Wednesday, March 20, 2013

The Female Handbook

Dear readers: As you may or may not know Sleepless in Seattle is one of my favorite movies of all time. Now before you bore me with your own favorites just know that I don't care. This isn't about you. It's never about you. It's about me and my opinions which, as we all can agree on, are so ridiculously unnecessary it makes Andy Rooney's curmudgeon-ous opinions over the possible discontinuance of the copper penny seem relevant. Back to Sleepless. Anytime it's on TV, and let me tell you it's on a whole fucking lot, I have this gravitational pull, a compulsion if you will, to watch it no matter what.  This compulsion is so strong I couldn't break it even if I tried. I imagine this is the same compulsion that drives Middle Easterners to Lindsay Lohan's vagina but that's neither here nor there nor currently in a locked-in rehab. I've always just assumed my instinct to tune in had to do with my affinity towards the flick but this time I wasn't so sure. This time, for the first time, I felt like, wait for it, I wasn't feeling it. Say what Sister Sledge? Exactly.

Let me explain. The other night Sleepless was on blah blah blah I was watching. However, in a multitasking moment of viewing my screen, mental contemplation, and casual perusal of Pinterest (more on that later), I took the time to ask myself, Do I want to watch this? Am I in the mood to see Rosie O'Donnell attempt femininity? And then I say, wait a minute, why do I have to watch this? I don't want to watch this. I don't want to hear Meg Ryan say "It's me" to Tom Hanks' "It's you."  So why did I? Why did I sit through it again? And then again because frankly original programming is dead and these movies repeat themselves immediately once the credits clear. I figured if it wasn't grounded in desire it had to be compulsion and since I refuse to believe said compulsion is the sheer result of the subconscious wish of a sad singleton craving "its you, it's me," (Impossible) I came up with an even better, more realistic, and obviously rational explanation. Listen up and take notes because this makes complete sense.  We women are compelled to watch rom-coms on television, even if we aren't feeling it, because there is a female handbook that exists in our collective consciousness that lays out the framework for our lives. This important handbook sets out rules of law that we all abide by unconsciously. An example would be jean shopping. The rule of law plainly states a woman is never to buy jeans in the right size. We know this doesn't make sense. We know the too small waistband hurts our gut really really badly. We know when we sit down we fear permanent scars to both our bellybuttons and inner thighs. There is also, by the way, the high risk of a crushed uterus causing infertility, but guess what? We do it anyway. Why? Because it is rule of law.

Click on "more after the jump" to read the rest. 

More After the Jump!

Sunday, March 10, 2013


Tomorrow I embark on a brand new adventure. I haven't been on one of those since I got  bangs last March. I just hope this new adventure doesn't become a YEAR + odyssey to make life right again. False advertising Zooey D. False. Advertising.

For me, change is akin to the 5 stages of grief in an obviously condensed, more blatantly pathetic and irrelevant form. The last couple of days went something like this:

Denial-Of course I'll see everyone from the office again, right? My last job wasn't so bad was it? Just because I was always the last kid picked for kickball doesn't mean it was always like that, no?  Wait wait wait, stop, that's inaccurate and unfair.  I wasn't exactly the last kid picked for kickball. I was thought of as the super retarded kid bribed by the allure of a "special" uniform in a different color. I got to take a permanent seat on the bench and hold the orange slices for everyone else. But still, is that so wrong?

Anger- Hold up. HOLD UP guys. I am not retarded. Damn you for calling me retarded. And for the record I am offended at your use of the word, "retarded." I hate you. You're retarded.

Bargaining- Can I still use my parking pass for convenient Grove parking? Shit, can I? Oh God what have I done. 

Depression- Hey, roommie, can you go with me to an Olive Garden 30 minutes from the city for their unlimited bread sticks on this Saturday night? Yes? Cool. Do they take reservations? There is nothing else to say here.

Acceptance- First day of school backpack ready? Check. First day outfit ready? Check. Lunch prepared? I dunno. If I bring a sandwich on my first day am I showing my hand too early? Do cool people even eat plain sandwiches?  Fuck, where is my panini maker?!?!?!?

So this is where I'm at right now. Well, physically anyway. Mentally, I'm still hoping I can teleport myself to a month from now when I'm happy at my new job dancing to Sergio Mendez on top of my desk with my coworkers. We're all in sunhats. We're also all laughing at a joke and admiring what a smooth shave our razors have accomplished.

Until that time however I'm going to continue to listen to New Order's Ceremony over and over again. Anytime I start to feel my heart beat increase out of nerves or a heightened sense of impending failure I crank this tune up. You should try it. It totally relaxes the soul. I mean, you know, if you're a fan of new wave music, that is. I get that not everyone is attracted to melodies meant to take all the hapiness experienced on this earth and turn it into dirty black coal but it totally does it for me. Yeah, I'm weird. Whatever. 

I'm off now to watch the latest episode of Girls on my DVR. Nothing like extreme second hand embarrassment and topless ping pong to remind us all that it could be much much worse. So much worse that it's actually more worser or even the worstest. Practically the most worst worstest ever.

More After the Jump!