Zumba-Death by Gyration

It is a secret to no one that I identify myself as a Latina. Admittedly a Latina with zero legitimate hispanic blood coursing through these veins. I'm what they call a nebulous Latina. My hispanic-ness arises from both the penumbra of rights afforded me by the U.S. Constitution and the summers of 0 years to 12 when my parents shipped my brother and me to El Salvador to partake in "camp El Salvador". This particular camp consisted of three months at my grandmother's house where her idea of entertainment included hiring clowns for the better part of an afternoon. I'm convinced my early childhood exposure to clowns is why I don't trust men. And also, coincidentally, why I attended clown school and used my skills to entertain old folks in assisted living facilities. No, I'm serious. I did.

Now inherit in all Latinas is the ability to move one's hips in a circular rotation. This circular rotation mimics the flush of a latrine. Amazing imagery here. You can thank me later.  Round and round they go where they stop nobody knows. "Nobody", of course, being the name you give the one night stand you eventually pick up based on said rotation. "Give" because you don't remember his name or really even asked for it. Sometimes it's best not to know. I mean, his name could be Brett. Or Tristan. Or frankly any name where the parent believes the best way to fine tune and add flair to an otherwise established and sturdy nombre is to shit all over its spelling. Like when one exchanges an "i"  for a "y" for uniqueness. If you come across a gentleman where this is the case then you RUN lest the percentage chance of your child becoming a Trystan Jr. rises considerably.  And while I'm at it let me just say that if I personally encounter a name where the "h" is silent for experimentation...so help me God.  Rhyan. "Oh hey Rhyan, GO FUCK YOURSELF!" I once came across a Gipson. Yes, G-I-P-S-O-N. I couldn't help but wonder why Gipson's parents wanted to ensure his son's complete failure in any romantic relationship. Can you imagine a wedding invitation with Gipson? People would assume you had the biggest typo party foul. And we all know that if phoentics is brought into the equation then it is safe to assume a 1st rate education was denied Gipson's parents and therefore Gipson himself. Maybe not denied eduction, but rather D'd their way through it. This tangent has taken quite a negative turn especially considering I don't do one night stands. Moving on.

More After the Jump!

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!

Change

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!

Beautimous Maximus

On the heels of TLC's announcement of more "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo," in our future  I felt compelled to write a little something about what has become my FAVORITE show of the now defunct summer. I do mightily confess I originally judged this gem because of its gross representation of Americana. At the time I believe I deemed it the best deterrent for  immigration into this country. And well, jeah, it is. At least to the white-ish ones trying to make it over. However, after closer inspection, and by closer inspection I mean watching every episode at least twice, it has become apparent that while on the surface the show highlights the dangers of extreme heat and public education, deep deep down at its core, aka, the inner recesses of June's vagiggle jaggle, Honey Boo Boo is nothing more than a sweet slice of what families these days ought to be. It is the true essence of "You is smart, you is kind, and you is important,"without the "you is smart" part.

For those of you who haven't tuned into the show yet because either a.) you're protesting  the exploitive nature of reality TV (c'mon who doesn't want to see the lives of conjoined twins making it in this world? ) or b.) quite simply have a loved one to come home to at night let me break the show down in a quick paragraph or two:

More After the Jump!

Extreme Couponing or as I like to call it Organized Hoarding

So my boss came into the office one day and could not stop waxing poetic about the TLC show, "Extreme Couponing". sidenote: quotations right? He said the amount these people save was unbelievable and worth a watch. So I did. And, well, yeesh. While these people are performing miracles at the check-out counter what exactly do they gain by stockpiling their houses with 150 years worth of men's deodorant or cat food for ghost cats, i.e cats they don't have. These people clearly do not want change. The absence of change and Charmin Ultra toilet paper with aloe vera because that particular gem never goes on sale. Admittedly there is a quantitative upside. While their asses might scream for moisture and some sympathy, at least for the next 750 years in perpetuity the Smith family's kin will enjoy the tingling sensation of abusively expired Ragu Homestyle Tomato Sauce.

Look, I can understand the thrill of the bargain. I am not adverse to buying on sale and I am the daughter of one, Carlos J. Kuri. I am also not a stranger to the idea of coupons. My mother is an avid coupon clipper with much success therefore I do concede couponing holds a monetary and somewhat gratifying purpose. However. And you know when I say however that we're climbing to the danger zone, right? Here's the reality. There is a difference between purchasing both needed and wanted items at peak bargaining moments and what these people do. This is not a revelation. What the Coupon Diva etc. do, in my honest and most humblest opinion, and yes, the correct opinion, is hoarding. Replace the make-shift garage grocery stores with discarded baby doll parts found at flea markets and I see no difference. Well, ok, one difference. The discarded baby doll aficionado probably eats out every night at the local Chucky Cheese to lure children into their lair but whatever. My point is Extreme Couponers are hoarders from the other side of the color prism and therefore not the type of people we should wish to succeed. If not for them than for the children. Anyone else worried about the children?!? Where are Child Protective Services going to be when little Mary-Sue screams out in agony over the toilet because of the originally priced 99 cent "manager's special Hilshire Farm deli meat bought for 27 cents with coupons? Who's going to tell her that the pain that's most aptly described as a nest of wasps in her hoo haa is because mommy worships at the alter of the Super Saver circular? Using hard earned cash to develop doomsday bunkers filled with razor blades and dried cranberries is not a way to live. And for those that believe there is nothing wrong with that, well, then, at least don't invite me to dinner.

It ain't right. I'm telling you kids, this is not a show to admire. This is a show that needs a PSA at the end of every episode, some sort of reminder to viewers that the views held by these people are not the views endorsed by the FDA, the CDC, the CAA, the CNN, the Declaration of Independence or anything else. That being said, yeah, it's totally entertaining.

More After the Jump!

Doubting There is Anything Better than Downton

Oh Downton. Why? Why do I love you so much it hurts to think about the months in between when I don't see you? Why does my heart go pitter patter with anxiety, hope, despair and longing every time you light up my television from an unidentified source. I feel as though we are forever connected by the sheer strength of my suffocating obsessive grip on you, you grandiose and altogether perfect combination of skilled storytelling/acting/costumes/cinematography etc. I know, I know. Using the phrase, "perfect combination" sounds, in way, a bit of an insult to what you really are, no? I must confess I would skip my wedding for you. I would tell my groom I have an errand to run and sneak into a bathroom stall with my ancient 06 laptop, the accompanying coolant fan, and some wi-fi to locate a download of you just to re-watch some key scenes. If, dear readers, you haven't experienced Downton yet, well, all I can say is, "when did you know your heart had no capacity for love?" Did you know, deprived soul,  that Downton is in the Guiness Book of World Records as the most critically acclaimed show of ALL-TIME. Yo, BBC's Pride & Prejudice, I'm really happy for you, and I'm gonna let you finish, but Downton is the best show of all-time. ALL-TIME...

More After the Jump!

HP Deathly Hallows Trailer. Tinkle Tinkle Little Stars

The boy who lived...come to die. I just..can't..process. Just the music alone. Explicit chills. I admit I shed a tiny tear at the scene where Ron and Hermione are running backwards with their wands on the offensive in what looks like the shambles formerly known as Hogsworth. God I remember reading those intense pages near the end and just begging with my mind that JK spare Ron and Hermione from death and yet having no faith at all that she would. I miss that feeling from a book, don't you? The last time any reading whatsoever has affected me that much was when I looked at my first Water and Power bill for the months of Feb.-Apr. And yet even then the goosebumps weren't as severe. To stave off the agony of waiting until November I'm going to make it my mission to visit the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando. They've got butterbeer, a wand that chooses YOU, AND, AND, AND three new rides. One of which Steph Meyer can't get on. Point to Rowling. Man I want to nerd out when I'm there. I'm talking costumes, Gryffindor shit, and any ginger I know so I can feel as if Ron is with me. In the meantime I'm posting the trailer below to revel in its glory. Enjoy!

More After the Jump!