only Democrats can be corrupt). Of course, I could just say good riddance to them and be glad they're going somewhere where their views and attitudes are more welcome.

Perhaps the conservative blowhards aren't representative of all the posters on that forum. They're just louder (much like the New Yorkers and the Red Sox fans I keep thinking represent 90 percent of the Internet).

Still, that forum is ready-made for a drinking game. Let's go!

Take one drink every time the governor is referred to as Corslime. (Oooh, how clever and creative!)

Not that I am a fan of Corzine, but politicians of both major parties have drop-kicked the state budget into the shitter over the years, and frankly, the only way to clean that mess up is to raise taxes. Unfortunately, the person who decided to take steps toward fixing the problem happened to be a Democrat. I guess people would rather the state go into bankruptcy. And what would happen then? Would we be absorbed into Delaware? Egads!

True, I would like to see Corzine put most of his fortune toward helping fix the budget. But what can you do?

Besides, I'll put up with corruption for this, this, this and this. And of course, this!

Have a drink whenever someone says "Corslime" is worse than "the gay one"/"McSkeevey."

I can't see how anyone can be worse than The Gay American®, who is the biggest media whore this side of Perez Hilton. But I do have to admit I love the McSkeevey moniker - it sounds like a nickname for a douchebag character on Grey's Anatomy.

Reach for the booze whenever anyone blames Democrats for the high cost of living here, AND practically declares it's impossible for Republicans to have a corrupt bone in their body.

I would laugh, but witnessing delusion is depressing.

Take one drink when the "illegals" are blamed for anything.

Obviously, these people wouldn't have a problem with undocumented workers if they all came from Poland (I'm using that country as an example because there are quite a few people from there who are here illegally. Naturally, no one complains about them).

Take one drink whenever someone boasts about how much better it is in North Carolina/Tennessee/wherever the fuck they fled Jersey for.

Even though I've talked about how much I hate going to New York sometimes, I love knowing that it's right there when I want it. And I love that there is culture and great food on this side of the Hudson as well.

Sure, I'd have a bigger place to live in, but I'd die of boredom.

Drink everything in sight when they whine about how the bagels and pizza suck.

Cue Nelson Muntz.

With the exception of New York City, I couldn't live anywhere else in this country but North Jersey. Boston felt so limiting, and it's regarded as a cosmopolitan hotspot (perhaps not on par with New York, but certainly more so than, say, Charlotte). I realize it's expensive, and my salary isn't in tune with the realities of life here, but I'd wither and die elsewhere. Unless I could find a way to live in Paris.

Crotchfruit

2007-09-22T10:52:00.000-04:00

Now, although I do not want children, I'm not one of those militant childfree types who refers to children as crotchfruit. Kids are swell. They're just not for me.

No, this post is about kiwi, the fruit that, thanks to Maroon 5, now represents amazing cunnilingus. Although remarkably, I don't get hot and bothered when I bring it to work (which is often) - it's compact, ridiculously nutritious and relatively inexpensive.

Which is why I love the idea of ladyparts being likened to a kiwi - is any fruit as perfect? Well played, Mr. Levine.

I have listened to "Kiwi" at least 124 times (according to my iTunes) - hey, you rarely hear of a man who will eagerly declare he wants to eat you out. Adam Levine is a douche (and like douche, he's bad for ladyparts), but he sure knows what girls like.

I fall for false advertising. Damn you, Levine!

Alas, on a trip to Whole Foods yesterday, I discovered something rather disturbing ... a parenting magazine called Kiwi!

Naturally, I needed to find out whey they chose such a dirty name for such an innocent publication. Thankfully, they made it easy.

Kiwis are like our children: invigorating, juicy and sweet all at the same time.

You can easily replace "children" with "vaginas." Genius!

Meanwhile, over at the produce department, I discovered baby kiwi! Of course, a container of these grape-sized delights costs more than 12 adult kiwi, but obviously, I had to get them. Now this is sweet kiwi ... it doesn't have the tartness that standard kiwi boast. I do prefer the sweet/tart juxtaposition of the full-grown variety though. However, given the connotations I have associated with kiwi, "baby kiwi" sounds like something that would lead people who buy it to Chris Hansen.

Fuckery - I have a stalker!

2007-09-10T13:08:00.000-04:00

I went to a networking event for local women several weeks back. Alas, there was an Arbot there.

Arbonne International (which I refuse to provide a link to) is a multi-level marketing company - essentially, a product-based pyramid scheme. It boasts its products are botanical and formulated in Switzerland (although that is subject to debate). However, Arbonne reps - which detractors call Arbots - can be described as Avon or Mary Kay ladies on steroids; as I have learned firsthand, they are very persistent.

The Arbot I met at the event keeps calling me every week, beseeching me to have coffee with her. It goes without saying that it's really about getting me to buy crap I can't afford, and then she'll inevitably twist my arm to get me to sell Arbonne (because in multi-level marketing, the real money is made by recruiting). I actually added the Arbot to my cell phone's contact list (and listed her as "Arbot - DON'T ANSWER!" so that when she calls, I know to let her do her spiel to my voice mail.

Speaking of Mary Kay, I also met at the event a woman who sells their stuff - but she called me just once and maybe sent out two e-mails. Quite shocking, especially if you're familiar with Pink Truth. Crap, I added her to my friends on Facebook because I wasn't thinking, but she's pretty much well-behaved. As much as I can't stand people involved in multi-level marketing, I actually hope she gets her pink Cadillac someday.

And now, some resources...

Here's a blog from a recovering Arbot.
Pink Truth focuses on Mary Kay, but other MLMs (including Arbonne) are discussed on the message board.

Fascist Week

2007-09-06T13:56:00.001-04:00

For the fabulous people in that magical land across the river, where I am not welcome, it's the most wonderful time of every six months. That's right, I'm talking about Fashion Week in New York.

And reading about it made me realize that really, I don't want to be a fashionista. There are really only two reasons why I wish I had a glamorous job at a magazine...

Revenge on everyone who ever shunned or insulted me - and that's a lot of people. I could imagine the queen bee of my high school reading a magazine while waiting for the doctor or hairstylist ... and then seeing my name. Queen Bee is an elementary school teacher - meanwhile, I would have been fabulous.
Business trips to Paris, London and Milan! And maybe other places! If my company sends me somewhere, it's to seminars in East Brunswick.

My reasons for wanting such a job have nothing to do with loving fashion, and everything to do with image. It's not even the image that I would feel comfortable with - however, it's an image that can be readily rubbed in the faces of everyone who regarded me as an outcast.

I know I should disregard my past; however, my past has bearing on who I am today. I believe it was difficult for me to make friends in college because I really had no friends in high school - it still is difficult for me to relate to people.

What gets outcasts through their lives is the idea that someday, they will be admired and appreciated (while their tormentors fade away). I don't feel that someday has come, but I think the problem is that I have a very narrow definition of "admired and appreciated." I know I need to realize that happiness and success should be on my own terms. But it's so tempting to wish that I turned out better than my tormentors.

Whatever the fuck "better" means.

Douchebags are hygienic products

2007-09-06T11:04:00.000-04:00

No, this is not a post about Adam Levine. Go thank your lucky stars.

All the cool kids love Wet Hot American Summer. Obviously, I'm not one of the cool kids. Still, the following quote did resonate with me.

Listen, Coop. Last night was really great. You were incredibly romantic and heroic, no doubt about it. And that's great. But I've thought about it, and my thing is this. Andy is really hot. And don't get me wrong, you're cute too, but Andy is like, cut. From marble. He's gorgeous. He has this beautiful face and this incredible body, and I genuinely don't care that he's kinda lame. I don't even care that he cheats on me. And I like you more than I like Andy, Coop, but I'm 16. And maybe it'll be a different story when I'm ready to get married, but right now, I am entirely about sex. I just wanna get laid. I just wanna take him and grab him and fuck his brains out, ya know? So that's where my priorities are right now. Sex. Specifically with Andy and not with you.

My boyfriend is definitely Coop. But I really would rather have an Andy. Yeah, I'm shallow.

Everyone's a label whore

2007-09-03T13:28:00.000-04:00

The other day at Barnes & Noble, I leafed through Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster by Dana Thomas (who, by virtue of living in Paris, has a life I covet). It intrigued me, especially given my failed dreams of becoming a fashionista and my history of desiring things I really don't need.

During my dreadful teen years, YM magazine used to extol the virtues of Betsey Johnson - this was the '90s, remember. It assumed, in its stupid quizzes and horoscopes and how-to-snag-guys pieces, that we all owned a Betsey Johnson dress.

I remember the day when my mom took me to a Betsey Johnson boutique on Manhattan's East Side, and miraculously, I emerged with a pink lace dress with puffed short sleeves. I treasured that dress. I remember bringing it on a cruise and sleeping with it, so that I could readily evacuate with it if the boat started to sink.

The dress didn't make me any better a person, but when I put it on, I felt I was floating above my loserdom. But otherwise, I wasn't big on designers (though I wore a lot of Esprit and Gap).

When I was in college, I wore Levi's and Doc Martens, and the bulk of my clothes came from the Gap, Old Navy, Nordstrom's Brass Plum department and Express, and the occassional fancy dress from Bebe. I vaguely recall what bags I had; I think I used to carry my books in one of those bags that resemble a laptop case, without the padding. My "nice" bags were probably Nine West crap I bought at Filene's. I carried around a Manhattan Portage messenger bag senior year.

I often wondered if my "normal" clothes were preventing me from garnering male attention. My school does have a reputation for attracting the wannabe fashionistas, so back then, you'd see all the candyass girls on campus carrying those nylon Prada bags Thomas talks about (which I thought were ugly; I wanted a Kate Spade - also popular with the girls - but my parents wouldn't buy me one). In my mind, if I ever bought a bag costing $400, it had to be made of leather.

But $400 for nylon is within the reach of those girls whose parents didn't mind shelling out $400 for a designer name (because they regarded it as a better deal than a $600 Vuitton). I disagree with Thomas that the Prada name - or luxury as a whole - was cheapened by the vinyl bag explosion; the clothes and leather goods remained ridiculously costly.

I don't believe that Thomas mentions this, but I think what also helped bring high-end goods mainstream was when Glamour - not Vogue or Bazaar, but Glamour! - started acting as though we all owned at least one pair of Manolo Blahniks. This naturally coincided with Bonnie Fuller lobotomizing the once-intelligent magazine; indeed, Bonnie Fuller was the editor of YM when it was forcing me to desire a Betsey Johnson dress.

I was brainwashed; after I received my first couple of paychecks from my first job out of college, I went down the street to the Manolo Blahnik boutique and bought a pair of black Carolyne slingbacks. Thankfully, I still use them on the rare occasion I go out.

Thomas also takes Louis Vuitton to task for its ubiquity. I'm not a fan of browns, so I never cared to own a Louis. A few years back, my cousin gave me a very convincing fake rainbow monogram bag. I only wore it out once; I felt so dirty carrying a fake. And even if I had a real one, there still would be plenty of people who think it's fake.

To contrast, Thomas gushes about Hermès bags - especially how they're handmade to order, unlike Vuitton bags. Hermès couldn't have paid for better advertising.

There was a time I thought the coveted Birkin was fugly; about two years ago - perhaps because of the hype - I changed my mind and now want a purple Birkin so bad (I've found that a deep purple goes with almost everything). Really, how out of reach is one when quite a few of the ladies on the Purse Blog forums wax poetic about their Birkins?

To get me back down to earth, I remind myself of this quote from Tim Gunn, the Parsons professor of Project Runway fame.

I've had three people tell me in the last couple months that they've had a Birkin bag stolen. And from very high-end places. Can you imagine being at the Four Seasons restaurant in New York and having your Birkin bag stolen by someone who is sitting at an equally tony table right next to you? It's horrifying. And there is a kind of social embarrassment to having an It bag. I would rather say, "Gee, this is a $4,000 bag. Why don't I spend $600 instead and give the balance to charity?"

This quote is notable, because no one in the know is supposed to trash the Birkin.

In Deluxe, similar gushing is directed at Christian Louboutin. I love the red soles - who doesn't? - but will they someday be regarded as passé? At least the Birkin has stood the test of time. As is the style of Manolos I've owned for more than six years.

And with so many shoe makers knocking off the red soles - from cheapie brands to luxury labels - it sort of sucks the charm out of having Loubies. Cripes, Cesare Paciotti, a high-end Italian brand, has now been painting its soles red. Even luxe brands most people know about, like Prada's Miu Miu, are getting into the act!

While I try to balance being fashionable with buying things that will still work in a couple of years, I also try to be responsible. Especially recently, I've always tried to buy European-made bags. If I'm going to pay upwards of $400 for a bag, it had better not be made in China (although given Coach's success, there are obviously a lot of people who don't care). I tried to avoid products made in China back in high school, when I was with Amnesty International and seemingly all the prisoners we were writing on behalf of were in China; even then it was next to impossible.

Perhaps Deluxe's most damning revelation is that the label of origin is very likely lying. Thomas says the bulk of a bag could be made in China; then, it would be shipped to Italy, where a buckle and a Made in Italy label are affixed.

But alas, she doesn't name names. Perhaps they are brands like Furla and Longchamp - brands I pay more for because their labels say they're not made in China. Perhaps they are even higher-end brands.

While fascinating at times, the book does have an elitist attitude (not surprising for someone who, during the promotional tour for her book, flashed those red Louboutin soles so we know she's still a label whore). Unless they mass-produce Birkins, I doubt luxury will ever die.

I obviously didn't read the whole book, but it seems as though she fails to address the problem of consumerism. Would there be as much demand for Loubies if Allure didn't mention them in a how-to piece on pedicures? Basically, they said poorly maintained feet won't do your Louboutins any favors. What's wrong with saying "your nicest shoes"?

I can see an ad for a particular product, and I wouldn't be swayed. But when I'm reading a story in a magazine that speaks as though we should own that particular product, that's what puts me over the edge. I used to work in PR, so I can see through this, but still, I succumb.

What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here

2007-08-31T10:40:00.000-04:00

I used to love going to Manhattan. But lately, I have had a different tune, perhaps fueled by comments on blogs like Gawker and Gothamist - I hate being in New York because I am bridge-and-tunnel trash, and thus don't belong there. Plus, Manhattan is a symbol of my failure - I could have and should have lived there, but I never did.

For the unfamiliar: Manhattan is an island, surrounded by rivers. Thus, if you're traveling to Manhattan, you are probably using a bridge and/or a tunnel. The graphic on the top of my blog is from the inside of the Lincoln Tunnel, the river crossing I use most (although I have used the PATH from Hoboken, or the NY Waterway ferry during times I've felt like splurging).

"Bridge and tunnel" is an elitist term which used to apply to residents of the other four boroughs of New York City, as well as New Jersey, Long Island, and basically the rest of the metropolitan area.

Today, "B&T" only seems to apply to New Jersey. Never mind that I live closer to Manhattan than many people in Queens or everyone on Staten Island. Never mind that where I live is tougher than many parts of New York City. In New Yorkers' minds, Jersey may as well be another country, where everyone is addicted to hair gel and muscle shirts.

I always felt I was closer to New York than New Jersey - I believed I was too snarky and eccentric for Jersey. I thought I could be like the Statue of Liberty - claimed by New York, yet actually standing in Jersey, turning her back on the state she's in. Of course, New Yorkers embraced Lady Liberty as their own. They'll never embrace me.

When it comes to people, geography matters. And things that should make sense don't. I'm reminded of the hierarchy of dorms at my university - people would rather live on another college's campus than in the centrally located dorm, because it wasn't cool to live in the centrally located dorm.

Bridge and tunnel isn't a state of origin - it's a state of mind.

Just because the douchebags at NJguido.com are from Jersey doesn't mean everyone from Jersey is still like that. I'm not doubting the guidos exist, but honestly, I don't think I've seen people like that at the mall (because what can be more stereotypically Jersey than the mall?) recently.

I go to the city for the shopping, the culture and the food. I've always hated clubbing, and I don't vomit on the street or let out whoops in the middle of the night. Fine, I may use too much hair product, but it's not crunchy from Aqua Net and gel.

People in the city also love to brag about how much more sophisticated they are than those from outside city limits. Once upon a time, when I worked at Pure Evil PR, I had a boss who lived in Manhattan; her kids were born and bred in Manhattan. At the time, they loved Blink-182 - which, if I'm not mistaken, was what critics deemed "suburban music." First off, I don't think even a good fake ID will get a 13-year-old into a rock club to listen to the Stereogum-approved acts. Also, the kids in the city get the same MTV everyone else in America gets; there is no MTV-NYC that only plays critical darlings and only airs in New York City.

If I moved to Manhattan, would I finally enjoy the tuneless noises the critics wet themselves over, and stop liking Maroon 5's music? As Gob Bluth would say, "come on!"

Of course, Maroon 5 hails from a big city themselves, although L.A. is pretty damn suburban for a major city.

Suburbia is not a state of place - it's a state of mind.

Another thing: You can come from a suburb of any other American city and get away with saying you're from said city. New York, however, is a unique beast. During freshman orientation at college, I told people I was from New York ... I quickly learned that's simply not done - only if you were from New Jersey. Although I think it was the same with Long Island (someone please tell me why that place doesn't get a quarter of the hate directed to Jersey).

For as long as I can remember, I believed Manhattan was my destiny. I dreamed of writing for a fashion magazine and living a life of thrills and frills. As it turns out, it's easier to get into Harvard than to get a job at Hearst or Condé Nast - in the magazine world, connections matter even more, talent matters even less.

Besides, my parents were unwilling to pay for me to live in Manhattan (commuting from your parents' house in Jersey is simply not an option in magazineland - there is an image you must uphold). Before you think that I'm asking for too much from my parents, you should know that many, many young people living in Manhattan and key areas of Brooklyn are subsidized by their parents (that job in PR or at a magazine, frankly, won't pay a third of one's rent). And yet, it's not regarded as pathetic - however, still living with parents is. It's all about image - if you look good, no one cares about the truth.

In a way, I'm glad my parents aren't spoiling me. I want to be an independent person. Of course, independence and living with parents aren't mutually exclusive; however, it's more satisfying to accomplish things on your own than to leech off other people.

If I get pulled over by a cop (um, like I did last week), I refuse to attempt to flirt my way out of a ticket. I may cry over having the bad luck to get an asshole cop who wouldn't let me go with a warning, but I take my tickets like an adult. True, my car insurance will go up, but at least I maintained my dignity.

There's no dignity in having your parents pay your rent. Granted, neither is there dignity in still living with your parents years after college. But I make a sacrifice for my shelter by putting up with my overpossessive parents and brother, and still sleeping in a twin-size bed even though I'm pushing 30. What sacrifices are those bints making?

(I just realized I actually wrote a long post without saying "fuck" or its various iterations. Shocking!)

Minor edits made on Sept. 1.

"Douchebag" is too kind a word

2007-08-24T11:43:00.001-04:00

Adam Levine looks like a penis.

It's been a good week for those of us who can't look away from the one and only Lord of the Douche, Adam Levine, the one moron of Maroon 5. First, he's looking like a penis on the cover of Rolling Stone - and the accompanying interview paints him as just another lifelong Hell-A rich bitch. His dad owns a chain of boutiques in L.A., and I guess he followed through on his child support payments for Adam.

An aside: There really is a Jane that Adam wrote those songs about - Jane Herman (For the longest time, I thought "Jane" was a pseudonym - after all, it's a very good name to use as a pseudonym). According to this, Jane's daddy owns Stupid Girl haunt Fred Segal. Naturally, she's now writing for Vogue. Lucky girl - she got with Adam before he became a human petri dish, and now, no doubt thanks to her daddy's job and connections, is living the life I'm fucking entitled to. Why did my dad have to own a funeral home?

Back to Adam the Douchebox (because generally, boxes have more capacity than bags). He is such a douchebox that everyone believed a fabricated item about him describing sex with Maria Sharapova (now bringing the pervs to the yard that is the National Tennis Center over in Queens) as akin to fucking a dead frog. I'd been had as well - after all, if Adam Fucking Levine isn't singing about his sex life, he's talking about it.

Camp Maroon issued a denial, and the writer of the item, found in his Russian satirical newspaper (think The Onion, but not beholden to libel laws) said, "Americans are the most gullible fucking morons on Planet Earth."

Despite proof of its inauthenticity, it turns out the "dead frog" story has longer legs than MaSha. As soon as Perez Fucking Hilton picked it up on Monday, it spread faster than a herpes outbreak among celebrities. As I do a Google blog search for "Adam Levine" at this moment, most of what pops up when I filter for "most recent" is the "dead frog" story translated into several languages.

If the world didn't know Adam Fucking Levine was such a douchebox, maybe the story wouldn't have stuck.

Regardless, I still want to have sex with the douchelord. Then I'd rent a billboard in a high-traffic area, on which I would publish his size, diseases and whether he's as good as he keeps singing he is.

Alas, I'm paying enough money for my antidepressants that I actually need - could you imagine how many STD treatments I'd need? And how much in copays I'd have to give up?

Pretty boys will break your heart

2007-08-08T23:47:00.000-04:00

Well, I lied about when I'd be posting the caravane publicitaire photos. Not that anyone cared in the first place.

Unless you're a ice-dance cultist like me, you probably have no idea who Maxim Staviski is. Well, in Bulgaria, he's kind of a big deal. Right now, he's on the flipside cover of their edition of Cosmo.

He and his partner, Albena Denkova, are the two-time reigning world champions. This is a very big deal.

Their winning performance in 2006...

...and this year's podium-topper.

Denkova and Staviski are one of my favorite teams ... their style is dynamic and athletic, drawn from modern dance.

They're also an item off the ice, but remarkably, they don't make me gag - even when they're doing an exhibition to "You're Beautiful." That, too, is a very big deal.

Max has been bestowed the prestigious Porny Skater of the Year award by FSU, before the honor was sullied by this year's men's world champion, Brian Joubert (who is an attractive guy with a foxy French accent, but for some reason doesn't do anything for me).

So imagine my disgust when Max decided to drive his Hummer H3 (a gift from the nation for winning Worlds last year) while drunk, and wound up killing a young man and injuring three other people (one who is now in a coma). Bonus: He and Beanie participated in a "don't drink and drive" campaign in Bulgaria.

I know I'm too fucking old to be disillusioned when someone I like does something very, very wrong. Besides, Max is a professional athlete - bad behavior is practically par for the course. Even if he does compete in a cult sport.

Still, it's always devastating when a favorite entertainer or athlete does something heinous. I feel like I should regret that I ever was a DenStas fan ... as if one can tell by the way he skates that he partakes in putting other people's lives at risk when he's off the ice.

But having such regret isn't beneficial to my depression. I can't set out to beat myself up for something I had no control over. There's being angry at Maxim and hoping he gets the book thrown at him, and then there's kicking myself because I ever liked his skating.

I think I should be grateful that Maxim Staviski isn't Chris Benoit. Max didn't deliberately kill - still, he should be punished accordingly and forced to recall his heinous mistake for the rest of his life.

I have nothing but grief and sadness for the victims and Beanie. Max, on the other hand, has none of my sympathy.

C'est dope!

2007-07-31T15:29:00.000-04:00

(Sorry, couldn't resist.)

I'm back from my vacation - three nights in Brussels, one night in Budapest and three nights in Paris ... including Sunday, when I caught the end of the Tour de France. The doping scandals don't take away from the fact that catching le Tour live is a fabulous experience - and it's free to boot!

Here are my photos of the action on the Champs-Elysées.

I'll add my photos from the caravane publicitare tomorrow.

Fade to gray

2007-07-22T02:34:00.000-04:00

Gather around and learn why I chose missclairol as my Blogger ID.

I used to dye my hair, whether it was to add a reddish glaze to it, or to make my dark brown hair deep and rich - or black. I never bleached or had highlights - my mom, of course, thought I should give it a try.

I last dyed my hair a little over a year ago. It was Clairol Natural Instincts in midnight, the black shade. It didn't wash out in the 24 shampoos it was promised - maybe Clairol should realize what I have - that it's impossible to create a semi-permanent black haircolor.

Fortunately, my natural hair color is dark, and so there really isn't an issue with roots unless someone who cares too much about hair color looks at my hair in the sunlight. But now that I stopped dyeing my hair, I'm finally seeing gray hairs. I know it's not so bad - my mom found a gray hair on my head when I was 11. And my boyfriend is only a few months older than me, and his hair is probably 1/32 gray. But I can't help but think that this discovery, along with my 29th birthday last month, has forced me to re-examine my life and look back at all the mistakes I've made in the past. And looking back at the past is painful - even the things I couldn't control.

At work Friday, I thought back to high school for some reason. And then I cried. And then I wrote the following:

I guess I'm tired of my life. I probably should have given up back in high school. I didn't have a boyfriend in high school - I should have taken it as a sign that my life wasn't going to be that great.

My social isolation in high school is affecting me to this day. It is like going to college without having gone to high school first - as I have learned, having friends and significant others during high school sets you up for the rest of your life. People were definitely put off by me in college - if I had had a normal high school social experience, I probably wouldn't have had the "weird" mannerisms; I probably would have been able to relate better to people my age. All I knew about people my age was what I saw from the outside, whether it was the girls in their lacrosse kilts eating lunch together, or by reading magazines.

I guess I'm a pretty girl - I may not be graceful or tall, but I am not repulsive. Maybe I look OK in the mirror, but other people see a hideous beast. Maybe it's my voice that scares people away. When I hear it played back on voicemail or a recording, it has an odd timbre to it.

"Things can only get better," I'd tell myself back in high school. "Someone will love me when I get to college."

Nope.

I didn't have a serious relationship until I was 24. He still hasn't told me he loves me, although by his actions, I'm sure he does. Or maybe he doesn't. I don't even know if I love him, but that's probably because my idea of love has grown lofty and unattainable in all my time living without love.

Maybe he's like me - we're just together because we know we can't find anyone else. If only there were a way for us to stay together while actively looking for our next partners ... normally, if you're looking for a new job, you don't quit the job you have until the next job is officially lined up. If you're looking for a new home, you don't leave your current home and spend time homeless until you find a new place.

Relationships don't work that way. They shouldn't work that way. But for me, that's the only way. Too many years have gone by where no one gave a shit about me ... I don't want to return to that misery.

There is a message put out to those of us who were high school pariahs - that in no time, we would be beautiful and successful and the envy of everyone who ever bullied us. So, to keep myself going, I would tell myself that one day, I would be a famous writer living in Manhattan, and all my tormentors would still be in Jersey.

Obviously, that hasn't happened. Well, I really don't know the whereabouts of most of the people I went to high school with, although I hear Queen Bee is living in Boston now.

But I know my whereabouts. And I'm not happy with them.

Maybe the reason why people can't stand me is because I had been trying so hard to please other people that I never quite knew who I was. Or else, I did a piss-poor job of trying to be someone else. It continues to this day - why else would I care so much that I have bad taste in music?

Tonight I will be flying with my family to a place that doesn't exist ... barring an act of terrorism or a crash landing on Craphole Island's Atlantic counterpart, I will be back next Monday. I'm really hoping that I get back - because even though I'm tired of life, there's still a small bit of hope living inside me. And maybe I won't have that glamorous life I still believe I am entitled to, but hopefully there will be some point in the future when I can make peace with myself, my crappy past and my not-so-bad present.

When pianos try to be guitars

2007-07-06T00:18:00.000-04:00

Musical taste, I believe, is something that isn't within one's control. It's like getting blue contacts to conceal brown eyes; anyone taking a close enough look would know you're faking. You still have the scars from the elementary-school exercise where the blue-eyed kids were separated from the brown-eyed kids. You can try, but you'll always be someone with brown eyes.

Likewise, let's say the music that pleases you most is music that critics and "music snobs" despise. So you force-feed yourself the "right" music in hopes that you'll develop good musical taste. But it doesn't work, and you go crawling back to the maligned music you like ... yet you beat yourself up because you now believe you aren't smart enough to "get" the acclaimed music.

I realized why I hate meeting people. Nine out of 10 times, they will ask me a question that I dread more than "How old were you when you lost your virginity?"...

"So what kind of music do you like?"

Obviously, this is a means to gauge what kind of person one is. Someone who listens to indie darlings or Radiohead is regarded as intelligent, cultured and interesting. Someone who listens to anything that may be played on Z100 is stupid, ignorant and unimaginative.

I hate most of the crap played on Z100, just as I hate most "indie" music. But Maroon 5 has grasped me firmly. That's right - my taste in music sucks dick for drug money.

As much as I'm enjoying the slick '80s-influenced It Won't Be Soon Before Long, it will never hold a candle to their debut, Songs About Jane. IWBSBL is glossy pop candy, but SAJ is grittier and raw. Plus, Ryan!

The song I'm addicted to now is "Secret" off SAJ, featuring sexual-yet-tasteful lyrics like, "As you wipe off beads of sweat, slowly you say, 'I'm not there yet.'" If I were a stripper, I would use this as my song. Alas, Adam Fucking Levine's voice would drive all the men out of the club.

I know I'm too old for M5, even though Adam is old enough to have been conceived while I was being born. But it seems most of their fans are in high school. Sometimes I think of them as a magazine like Cosmopolitan: full of adult content, and yet an overwhelming number of the customers are teenagers. I'm also quite surprised that despite the f-bombs ("Makes Me Wonder"), sexuality ("Kiwi" most obviously, but quite a few other songs as well) and wanton violence ("Wake Up Call"), there is no Tipper Gore Seal of Disapproval on the IWBSBL packaging.

I'm trying to piece together why so many people hate Maroon 5. Unlike the much-derided boy bands, they write their own songs and play their own instruments. Also, with the three blondish guys nowadays resembling Chewbacca and the departure of Ryan, there is only one attractive member of the group. Then again, *NSYNC was considered ugly.

In the '80s, there was Duran Duran, a photogenic band with catchy tunes. Perhaps I was too young to recognize whatever vitriol was thrown their way; also, there was no Internet on which music snobs could spread their hate.

Yet it seems that these days, those with Good Musical Taste love the Duranies. Certainly they're better-received by the music snobs than Bon Jovi.

And why is it that I think that M5 are more authentic than The Click Five? Does it have to do with haircuts? That the Five's sound was polished to perfection, and the 5 - at least on SAJ - had a more raw edge? By all accounts, neither group was manufactured. Four out of the five original Maroons went to a ritzy L.A. prep school together; the original five Clickers met at Berklee. I can see how people would think that both bands were corporately assembled. But I see it more with The Click Five. Then again, maybe it's because I don't like their music or their haircuts.

The Click Five's first video. The guy singing has since jumped ship.

An aside: What is it with the number five in band names? I get that it (usually) tells us there are five members (the exception, of course, being Ben Folds Five). I get that there is another band out there called Maroon. But couldn't the Adam Levine Band have gone with another shade of brown or red that wouldn't require them to make their name look like an AOL handle circa 1995? They probably could have called themselves Alizarin. Or Bistre. Or perhaps Burnt Umber. Besides, didn't these guys realize that "maroon" is another way to say "moron"?

Perhaps M5 is hated because their music is catchy, melodic and laden with hooks. Maybe it has to do with Adam's voice (which I can understand can grate on many ears). My sister tells me she can't stand M5 because Adam's douchebaggery overshadows their music. Fair enough.

Music snobs obviously would hate them for being played to death on corporate radio and having won a Grammy. And worst of all, they didn't fade into obscurity like many others who won the Best New Artist honor.

But even people with undoubtedly bad taste in music seem to hate the Maroons - like my boyfriend, who owns a Creed CD and has no problem with Justin Timberlake, for fuck's sake. A few weeks ago, when I stopped on the "Makes Me Wonder" video while flipping channels, he wrestled control of the remote from me. I also have tried to make him listen to "Kiwi," but he refuses. I guess he knows I've had a crush on Adam since I saw him in his glasses on I Love The '80s Strikes Back. And then I was crestfallen by the "This Love" video, because I was distraught that I looked nothing like Kelly - and even if I got a bad boob job like Kelly's, I'd never be hot enough for Adam Fucking Levine.

But The Boy has no problem with my other crushes, whether they're quirky like Dr. House, or model-perfect like Henrik Lundqvist. He used to tease me because I told him my first crush ever was on Peter Jennings. He thought I was weird because Brad Pitt never did anything for me.

In closing, yes, I dream of a world where people don't judge each other by the music they listen to, where I can say I love Maroon 5 without people suggesting I get a lobotomy. Although I know it's practically impossible to acquire Good Music Taste®, I still keep trying, hoping that I can come up with a proper answer to that dreaded question.

I am happy to say that I do have the answer to the virginity question - 18, give or take three years.

Boarded-up Mount Airy Lodge!

2007-07-04T01:31:00.000-04:00

All you need to bring is your love of everything!

You'll get more out of this if you're from the New York Metropolitan Area(tm).

Oh yeah, so I can root for Chris Drury again without cheating on my team. Whee! (He was at BU my freshman and sophomore years). Glad the Rangers scooped up Scott Gomez as well. But amid all this spending, I hope we can hang on to Henrik Lundqvist.

Then again, I'm sure Henke would take a pay cut just so he can continue living in Manhattan.

I am beautiful, no matter what I say

2007-06-30T01:57:00.000-04:00

I really want to do this.

Not for the boyfriend I have, or the boyfriend I wish I had - but for myself. I'm sure this photographer would make me look so fabulous I'd never have body image issues again.

Ugh - vacation!

2007-06-29T13:59:00.000-04:00

Vacation is fast approaching, and I'm dreading it all. I can't push myself through my French CDs, I have to call every hotel to confirm reservations because I'm paranoid the sites we booked them through aren't trustworthy, and I'm frustrated with my progress on my Paris shopping plan. I've been doubting the 36-hour sojourn to Budapest, and - of course - there's the family I have to deal with. And the fact that I'll hardly be getting any sleep!

Then again, when I'm traveling, I feel like I don't need my 10 hours of sleep a night. It's probably adrenaline - kind of like how Jack Bauer never gets drowsy.

The most ambitious part of my trip is shopping in Paris. See, what I love most about traveling to other countries is buying stuff I can't even find in New York! I made a list of stores I visited (and missed) last time I was there two years ago, and I'm working at a strategy that will take me all over town in eight hours. Then I'll print the whole thing out on planner paper, so I can stick it in my Filofax, thus preventing me from looking like a tourist.

The problem is, Paris is like Bergen County, but worse - at least in Bergen County the supermarkets are open on Sunday! Sure, there is the Marais, but as I discovered last time, not everything was open. Again, I only had one full day of shopping in Paris, and that day was a Saturday as well. See, if my nights off from work were Friday and Saturday, I wouldn't have had to spend a Sunday in Paris; my trip would start two days earlier, and end two days earlier. I'd have had Thursday and Friday to shop in Paris, and my ass would be flying home on Saturday.

Then again, that Sunday I'll be there is the final day of the Tour de France, so I guess I can try to watch the fusion of athleticism and chemistry.

What I like about my weird-ass hours:

I can do things like go to the mall during the day, meaning I don't have to deal with evening traffic or Saturday crowds.
It's easier for me to get my 10 hours of sleep.
No jet lag if I travel to the West Coast - my body's on Pacific time!

What I don't like about my weird-ass hours:

No social life. It is impossible to meet people or go to Stitch N Bitch.
When fall comes, I have to watch football with The Boy.
For the second time, I'll be in Paris for just a couple of days - one of them Sunday.

What would be best is to have Friday and Saturday nights off, like some people in my department have. But since I suck as a person, I don't deserve them.

Sweeeeeeet Kiefer!

2007-06-22T23:29:00.000-04:00

The new issue of Women's Health has recipes for healthy cocktails. One involves a fruit that, thanks to Adam Fucking Levine, has become a euphemism for girly parts. Or is it?

Kiwi is the Kiefer Sutherland of fruits - diminutive yet powerful (what, you didn't know that Jack Bauer is only 5'8"?) A Rutgers study labeled it one of the most nutrient-dense fruits.

Now I have determined what Maroon 5's "Kiwi" is all about: Adam Levine wants to give Kiefer Sutherland head (and spread his arms and legs across the bed). The visual is actually quite hot, but I respect myself too much to write a fanfic about it.

Now, I'd like to direct your attention to some brilliant M5 snark from shampoosolo. Am I so obsessed that when I'm bored I seek out blogs that snark on "Kiwi"? Yes, I believe I am.

(Finally, I didn't know the Kiefalicious one is so short. And 24 is my crack!)

Maybe I was trying to hide myself

2007-06-20T13:46:00.000-04:00

September will be the earliest I can conceivably move out. In one month, I will be in Europe (my savings account thanks my boss for only letting me take one week off at a time). I get back just before August starts, but I have more important things to worry about before I leave ... like trying to memorize my basic French CDs. I am 29 today, which means my brain is too old to absorb information. I stumble on the lyrics for "Kiwi," which iTunes tells me I've played more than 50 times, for fuck's sake.

Now I understand why my boyfriend goes to Disney World every fucking year. No foreign words to learn. No need to research shit. But then again, I'd rather my vacation be unpredictable. There's just too much routine in my life.

While I'm not looking for an apartment now, I plan on doing things to make my move easier. I have a lot of crap I have a hard time parting with.

First thing I should get rid of: most of my makeup.

I guess the reason why I was so obsessed with it was because it was a luxury product I could afford. I could get a Stila eyeshadow for the price of a CD.

Fueling the obsession was alt.fashion and makeupalley.com. And companies' penchant for discontinuing cosmetics I liked pushed me to make my makeup box the Noah's Ark of beauty. If I knew something was limited edition, I'd buy three.

When I was in college, and for the couple of years after graduation, I'd wear makeup constantly. Now, I don't give a shit about how I look at work. I'll probably wear makeup only a few times a month, and when the time comes, I become overwhelmed by my more than 60 eyeshadows.

I also realized that no matter what, I wasn't going to be stunning. No matter what, the dark circles under my eyes would show, as would the melasma on my upper lip that I'm sure only I can see. I would still have a strange smile. My face would still be darker than my neck - and putting foundation on my neck isn't worth the damage to my clothes.

And makeup only addresses a small part of myself. I will still be short, with thick thighs and skinny calves, with a non-concave midsection and small breasts that are out of proportion to my wide hips. I will still have moles dotting basically every inch of my skin. I have had body image issues all my life; perhaps the reason why I didn't lose my virginity until I was 21 had more to do with not wanting other people to see me unclothed.

Back to my makeup obsession: I am having a hard time figuring out what I should keep and what I should get rid of. Everything I have was bought because someone who knew more about makeup than me extolled its virtues on the Internets. And once again, I am overwhelmed by the sheer volume of my collection to do much about it.

Also, how will I get rid of what I have? I can only sell brand-new product on eBay; and I don't want to swap via MUA because I don't want any more makeup (and you're not supposed to sell on MUA).

I thought that in the end, my makeup would be an investment, given how so many people covet it. I guess it didn't work that way.

Peeve No.1: Don't you mean "uninterested"?

2007-06-20T00:03:00.000-04:00

This is the first in in what I hope will be a series.

I would like to extend a hearty "fuck you" to people who use the word "disinterested" as if it means "not interested." One of my high school English teachers drilled the true meaning of the word - "unbiased" - into our heads; today, the definition has changed. Thanks, fuckheads!

Main Entry: dis·in·ter·est·ed
Pronunciation: -t&d
Function: adjective
1 a : not having the mind or feelings engaged : not interested (telling them in a disinterested voice -- Tom Wicker) (disinterested in women -- J. A. Brussel) b : no longer interested (husband and wife become disinterested in each other -- T. I. Rubin)
2 : free from selfish motive or interest : UNBIASED (a disinterested decision) (disinterested intellectual curiosity is the lifeblood of real civilization -- G. M. Trevelyan)
synonym see INDIFFERENT
- dis·in·ter·est·ed·ly adverb

The following attempts to explain that the "unbiased" definition is rather modern. Whatever - stupid people probably didn't make "disinterested" mean "unbiased," but it was stupid people who brought the word back to its supposed roots.

usage Disinterested and uninterested have a tangled history. Uninterested originally meant impartial, but this sense fell into disuse during the 18th century. About the same time the original sense of disinterested also disappeared, with uninterested developing a new sense--the present meaning--to take its place. The original sense of uninterested is still out of use, but the original sense of disinterested revived in the early 20th century. The revival has since been under frequent attack as an illiteracy and a blurring or loss of a useful distinction. Actual usage shows otherwise. Sense 2 of disinterested is still its most frequent sense, especially in edited prose; it shows no sign of vanishing. A careful writer may choose sense 1a of disinterested in preference to uninterested for emphasis (teaching the letters of the alphabet to her wiggling and supremely disinterested little daughter -- C. L. Sulzberger). Further, disinterested has developed a sense (1b), perhaps influenced by sense 1 of the prefix dis-, that contrasts with uninterested (when I grow tired or disinterested in anything, I experience a disgust -- Jack London (letter, 1914)). Still, use of senses 1a and 1b will incur the disapproval of some who may not fully appreciate the history of this word or the subtleties of its present use.

Yeah, fuck you, Merriam-Webster.

Come what may

2007-06-18T18:55:00.000-04:00

I didn't know about the sexual connotation of the word "come" until I was a freshman in college and I first heard Tori Amos' "Precious Things." So sue me - I was sheltered! Besides, I used the word "cream." Thank you, Prince!

Here is the director's cut of Maroon 5's "This Love" video. None of the words are censored, and in addition to the simulated sex, you can tell the model in the video (Adam's girlfriend at the time) had a boob job. I'm serious - if you taped the video off TV and paused it at a certain point, you could see the form of the implant from the side. Not that I ever did it, no siree.

When the video first came (no pun intended) on American MTV and VH1 in late 2003, the audio was cut off when the word "coming" appeared in the second verse (The word "sinking" in the bridge also was muted.)

If this video were around before I went to college, I would have asked myself what was so wrong with the word "coming" ... were it uncensored, I would have merely assumed the line, along with the images in the video, was about the woman going to her boyfriend's place to have sex.

Female orgasms would not have been my interpretation. Though because it was censored, I would have assumed it was something much naughtier than premarital sex. Then when I would learn what he meant by "keep her coming," I would have made the connection that a woman having an orgasm is a dirty thing.

The video in that form would run on American television until Justin Timberlake ripped off Janet Jackson's top at the Super Bowl. Promptly, digital flower petals were commissioned to cover up any sign of sex or nudity, making Adam look like he was getting busy with a Glade air freshener.

Plug it in, plug it in. None of the words are bleeped out here. This video comes from Dutch TV - after all, the Dutch are known for being prudes.

Naturally, Adam and Kelly broke up - putting your lover in your music video is a surefire way to guarantee you won't last. We all basically know what (and who) Adam did next; Kelly quit the scene and apparently is now studying to be a kindergarten teacher. I don't blame her; famewhoring may be fun, but there comes a point where you probably want to do something with an actual purpose.

Oh fuck - I talked about Maroon 5. Again. Let me change the subject to American Idol.

Two American Idol finalists have recorded covers of "This Love."

FUCKERY! Yes, I obviously have a problem. (But keep in mind I don't want to see them in concert, because I am protesting Ryan's departure from the group. Yes, I understand he can't drum anymore. But why couldn't he just sit at the side of the stage and do what he still can do - look porny?)

Ahem. So two American Idol finalists have recorded covers of "This Love."

First one comes from John Stevens, AKA Teen Martin. You may remember him as the Conan O'Brien lookalike who supposedly received death threats during his third-season turn. John was good, but only when channeling members of the Rat Pack. Obviously, Idol requires its contestants to be adept at more contemporary material.

Despite (or because of) the controversy, John did get a record deal, and he covered "This Love" on his album.

(While you're listening, enjoy my photos of cherry blossoms, why don't you.)

John was still a teenager when he recorded this, and a lot of the lyrics were changed. Yes, I understand lots of teenagers have sex, but that doesn't make a teenager singing about sex any less creepy.

I was so ~~high~~ young I did not recognize...

Keep her ~~coming~~ happy every night...

~~My pressure on your hips~~ Touching your tender lips
~~Sinking~~ moving my fingertips ~~into~~ over every inch of you...

Whereas Maroon 5's version could be seen as an account of an addictive but ultimately frustrating fling with a nymphomaniac, John's interpretation evokes a young man disillusioned by his first love.

Next up, we have Blake Lewis, the runner-up of the latest installment. He is apparently friends with M5 (and thus went to them to get the rights to sing their songs on Idol).

(Vocals badly visualized by Natasha Bedingfield.)

His performance of "This Love" was such a hit that he recorded the song for his studio EP. Blake stays true to his pals' vision of the song - and he's a lot easier on the ears than Adam. I was shocked that the lyrics weren't changed; yes, Blake is 25, but you would think American Idol was all about wholesomeness. I honestly don't watch the show, but I remember that one contestant had to change the reference to "mattress dancing" in the Dixie Chicks' "Sin Wagon.")

Although the following season, Carrie Underwood didn't change a thing.

My new favorite band

2007-06-17T22:34:00.000-04:00

As you probably know by now, my taste in music is crap. So what should I do when someone asks me what my favorite band is? After all, people judge others by the music they listen to. (Well, not me. My boyfriend has a Creed CD, for fuck's sake!)

I am tempted to give the judgmental morons the name of a band they've never heard of. That band is Alison Wonderland.

Their album is called "We're All Mad Here," and every song on it has to do with anger or insanity. And at their shows, they do a kick-ass cover of "White Rabbit."

(Are you a musician with a band? Are you named Alison, or some variation thereof? If so, please feel free to name your band Alison Wonderland. Just make sure to thank me in the liner notes in "We're All Mad Here," would you?)

Or maybe I should just say Jem and the Holograms.

What to do with the stupid people?

2007-06-15T00:49:00.000-04:00

No surprise: People with money like to spend said money.

This story is about the ridiculously wealthy, but for some reason also features the tale of an image-conscious New Yorker living beyond her means. If I could throw a rock clear across the Hudson, I'd easily hit several of them. And then I'd get snapped up by the Yankees and never have to share those label whores' woes.

Nadine Absolam, a 32-year-old Brooklyn resident, says she likes to have the trendiest designer items, but she said it's getting harder to come up with the cash.

"My first priority should be my bills. But these designers bring out so many hot items that you must have these things," said the Pilates instructor. "I am always late with my bills."

Absolam spends about $1,000 in clothing and accessories per month, about half of her monthly salary. One of her most recent buys was a $1,100 Gucci messenger bag...

Why is it that I can't afford to move out of my parents' house, when I make as much - perhaps even slightly more - than this woman does? And I clearly don't live in New York City or spend that kind of money on luxury goods.

her boyfriend last Christmas bought her Fendi's "Spy bag," priced at around $3,000 and coveted by fashionistas.

A-ha. I bet that rich boyfriend also has had to bail her out all those times she couldn't pay her bills.

"I can't keep wearing my Spy bag. I have to change it," to look fresh, Absolam said.

Does she not realize the awesome reach of the Associated Press? The whole nation will be laughing at her today ... and one can only hope her boyfriend will dump her for being an ingrate.

Shoes: $675.
Handbag: $1,100.
Being just another stupid NYC girl: Priceless.

There are some things money can't buy. For everything else, there's a rich boyfriend.

Alas, even if poor little Nadine didn't have expensive tastes, she'd probably still be screwed.

In preparation for plotting my escape from my parents' house, I have been jotting down every cent I've been paying this month. And I just realized that $598.51 was spent on this, this and this (in a color I call - what else? - sweet kiwi). The corset - guilty as charged. But I wear jeans to work every day, so I don't mind spending more for quality and better fit. By the way, I am pissed that Seven no longer makes rigid Dojos. They were the only jeans that were perfect on me. Stretch Dojos suck!

As for food, gas, therapy and all those other little things that add up, that's $350 so far this month. Ugh!

Fuck this world. Unless I had that long-range pitch (and only if Steinbrenner can convince the league to let a woman play), there's no fucking way I can make it on my own.

Chris Pronger is a dick.

2007-06-14T10:13:00.000-04:00

(Via Rangerland forums)

On the other hand, I'm thrilled that Selanne is finally getting his name on the Cup.

A difficult girl/This lust has taken its toll on me

2007-06-14T09:30:00.000-04:00

I was born and raised in New Jersey. I still live there, and unless millions of dollars fall into my lap, I'm going to live there for the rest of my life.

I hail from what could be called an "urban suburb" - it's much like parts of New York City (particularly Queens), but without the culture, nightlife or subway. It is a dangerous city - at the public schools, the graduates don't wear the cap because years ago, one kid tried to gouge a rival's eye out using the mortarboard's corner.

And so for high school, I went to a prep school in the suburbs. I thought I would fit in better, but it was a nightmare. I'm forever grateful to my mother, who for six years would do the 12-mile drive four times a day for me and my sister. But I had no friends. One girl would hang out with me, but only because the other kids didn't like her either; she too was cruel toward me.

As I had little social contact with people my age, it was difficult for me to make the transition into college. The first friends I made deserted me after I had the nerve to say that one of them was trying to take advantage of me when I was drunk. A few months afterward, Weasel Boy became a born-again Christian.

It was very difficult to meet people in college; everyone made their friends the first couple of weeks. People kept to their friends in the classes. My first year, I lived in a freshman dorm, but thanks to a campus housing crisis, everyone on my floor was a sophomore.

I did eventually make a few friends, but I am no longer in touch with any of them, including a (closeted) gay best friend, who set me up with my boyfriend.

Six months after graduation, I landed a job at a prestigious public relations firm in Manhattan. It was high school and college all over again. I lasted 11 months there. I'm not angry ... I was trained as a journalist, and I just wasn't made for the dark side. But once again, it was difficult to make friends, or keep whatever friends I made.

What can I say? I'm a difficult person.

And this is turning into a "woe is Bru" post. I'll stop.

"Kiwi" is now officially the most-played song on my iPod, and God help me, I'm grooving on the rest of the new Maroon 5 album (but Songs About Jane will always be better, and I still miss the hot drummer who had to quit). Interesting how we live in a world where actual melodies are a liability in music.

And egads, if there's one thing I want to do before I die, it's Adam Fucking Levine. I'm not trashy enough to be his girlfriend, but that's not what I want. Thanks to the new M5, I am now convinced that having sex with him is one of those things everyone has to do in their lives - much like going to school or using toothpaste. Sure, I'd wind up with one or more STDs, but the suffering would be a souvenir of the Greatest Fuck Ever®. Or is it? Well, there's only one way to find out.

So, Adam: My juices, your chin. And you better enjoy the taste I leave in your mouth.

Reason No. 1 why New Jersey doesn't suck

2007-06-12T17:46:00.000-04:00

It's just pathetic that we have to impose laws to ensure people do their fucking jobs. In a perfect world, we wouldn't need such legislation. But good on my state.

A fundamentalist pharmacist denying a woman birth control is no different than a Scientologist pharmacist who refuses to prescribe medications for depression and ADHD.

Addendum (6/14) - Feministing admits we're awesome. And that Long Island sucks more. ;)

Holy fucking shit!

2007-06-11T00:26:00.002-04:00

You are Dr. Kimberly Shaw, building-bombing psycho-doctor. Your medical history includes an improbable laundry list of psychological disorders. You should probably be locked up in a looney bin, but what fun would that be? After all, you're as fascinating as you are scary.

Which Melrose Place Character Are You?

I've been dealing with mental health issues all my life, but I'm not one to rip off wigs, steal babies, blow up apartment buildings, host radio shows, fuck pool boys, attempt to lobotomize Jack Wagner and set up my husband with a prostitute so he won't be lonely when I die.

I thought I'd turn up as Jane, since she was pretty spineless.

I did love me some Kimberly, since Marcia Cross rocks (although I quit watching Desperate Housewives after 1 1/2 seasons).

I didn't give up on MP when Kimberly died. No, the last episode I cared about was the first episode of the sixth season, when Sydney was pronounced dead after the cliffhanger and Gay Matt was reminiscing about his time at 4616 to his niece, as they were preparing to move to San Francisco.

I didn't watch Melrose during its first run. I know I saw the first season, but then high school got in the way of my TV time. The girls at Go Fug Yourself talked about MP a lot, and so I was craving SoapNet and cursing Cablevision (my shitty-ass cable company) and The Powers That Be for sitting on their asses over releasing it on DVD. Thankfully, when Cablevision forced us to upgrade to digital last August, I was delighted that we finally had SoapNet! Back then, SoapNet broadcast MP every weekday, and when I made my discovery, they were in the middle of the first season. I would tape it daily - because there is no TiVo in the basement. The tapes would pile up, and I didn't actually start watching them until late September or early October, when I began knitting this cardigan.

In 2005, I was in Paris and missed out on going to the Anny Blatt shop in the Marais. (Although the Marais is practically the only Paris district that is open for business on Sundays, the Anny Blatt store is one of the few there that follow the French tradition, which you can get a taste of here in Jersey, in Bergen County. Every time I whine about the blue laws there, I tell myself that's how the French do it.) Anny Blatt yarns are impossible to find in New York City, but abundant in San Francisco, especially at Imaginknit.

We stopped by after we'd paid a visit to the Castro. My dad asked why there were rainbow flags all over the place. Ah, ignorance! I should say my dad has gone on record as saying that he doesn't care about same-sex marriage, so long as it doesn't cost him anything. Spoken like a true Republican (although unfortunately, he still supports the assclowns in Washington).

To soften the guilt I had from Paris, I paid beaucoup bucks for every elm-green (orme) ball of Cachemir'Anny Imaginknit had. I knew I was going to make a cardigan, but I didn't have a pattern in mind. Eventually, I discovered the Rowan book, and got to work while propped in a butterfly chair in front of the TV.

The pattern may be called "Whitney," but depending on my mood, I either call it "Kimberly" or "Sydney." Not only were they the most compelling women on MP (Amanda Woodward was fierce, but her schtick can grow tired), but as redheads, they'd both have looked great in it. Now that I think about it, Kimberly is the better namesake; Sydney was fiesty and all about the '60s mod style.

SoapNet stopped its weekday showings of Melrose not long after I gave up on the show. So I thank my lucky stars for Kimberly and Sydney's deaths ... awesome as they may have been, Michael and Amanda couldn't carry that sinking ship on their own.

Want more? Melrose Space will tell you who did what and who did whom!

Dirrty. Filthy. Nasty.

2007-06-09T11:39:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I should also add the following: Clunky. Awkward. Disgusting. Pornographic. Shocking. Blatant. Smarmy. Graphic. Explicit. Sexual. Erotic. Boastful. Passionate. Whispering. Masculine. (Well, three of the last four adjectives, at least.)

If I worked for Lucky, I'd use "Prince-y."

And then... Addictive. Delicious. Delectable. Appetizing. Just like... a kiwi.

I am talking about the song racing its way to the top of my iPod's "Top 25 Most Played" playlist ... Maroon 5's "Kiwi." Remember when I said those five maroons loved them some sex? Well, they sure love them
some sex.

Listen to it here.

And yes, that's exactly what you heard.

When it comes to culinary comparisons to oral sex on females, I do have to say that "Sweet kiwi, your juices dripping down my chin" is leagues better than Madonna's "Colonel Sanders says it best: finger lickin' good."

I couldn't get into "Kiwi" at first; Of course, there are the lyrics, which on the first couple of listens were definitely too shocking and silly to be porny. But on top of that, it seemed to me like a pastiche of too many styles of music. To start, the bassline reminded me of '80s video game music. No matter how much panting is layered over it, video game music is not sexy! And boasting about being "a stronger and a faster lover"? Cocky! (Some people take "faster" to mean that he'd be finished much sooner than you would be, but I take it to mean that he'll be going at you like a jackhammer. Whee!)

The chorus and second verse are shameless Prince rip-offs (with Karen from The Office playing Wendy! Or is it Lisa?). But now that Prince has found Jehovah, I guess somebody has to try to fill the dirty void he's left. And it might as well be Adam Fucking Levine.

The bridge is fantastic and really makes the song. I love listening to it while driving down the highway during a rare traffic-free moment.

And the horns, and the guitar riff at the end? Absolutely orgasmic.

This is a song that is quite embarrassing to hear at first. But after a few doses, you'll be too hot and bothered to be blushing and/or laughing.

Want more? Here's Jezebel's take.

That Madonna song is called "Where Life Begins," off Erotica. The only video on YouTube featuring that song is a yaoi montage. You have been warned.

Nobody's home. Nobody cares.

2007-06-08T10:13:00.000-04:00

I finally get a Saturday night off from work, but I can't hang out with my boyfriend because he'll be at his best friend's bachelor party.

(The sort of man I really want to be with would refuse to go to bachelor parties, including his own. I ask for too much.)

I tried to get in touch with an old friend from college; junior year we had a fight over some guy neither of us wound up with, but we bumped into each other at the mall late last year and are on good terms now. Well, I think. Obviously, because of my job, it's hard for me to spend time with her. I've texted her twice, but I haven't heard back from her. I just realized I missed her birthday back in March ... maybe she's upset? Well, pardon me for forgetting - for eight years, I wasn't supposed to care.

And so, I will be going out to dinner with my family ... which I am not happy about.

Other than my boyfriend, my family is all I have; I'm very difficult to click with.

Right now, I'm planning to move out. I go through this phase every summer, when my birthday approaches or passes. One year older, and still with the parents. Still afraid of trading a chaos I know with a chaos I don't know anything about.

I almost succeeded last year. I signed a lease in Fort Lee, but my mom insisted on seeing the building. She determined there were too many Hispanic last names on the mailboxes. (Keep in mind that we're Cuban. Of course, Cubans of 100% European extraction are probably the biggest racists in the world. Just one of the many reasons why I try to live without an ethnicity.) She dragged me to a lawyer who canceled the lease - it was still within the three business days you're allotted in New Jersey.

You are asking yourself, "Isn't she an adult? Why couldn't she tell her mother to fuck off?" Because it's fear - my family is all I have. And they want to have me for as long as possible. They are convinced it will be dangerous to have me live on my own because of my depression. Never mind that I haven't tried to kill myself since high school.

So they manipulate me. "Save your money to buy a condo," they say. Yeah, I take home $600 a week after taxes. I estimate 10 more years in my parents' house before I could feasibly get a non-dodgy mortgage and keep up with property taxes. I know paying rent is a waste of money. Even my boyfriend tells me that. But it's not a waste of money if it will help my sanity.

So. Tomorrow I will be going out to dinner with my family. We will be talking about our coming vacation to Belgium, Budapest and Paris. Yes, I am going on vacation with my family. How else will I be able to travel? My boyfriend is content to just go to Disney World every year ... with his family. My parents wouldn't let me travel alone. I floated the possibility of taking a day trip from Paris to London on my own, but my mom put her foot down. A few days later, I asked her why - her reason? She was afraid I was going to be kidnapped and forced into prostitution. Maybe I can understand her if I were going to Smallovia by myself. But I would have been traveling between Britain and France, for fuck's sake! The way the trip panned out, I wouldn't have had time to go to London anyway. But that conversation reminded me of why I need to move out.

Quick hit: Trump's Castle

2007-05-23T12:17:00.000-04:00

On our last night in Atlantic City, we stayed at the Borgata, and our room looked out over Trump Marina. I thought, "Didn't His Donaldness have another casino here in the '80s? Trump Castle?" Then I got the jingle lodged in my head.

You're the kiiiiiiiiing!
You're the kiiiing of the Castle!

And the ad had a guy dressed like Henry VIII exclaiming "Now this is a castle!"

Thankfully, I wasn't hallucinating. Trump Marina was Trump's Castle in a previous life, and the ad (which you can download from the link) was exactly as I remembered it. Well, I forgot all about the winking cocktail waitress decked out in a tiara.

We didn't go inside the ~~Castle~~ Marina, but we did pop into the two Trump properties on the Boardwalk. I am shocked - shocked! - Donald didn't try to one-up the Borgata Babes with Trump Strumpets (sTRUMPets?). He's got an army of former Miss USA/Universe contestants and Apprentice fire-ees to stock his casino floors with.

I am a dork.

2007-05-18T11:38:00.001-04:00

Yes, I made this ice dancing montage. I hang my head in shame.

The biggest laugh I got from last night's season finale of The Office (out of many ... and don't worry, this is not a spoiler) - I used to work in the building shown as Dunder-Mifflin headquarters! Well, the first one they showed, next to the Hilton (1345 ~~Avenue of the Americas~~ 6th Avenue). Later in the show there is a shot of a character leaving the building and the number outside reads 1330.

I got today and tomorrow night off from work, so my boyfriend and I are going down to Atlantic City. I really need a change of scenery. So to the one person reading this blog, happy weekend!

Makes me wonder what the message is

2007-05-13T23:46:00.000-04:00

Hi, I'm Adam Levine. Let me take a moment out of my sexing to let you all know that BUSH SUCKS!!!!

I remember a time before I was born, when protest songs were very obviously protest songs.

War! Ugh! Good God, y'all! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!

Say it again.

Maroon 5, that sex-obsessed troupe of Angelenos, is back, minus their brilliant and porny original drummer, Ryan; I miss him, but if he stayed, his arms would have fallen off his body.

[Clicketh here for two of my favorite things: ice, and shirtless Ryan!]

M5's new single, "Makes Me Wonder," has been described as a jab at BushCo. I'm all for an anti-Bush song - let's go!

I wake up with blood-shot eyes
Struggled to memorize
The way it felt between your thighs
Pleasure that made you cry
Feels so good to be bad
Not worth the aftermath, after that
After that
Try to get you back

Dear Mr. Levine:

Thanks for packaging your smarmy horniness as a political song. I don't know if I'll ever want to have sex again now that you made me associate it with our Dear Leader.

Love,
Bru

I still don't have the reason
And you don't have the time
And it really makes me wonder
If I ever gave a fuck about you

Give me something to believe in
Cause I don't believe in you
Anymore, Anymore
I wonder if it even makes a difference to try
(Yeah)
So this is goodbye

I guess I can see how these lyrics might allude to discontent with BushCo. But "If I ever gave a fuck about you" and "I don't believe in you anymore" suggest that the song is about growing disillusioned with Bushie. As in, there was a point Levine liked Bush. *shudder*

I've been here before
One day a week
And it won't hurt anymore
You caught me in a lie
I have no alibi
The words you say don't have a meaning

Perhaps Levine is supposed to be BE Bush. Which makes that opening verse absolutely vile.

But wait - Levine has this to say:

["Makes Me Wonder"] alludes to something I was feeling about where our leadership is in our country. Let me just clarify — the song is not an anti-Bush song, it's not an anti-government song, and it's not a protest song, but I am having trouble believing the people who are leading our country right now. It's almost like, I'm really trying to comprehend everything, but I want to be able to believe someone is in control of our collective fate. At the same time, ["Makes Me Wonder"] turned into a love song, where I'm just confused and don't know where to turn anymore. It's a mishmash of lyrics that kind of make sense thematically.

Well, then.

Vocals and lyrics aside, the song is quite good. Those five maroons can whip up catchy tunes.

Pink-y swear

2007-05-12T00:10:00.000-04:00

When you're having a bad day, remember:
Henrik Lundqvist cares about your boobs.

I'm not mocking breast cancer. Breast cancer cost me the opportunity to meet my paternal grandmother, who died 10 years before I was born.

Awareness of the disease has come a long way since Betty Ford made her battle public. I wager to say that today, we're plenty aware. We've gotten to the point that there are weekends when NHL stars will cheerfully skate with pink hockey sticks, and Major League Baseball stars will happily be swinging pink bats tomorrow, Mother's Day. This is all fine and dandy, even though there's that ridiculous marketing angle (Manly Men! Using pink gear! Even Tie Domi is man enough to wear pink!).

Finding a cure is crucial, and I hope the NHL and MLB initiatives contribute to that end. But perhaps just as important is finding out what the fuck causes it. We know, more or less, what causes many other cancers.

My cynical side wonders if we're deliberately not looking for a cause lest the cause be frameable in "she had it coming" terms and pink ribbons thus cease to be a marketing goldmine. Rallying for awareness and cures for lung cancer - even though a large percentage of victims aren't smokers - isn't so fashionable. Cervical cancer is being framed as something only "sluts" get - even though it's absolutely possible for a woman who is a virgin on her wedding night to get the virus from her husband.

I'm sure that wherever my grandmother is now, she's proud that there no longer is a stigma to what killed her. But while I never met her, I know she'd hope that we find cures ... as well as causes. The fact is, we know about breast cancer ... Now it's time to know more.

There are a few places that express my thoughts better than I can...

Think Before You Pink

Pink Ribbons, Inc.

Less Pink, More Research

Four-letter words

2007-05-10T13:14:00.000-04:00

You know what I'm talking about if you've ever been on the Internets. It's capitalizing titles that are four letters long. You'll see this when people talk about "Lost" or "Rent."

Examples:

"I'm so excited about this week's LOST and Grey's!!!"

"My favorite Broadway shows are Avenue Q and RENT!"

I probably just missed the memo that "Lost" is officially called "Laughably Overrated, Still Transfixing" and "Rent" means "Really Excruciating NYC Twits."

Independence my ass

2007-05-09T14:50:00.000-04:00

The criticisms against young adults living with their parents are plentiful: they are spoiled, they are avoiding reality, independence is worth more than all the money they're saving.

If their parents buy them a condo in Manhattan? I suppose that's considered "independence" because the spoiled brats can have all the sex they want.

At least the candyass said "thanks."

Those of us who live with our parents pay for our shelter by following rules (no sex, no drinking, family members humping our auras) and being judged as "pathetic."

What are these fuckity fucks sacrificing? Certainly not their money, and clearly not their dignity.

But they present the image of independence and therefore aren't chided by society. Who cares who's paying your living expenses, so long as you're "livin' large" (snicker)?

First post

2007-04-22T03:25:00.001-04:00

Mónica Naranjo: Pantera en libertad

acuérdate
que sé perdonar
pero soy mujer, respétame.

yo vivo en libertad.

remember
i know how to forgive
but i am a woman, respect me

i live in freedom