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I miss the 90′s. A lot. Probably because I didn’t have to pay bills back then, but nevermind. With the upcoming release of Hot Tub Time Machine, a movie about a hot tub, uh, time machine that takes you to the 80′s, I’ve found myself wondering where the time machine to the 90′s is. I’m willing to bet it is hidden somewhere at Nickelodeon Studios. Let’s go find it!
I had a pretty dope weekend. In case you were wondering, it isn’t 1998 or anything, but I have taken a liking to the word “dope” and feel it should make a comeback. Ever since I saw this interview with Aziz Ansari. I like to say it with the same inflection that he does. Let me just tell you how well that goes over in a social setting. Perhaps some other time.
Anyway. This weekend I flew to New York to continue the ritual of racking up OnePass miles also known as my long-distance relationship. It was Valentines Day weekend and all my other boyfriends were busy so what the hell. I promise I am not going to force my opinion of Valentines Day on you, mostly because you don’t care and also because I don’t really have an opinion on it in the first place. However, I will say that the weekend was low-key and perfect, despite JP running into a knife I was holding (not the same as stabbing) and my drunken confession about using the lotion in the bathroom “on my butt” (not like that) (I just like to moisturize).
Now I’m back in Texas where it is just as cold as New York only there isn’t any snow to look at so I’m just cold and cranky mostly. And apparently Lent is today or tomorrow or sometime soon because everyone on Twitter won’t shut the hell up about it. I feel the same way about Lent that I do about drinking games: hatred. I don’t like anything that dictates the nature of my addictions and general gluttony. I’m not religious so it doesn’t matter anyway, but I’m cranky remember? I wanted to complain about something.
And now I leave you with a question. JP and I disagree on what makes breakfast….breakfast. JP says that breakfast is the first meal of the day regardless of when you eat it. So, for example, if you wake up at 5pm and eat something, that is breakfast. I disagree. I think breakfast stops being breakfast at 11. Maybe I’ve been brainwashed by fast food chains (serious Whataburger, fuck you for not serving taquitos after 11am) but I think food eaten after 11 is not breakfast. And if you want to eat waffles at 3pm? Well, you are eating a breakfast food, but you aren’t eating breakfast. Ya dig? So, what do you think? Before you make your decision please remember that I have boobs. I just feel like this helps my chances somehow. That and the fact that I am right but nevermind. Now please weigh in on this because I have nothing better to do with my Tuesday evening and this episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians is a rerun.
I am moving to New York in May.
I am excited about this for plenty of reasons. There is the pizza, which haunts my dreams. It is culinary nirvana. Then there is the fact that I won’t have to drive. I realize that people who live in New York hate the MTA. I mean, I get it. It smells, it runs by its own schedule with no regard to yours and when it is crowded there’s a good chance that someone unattractive is going to touch your ass. In many ways, it is like the free workout classes at my gym. But as someone who has never had public transit as a viable option, I am thrilled because I won’t have to get behind a wheel. I hate driving! I am awful at it. I know a lot of people claim to be bad drivers but I actually hit a girl on a bike one time. I’m serious.
Despite all of the things I’m excited about, I am still nervous. It’s a big change for me. I have never lived up north. I will be miles and miles away from decent Mexican food, I get cold when it is 70 degrees outside, and I also watch a lot of crime shows which have all taught me that New York is full of people who will try to kill me. I might be excited about public transit, but that doesn’t mean I am not concerned about being murdered by a crazy person on the train whose umbrella transforms into a sword.
My biggest worry about New York, however, doesn’t even have to do with being murdered in Central Park while jogging, which is apparently extremely common. It has to do with job hunting.
I want to teach yoga, but unfortunately just because you have chosen a career which will let down your parents doesn’t mean it will be cheap or easy. It is crazy expensive to go through yoga teacher training and I haven’t won the lottery because I never actually play the lottery. I just feel defeated and I haven’t even begun. I will have to get some other job that probably involves a lot of filing or copy making in the meantime to save money for teacher training and, you know, to pay for shit. I am nervous because this isn’t exactly the best time to look for a job, especially in a city where there are thousands and thousands of people more qualified and experienced than I am. I guess there is no sense in worrying until I get there, and once I do maybe I can just keep an eye out for taxi drivers who look like the host of Cash Cab. I have an iPhone and you have to look at the road. I’m not scared of your little game!
Sorry for that last post. I mean I’m not sorry sorry. I meant what I said. I’m just sorry it was said in the most boring way of all time. I hadn’t eaten in awhile and I was in a very cold and dark place. Would it have killed me to throw in a dick joke or something? Anyway I don’t even know where this is going anymore because Slash is on my TV. That man is alarmingly sexy. But I have to wonder if he ever gets sick of wearing that hat and those sunglasses.
This weekend was great because my boyfriend JP was in town and I ate some shrimp tacos. You know what goes swimmingly with shrimp tacos? A margarita. You know what doesn’t go well with either of these two things? A woman breastfeeding her 10 year old. Nothing good can come out of a child that old being breastfed. That kid is going to grow up and murder someone and never find love and probably like camping. But even if your kid was young enough for breastfeeding to be normal, would it kill you to go to the restroom or your car or somewhere that is not directly in front of where I am eating a taco? It’s not my fault you had a baby. Why should I have to suffer for your terrible life choices? Would you like it if I blew cigarette smoke in your babies face? Because that’s the same thing. But don’t worry I won’t because I quit smoking. And also because I can’t afford bail.
Which leads me to my next topic. Destruction. We need to have a reality show exactly like Supermarket Sweep only with destroying hotel rooms. It could be with regular people vs rock stars and it would be great. I have always wanted to do this but haven’t been able to. I am not a rock star and I don’t have money to pay for damages. I just work in an office! The closest I’ve gotten to having a rockstar moment in a hotel was when I fell down in the hallway and stayed there. That was yesterday. Not exactly something that would ever be mentioned on my nonexistent E True Hollywood Story. But a reality show! Man, a reality show such as this would finally make my dream come true! And since I am suggesting this show, I would also like to suggest that the rock and roll star I am pinned against is Slash and at the end we embrace and there will be a snake at some point, just like in the Patience music video. By the way I am the woman in lingerie. Just so there is no confusion.
I have a suggestion. No, a demand. Let’s retire the phrase “real woman”.
I love that the definition of beauty extends beyond a size two. I am happy to hear people calling women like Kim Kardashian or Christina Hendricks sexy, instead of just women who are closer in size to Kate Moss or Thandie Newton. But somewhere along the way, in an attempt to celebrate curves and encourage women to be unashamed of their hips and thighs, the phrase “real woman” came to fruition. And what I want to know, is how a woman’s fucking jean size determines whether or not she is real.
You can’t fight the body image issues of women by cutting other women down. It’s counterproductive. Just because a woman isn’t as curvy as Sophia Loren doesn’t mean her value or worth is less, or that she isn’t equally as sexy. And dammit, it doesn’t always mean she won’t eat dessert, or that she is maniacal about calories. Just like some women aren’t meant to be a size two, there are also women who aren’t meant to be a size 10. I think sometimes people don’t realize this.
If we want women to love their bodies, we have to got to stop pinning them against eachother. It shouldn’t be a battle of skinny vs. curvy. If a woman is healthy and happy, that’s all that should matter.
I could never date Al Green.
Upon first glance, this might seem pretty obvious. He is 63 years old for one, and while I do like older men, I try to stick to those who aren’t older than my own father or needing someone to explain the internet to them. Then there is that whole part about him being a reverend. And me, well, the last time I was within 25 feet of a church, I was seventeen and having premarital sex in the parking lot. Sorry Moses or whatever.
My problem with Al Green has little to do with age or religious affiliation and everything to do with the fact that he reminds me of way too many guys I have tried to date.
I’ve listened to Al Green’s music rather frequently over the years, but it wasn’t until recently that I came to realize how deceptive his most popular songs are. Take, for example, “Tired of Being Alone”.
For ages I thought this song was about Al Green realizing how much he loved a woman and wanted her back in his life. He was tired of being alone, without her. Well, that is because that’s exactly what Al Green WANTS everyone to believe. He tricked me, probably tricked the woman (or women) this song was intended for, and I’m willing to bet he tricked you too.
Thankfully I’ve since wised up to his deceptive ways. Just take a closer look at these lyrics:
“You see baby, I’ve been thinking about you,
I’ve been wanting to get next to you, baby,
Sometimes I hold my arms and I say,
Mmmmm hmmmm hmmmm,
Oh baby, needing you has proven to me,
to be my greatest dream.I’m so tired of being alone,
I’m so tired of on-my-own,
…Sometimes late at night I get to wonderin’ about you baby”
Whatever asshole! I’ve heard that before!
Now, I’m not mad at Al Green for wanting a little loveless lovin’. To quote Salt N Pepa, “You can front if you have to, but everybody gets horny just like you”. What I am annoyed about, however, is that the Reverend is trying to play it off as something more than just a late night booty call. He is trying to convince this woman that he needs her, when I’m pretty sure the reality is that he just needs anyone. Any warm body will do; she is nothing special.
It’s pretty clear that Al Green isn’t in love at all. Al Green just wants some ass.
In my opinion, it’s not cool to go around professing falsified love just so you can gain access to someone’s secret garden. The last thing this world needs is more men claiming to be in love when all they really wanna do is hit the skins. Instead, we need men who will be upfront and say “I want to put my penis inside one or more of your orifices, but don’t intend on ever making you my girlfriend”. I think everyone appreciates a little honestly when it comes to matters of the heart (and genitals). If more people were straightforward about their intentions from the start, we’d have significantly less broken hearts on our hands.
And fewer slashed tires.
