It may not be officially on television quite yet, but I think it’s safe to say that 50 Shades of Grey is enough of a pop culture phenomenon to warrant some discussion here. Plus, the folks at Saturday Night Live are onto it, so that’s gotta’ count for something, right?
For those who…
Radio silence again. Shocker. Not dwelling on it this time though, moving on. There have been a couple of big happenings in my life recently and I think this is a fine time to address them. Number one, I negotiated with my cable provider and now am the recipient of free Showtime. Game changer, I’ll tell you that. Also a major player in the lack-of-motivation-to-blog situation. Second, I trained for and will [hopefully] complete my first half marathon tomorrow morning, though I will especially not dwell on that because I don’t want this blog to turn into one of those, ‘I run, I eat clean, I recycle’ blogs. Don’t worry, recipes for kale chips and information on composting will not appear here. I take pride in my Yeti-sized carbon footprint. But that event ties in nicely with my final happening, which is that I started reading The Hunger Games trilogy. I recently finished the second, so no third book spoilers from anyone who has finished already. Anyone who knows me even in the slightest knows I have an obsessive personality and those books were not spared from my wrath. I’m hungry and the only medicine is more Hunger Games. I’m trying to savor them, which is kind of like trying to savor the most god damn delicious thing you’ve ever eaten in your life. There’s no disputing, I also have a bit of a taste for hyperbole.
Those books are so under my skin, it’s progressed far beyond a normal “I have dreams about the books” sort of a reaction. I legitimately think I may live IN Panem sometimes. I’m stroking my braided hair as I write this. And that brings me to my latest, crossing the fine line between obsession and insanity experience. Unfortunately, they’re becoming daily:
I was picking up my race bib and packet yesterday and walked through the grounds of where the race will be held. Or should I say, the arena. Between the event posters, dramatizing the race, lines for ‘participants’, and expo booths advertising gear and training, I swear I was transported to the Capitol where my race was actually The Games. It also doesn’t help that 1. Washington, DC is the capital of the United States, 2. We have a building…called the Capitol and 3. The event start and finish is at Stadium-Armory, off of East Capitol Street. You can’t judge me for insanity yet, those are just the facts.
But now you can. I walk in, the members of the National Guard ushering us into lines, can you say Peace Keepers? Walking through the metal detectors and having my bag checked was like being welcomed to the training center, where the suspicious eyeing of a tampon, should it be a weapon that could give me an unfair advantage, mimicked the security measures for tributes involved in the Games. There’s the phony smiles of other participants, barely concealing either the smugness or envy as we check one another out, knowing that none of us will ‘win’, per se, but silently comparing who will get a better time. Like tributes sizing up their competition, wondering what skills he or she could be harboring, I found myself staring at the calves of the girl in front of me, which I deemed not as toned as mine, but wondered if they housed her powerhouse, whereas mine fatigued easily. She seemed solid, like she’d be a good swimmer. District 4, I decide. Another girl a few feet away, about the same age as me, clad all in Lululemon, fingered a pair of designer running shorts in one of the expo’s boutiques. She, like a tribute from Districts 1 or 2, clearly had the money to blow on expensive gear. I thought back to my clothes at home, a worn out pair of three-year old Nike capris, a faded Hanes tank top and faux-Under Armor from Target and realized I was more of a District 12 competitor. Also clearly a first time runner. The underdog. Whatever, I brushed the thought away, and remembered Hunger Games 101, it’s not just the gear that makes a victor. I was going to channel the shit out of Katniss and make Lululemon my bitch. Then suddenly it was my turn to pick up my packet and I realized that just last day dream is probably enough to institutionalize me.
Whatever, book three is waiting for me at the finish line.
Photo cred to Yahoo! Movies.
With a title I thought I’d only ever write satirically, American media is abuzz with a rumor substantiated by a “reliable source” that Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi is pregnant. Though she went on record just a few weeks ago denying that she has a bun in the oven (or that she knows what an…
If any of you are like me, you’ve jumped on the Downton Abbey train. And I mean train in the steam locomotion sense, as commercial air travel wouldn’t enter the picture for another decade or so. But you know what I mean. Never did I think I’d see the day when I’d gleefully hop onto my couch…
It’s probably not too much of shock to those who weren’t already keenly aware, but I tend to sway towards the personality of what could best be described as an anxious person. And by sway I mean like an “Everything Is Bigger In Texas” keepsake magnet to a stainless steel refrigerator. So, In a fit of anxiety spurred on by my writer’s block, I started compiling a list of things that make me anxious. Writer’s block vanished but I potentially need to purchase a new hard drive. Here’s what I came up with:
Things that make me anxious:
A non-exhaustive but most certainly exhausting list in no particular order
I can only assure you that this list could continue for far too long to be deemed okay for my health. I also pray that I’m not alone in some of these concerns but for those where I am, I sincerely hope my neuroses provide you entertainment, as the only thing I get out of it is an occasional case of hives. And I’m sure there will be innumerable follow up posts to this one, unfortunately not right now. I need to go charge my laptop, it’s at 48% and I can feel my blood pressure in my ears.
Greetings, Tumblees! I may not be as funny as Danny Rouhier or as sex savvy as Lena Chen, but there’s one thing I’m pretty damn good at: watching television. And after many tedious hours of forcing myself (okay, “forcing myself”) to watch episode after episode of sitcoms, dramas,…
So I guess tonight is kind of a cop-out: I’m plagiarizing myself. To my defense, my neighbors have been listening to a Tina Turner/Whitney Houston-heavy early 90’s playlist for the past 3 hours and my brain has the consistency of soggy Life cereal.
But is reblogging a post that was already reblogged from a now-defunct website really that awful? Or is it actually just a super safe choice, like strategically choosing to wear a particular dress out, knowing that you’re sure to turn heads every time you wear it? Let’s meet half way and say it’s like ordering chilaquiles at your favorite brunch spot, easily the most reliably delicious item on the menu, but also knowing it will reliably make your IBS flare up later.
Gross.
Originally published on SexReally.com on August 20, 2009.
Cue the seductive look. Passionate kiss. Clothes ripped from bodies. Heavy breathing. Sheets pulled over heads. Cut to an attractive couple, lying side by side, cheeks flushed, faces matte, hair coiffed. Just like real life, right?
Not so much. In the magical world of television, however, this is the standard protocol for a love scene, employed in almost every adult-oriented drama, sitcom and comedy on air. A show with romantic character development would seem incomplete, or maybe even implausible, without sex scenes. In actuality, the most implausible thing on TV is often the sex itself. In a society that is so greatly influenced by the media, what if everything we knew about sex came from television?
In a world where sex in real life is the same as it appears on TV…
To begin, everyone is incredibly attractive. Not a single pound too heavy, perfectly groomed and manicured. Under-eye bags and blemishes don’t exist and no one seems even remotely fatigued from a long work week. Use the last drop of energy you have left at the end of the week to try and drag yourself to the gym? Not here! With your boundless energy and perfect figure, you might as well apply that same motivation to bagging the attractive co-worker who has been giving you coy looks all week long.
The moment you think about your crush, your phone instantly rings. Isn’t dating convenient in Televisionland? Not at all awkward, never a lull in the conversation or secret mutual knowledge that each person stalked the other’s Facebook page prior to the date. And since this is a date, it obviously ends with…
Sex. Because everyone has sex on the first date. Even though this could be the first time you’ve slept with this person, you seem to know each other perfectly. It’s almost - dare I say - scripted. There are no accidental head bumps or awkward moments of uncertainty about where one should place a limb. Your clothes are ripped off effortlessly - in Televisionland, it is impossible for one to attempt to pull a shirt over their head, only to have the shirt stuck around their neck as they yank at the material. No month-old bikini waxes, no embarrassing tattoos from youth, and certainly no granny panties.
Discussions about using protection? Not needed, telepathy apparently has that one covered. In the rare case that a condom is used, it is slipped on easily and never even slightly disrupts the passion. Foreplay doesn’t exist because it’s not needed either. There’s no desire to laugh when the friction of body parts make embarrassing noises, as friction does not exist in television world. Then again, none of the funny sounds (or lack thereof) of sex can be heard at all because you have an expertly chosen soundtrack to background the most amazing sex of your life. How do you know it’s amazing? Because both of you reach intense orgasms simultaneously within 15 seconds (as you do every time you have sex in Televisionland) and collapse next to each other.
No one needs to use the bathroom after sex and everything, including the sheets, is mess-free. The sheet is tucked neatly under the female’s toned arms and wrapped around the man’s sculpted waist (and yes, sex scenes on TV generally consist of one man and one woman). Neither of you even thinks about a shower because you’re still perfectly coiffed, made-up and sweat-free. As you fall asleep, you spoon affectionately - no one struggles with where to put their arms so as not to suffer pins and needles.
The glorious morning after. Don’t cringe - it’s fun here! You wake up fresh-faced and, more importantly, fresh-breathed, no matter what you did - or how much you drank - the night before. Depending on the time of your commercial break, you may or may not have morning sex, and then you find your clothes, folded and clean, never in a ball on the floor, and look your partner straight in the eye as you dress. Walk of shame? What’s that? There is nothing awkward about sex in Televisionland - it’s always exciting and always satisfying.
Preface: While this post began as an evaluation of my personal use of social media, it took a weird turn (complete with GPS announcing it was “recalculating”) and ended up becoming a cathartic self reflection and for that I apologize to anyone feeling duped by the title. But not so much because you totally brought it upon yourself to kill a few brain cells by reading it in the first place.
I’ve never claimed to be the guru of all things social media and I thank my lucky stars each day that Tumblr’s platform allows my Neanderthal-esque brain to (arguably) successfully post these posts ever so often. However, I at least try to keep up with the times, though I’ll admit that’s more out of a strong aversion to ever feeling ‘left out’, but that’s a whole other session’s worth of fun and I simply can’t afford the copay right now.
Take Twitter for instance. Do I tweet with authority? No. Do I tweet strategically? Not a chance. Do I ever tweet messages that contain any value whatsoever? Absolutely not. But I do pride myself on the fact that I don’t call it “The Twitter” like my grandmother whose immigrant grasp of the English language requires articles before any noun.
So what do I do with my Twitter account? I follow my favorite comedians and writers, read their tweet-ersations and giggle to myself. But lately it’s been causing some pretty powerful self-evaluation. I always think of how 90 percent of my cleverest comments are wasted in my own head or occasionally on the poor souls that interact with me on gchat each day. And, in the spirit of all things modest, I think of some pretty gosh darn clever shit!
Recently, on a particularly pathetic evening I stumbled upon an episode of Jimmy Fallon’s late night talk show. I say stumbled because there is no way I’d ever check the channel guide and turn his show on. If it was a choice between Ice Road Truckers 2: Raw and Without 4-Wheel Drive (admittedly fictional but dare I say, potential ratings GOLD…), the short-skirted and short-lived reboot of Charlie’s Angels and Jimmy Fallon’s late night show, I’d choose making shadow puppets with myself. Don’t get me wrong, I have all the respect and appreciation in the world for him as a truly talented comic but there’s no dancing around the fact that his show is about as entertaining as repeats of my fifth grade orchestra concert on public access television.
That evening’s guests were Seth Meyers and his slightly less funny but significantly more attractive brother Josh. I’d insert a joke involving lewd acts between myself and the brothers but we all know I’m too classy prudish to spend my time crafting such a sentence. Plus, I’m in the middle of a story and god forbid I digress during a blog post. And would you look at that? Now I’ve lost my thought.
So I’m watching the Meyers play a familial version of The Newlywed Game and Josh is making fun of Seth for walking down the street, completely oblivious to all that is around him, because his brain is constantly churning out new jokes and witty verbalisms 24/7. It was then that I realized, aside from a Y chromosome, the only difference between me and Seth Meyers is that I’m wasting my best lines, primarily crafted while walking or sleeping, on the wrong audience. Instead of making only myself chuckle and then forgetting the idea completely, I could be writing it down somewhere public where it could be seen, admired and then translated into a job writing for Saturday Night Live. If only such a public forum existed, I thought to myself, but then that’s about as far as I got in my plan before Questlove’s hair caught my attention and distracted me from the brilliance rattling in my noggin’.
I have yet to think of an appropriate destination for my profound crafting but figured I’d blog about the journey instead. Now where can I find a blank palette, an open space for funny, preferably in an easy-to-use, html-free platform?????
Sometimes I think I’m just too sharp for my own good.
Photo cred to The Zebu
There’s no holiday I hate more than New Year’s. The ratio of ‘expectation’ vs. ‘time actually spent celebrating’ resembles a metaphoric bobble head, with ‘expectation’s’ massive head just bobbling away, completely eclipsing ‘time spent celebrating’s’ meek body. Any good party worth going to costs too much money but any party that costs too much money won’t be a good party worth going to. You huff and puff about not stooping to the level of paying for a good time, quoting made up statistics you swear are from the Census Bureau about the average number of drinks actually consumed at a four hour open bar, knowing that there’s no way to get your money’s worth because you’re either going to feel gipped or go crazy like an 18 year-old at a bar for the first time, ending up drowning your dignity in the dirty bar toilet. Look up ‘Open Bar’ in the dictionary and you’ll see the definition: no happy medium. And then, after you’ve resigned yourself to just suck it up and spend the money because you’re only young once, you have your entire life to be lame, plus gravity is starting to catch up with you so it’s all downhill from here, you wind up forking over the last-minute ticket price, which is now 40 dollars more than if you’d purchased it at the beginning of this sentence. Is it fun? Sure, maybe, but you’re so transfixed on the fact that you need to get $150 dollars worth of fun out of it AND find someone to kiss at midnight that you work yourself up into a tizzy, best described as half Soup Nazi, half Debbie Downer. No happiness for you! And the difference between 11:59pm and 12:01am on New Year’s Eve? Absolutely nothing, completely unchanged, much like the expression on poor Dick Clark’s face.* A completely anticlimactic moment you’ll constantly be reminded of every time you look in your closet and see the sparkles and sequins that are only acceptable on one night out of the year, but cost you enough that you’d need to wear every New Year’s for the next 17 years to get your money’s worth. And it’s right about the time that you’re nursing your evil champagne hangover (so sweet and inviting when it’s dark and you want to make bad decisions but so rough, ornery and nasty the next morning…much like myself), checking your bruised bank balance and promising that your resolutions will start tomorrow because all today gets is greasy food and darkness, that you vow that next year will be different. Next year you’re not going to be lured in by the promise of 43 open bars (read: 43 bars’ worth of other people, too) or a DJ you’ve never heard of. Next year will be different! But it never is. It’s a cycle, much like photosynthesis or a feud between Miley Cyrus, Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato. It just keeps going and going. But perhaps this year really is different! Because at least this year I’m not bitter.
*I apologize profusely for dragging poor Mr. Clark and his stroke into my angry rant. But really, now we all see what happens when you sell your soul to the execs at ABC: eternal hosting of A Rockin’ New Year’s Eve.
Photo cred to Skewed Perceptions.
