Sunday, February 28, 2010

My Former Roommates

I used to have 3 roommates I lived with, and I hated them all. I have heard that you are supposed to write letters to people that you are angry at in order to vent, but not actually send the letter out. Hopefully posting said letter on a blog doesn't count.

Dear Former Roommates,

Hi, it's me. How are the three of you doing? I am guessing not so good, considering each of you are spawns of Satan. But I thought I'd ask. Oh, and remember when one of you ate half my box of Raisin Bran and thought I wouldn’t notice? Well, perhaps now you have figured out why your Organic Applesauce always disappeared, along with your last copy of ELLE. That was ME.

Becky? What was with you crying all the time over your break-up with Jason, and then trying to comfort yourself with food? Hello, one Jell-O cup is cool, 5 is insane. Apparently you had started dating fat and salt, and while both stayed faithful to you (unlike Jason), I couldn't help but notice the six pounds you put on between April and May.

And Jillian- your constant, never-ending bitching about your job? All of us have jobs, and all of us hate them. Perhaps you would have been happier in the unemployment line, eating stale bread and begging me for money. Of course, I wouldn't have given you any, because I know you were the one who ate the last of my Raisin Bran.

Last but not least, my dear Lindsay. While your part-time job at Blockbuster did seem fulfilling, I couldn't help but wonder what hole in your soul you were trying to fill up with the 7 hours of TV you watched everyday. A Full House marathon? MTV’s Cribs? Another double episode of Law and Order? Why the hell not? God knows you had nothing else to do.

It would have been great if one of you could have just tried to empty the dishwasher once in a while, lock the front door at night, or at least prevented your scuzzy boyfriend from rooting through my purse. Either way, I'm glad I don't have to live with any of you train wrecks anymore.

Oh, and if I've offended you? Please, send me a letter.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Step Up: The Calvin Coolidge Story

Step Up, is like, 100% better than Step Up Two: The Streets.

So my husband, Matthew, was trying to watch some random documentary on Calvin Coolidge (30th President of the United States, I know, yawn, right?) and during the commercials he let me switch over to TBS, which was playing Step Up, starring Channing Tatum and Jenna Dewan. YES…..Step Up is my favorite movie.

The premise of this movie is so simple and yet so complicated. In Baltimore, Nora Clark (played by the gorgeous Jenna Dewan) is a naturally gifted dancer who wants nothing more than to make it to the big stage. When her partner Andrew can’t compete in the ballet school’s upcoming Senior Showcase (oh, NO), Nora happens to catch super-hot janitor Tyler Gage (played by every women’s wet dream Channing Tatum) dancing by himself in the parking lot. He’s there because, yes, he’s from the wrong side of the tracks and yes, he is performing community service for being a thug. Naturally, Tyler the Thug just happens to be a really, really, amazing dancer. That, and he’s misunderstood- as most gorgeous thugs are.

(In a real twist of irony, while my husband and I were simultaneously watching Step Up and Calvin Coolidge: The President, I realized that Channing Tatum shared a name with Calvin Coolidge’s first Lieutenant Governor, Channing Cox. At one point I mixed the two up and said, “I think there’s a dance off for advancing the progressive labor legislation and adjusting administrative law to Massachusetts' changing economy.”)

Anyway- in an amazingly sexy opposite-attract situation, Nora and Tyler fall for each other (can an upper-crust ballet dancer and rebel loser find true love?); but there are complications. Like, Nora fights with her mom who thinks she should be going to a ‘real’ college (bitch!) and Tyler deals with the death of a good friend he lost to- you guessed it- gang violence (shit!).

Can these two young dreamers work past their hardships in time for the Senior Showcase? Will Nora live her dream as a professional dancer? Is it too late for Tyler to escape the ghetto? Sigh…..SO good.

So imagine my disappointment when Step Two: The Streets came out.

Ugh….premise of the movie? Gutter rat Andie is a part of some underground dance crew; to save her from being sent away to Texas, friend Tyler (Channing Tatum returns in 30-second cameo role) gets her into the Maryland School of Arts where she meets super-popular Chase Collins. There ends up being a throw-down between two crews while Andie and Chase burn for each other. Step Up Two is good, but it’s not as good as Step Up- but then, Calvin Coolidge wasn’t as good as our 29th president, William Harding.

I think Calvin was just misunderstood- and probably from the wrong side of the tracks.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Basketball Hell

I’m writing this as a warning to all: never, EVER, let your friends talk you into intramural basketball. I made that mistake and paid for it, every Monday at 8pm for 12 weeks.

It started off innocently enough. I had downed 2 glasses of wine and followed it with half a bottle of Midol- you know, my usual Wednesday night. A couple of my girlfriends, who used to play in high school, were hanging out at my place and they started throwing the idea around, like, “let’s join a basketball league”, and “hey, it will be fun". Like a goddamn fool, I agreed to participate.

It wasn’t until 3 weeks later I had realized my mistake. My sister, holding a uniform and a smug smile entered my house, and from then on my life was a living hell. Apparently, in basketball you have to chase balls, bounce balls, throw balls, ALL THE TIME. At that point in my life I was single, and the last balls I’d handled were attached to a Cuban named Diego. What had I done?

Our first game was full of excitement: I got the team pumped about a play I devised…it’s called Roadkill, and when the ball is in play I pass out on the court and pretend I’m unconscious for about 12-18 minutes. My teammates pretend they don’t notice, which results in confusion from the other team. That confusion translates into points- giving us a better chance to win. Not that I cared either way.

I tried to get out of a couple games by telling my teammates that I had AIDS, but they weren’t buying it. And then we didn't make the finals because I called a bomb threat into the recreation center, and my ‘friends’ got really pissed at me. Eventually, the season ended, much to my delight.

I mean, honestly, what was I thinking?

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Back From The Dead

When I was about ten, I had a white stuffed cat that I adored. Her name was Milky Way.

I was in 4th grade at the time, and we were studying Ancient Egypt. One day the teacher was telling us about how the Egyptians worshiped cats, and when these cats would die, they would cover them in jewelry, mummify them, and then bury them. I was fascinated, and raced home to practice this ancient ritual on Milky Way.

I started by rooting through my mom's jewelery box and wrapping Milky Way in all the bracelets and necklaces I could find. I pierced Milky Way's ears with dozens of earrings and stuck rings around her tail. After searching through the medicine cabinet for sports tape, I bounded her arms and legs tightly together and wrapped her entire body in gauze. I performed a short, Egyptian-like prayer, and then buried Milky Way in the backyard, her soul protected for its journey through the underworld. Finally bored, I headed back into the house to watch cartoons.

It was that evening when it occurred to me that I might have done something wrong.

"Where's my good gold bracelet?"

I heard Mom say this to Dad, her voice loud from the back of the house where their room was. Seconds later, I heard her screaming.
"Where are all my earrings!?" And then, more hysterical, "My watch! My watch is gone! GONE!" Frantic, Mom raced into the kitchen, where my sister and I sat pretending to do homework. "WHAT did you two do with my jewelry?!?"

My sister stared at my Mom frothing at the mouth in awe. "Nothing," she said, and then both of them slowly turned their heads to me.

My mouth went dry. "Cat..." I whispered, staring down at my hands. Because I knew I was fucked. "Backyard..."

"What." Mom was using her flat, sharp voice that let you know she was capable of killing children, including her own.

"I mummified Milky Way by wrapping her in jewlery and gauze and burying her in the backyard. Like the Egyptians."

I was lucky Dad stepped in at that point to stop Mom from attacking me. He held her around the waist while my sister and I ducked under her flaying arms and ran into the garage, grabbed a shovel, and raced outside to dig up Milky Way. Like two grave robbers, she holding a flashlight and I frantically ripping up the dirt, we finally found her. Milky Way and my mother's jewels were back from the dead.

Later, after spending hours wiping the mud off of enough gold, silver, and bronze to cover an entire Olympics, I received a two-hour lecture on the importance of respecting other people's property, and was grounded for a month.

I was just glad Mom let me live, knowing there was an empty grave out back.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Ohno? Oh, YES.

I had an amazingly sexy dream last night- the fact that this was on the eve of Valentine's Day is no coincidence- and no, it wasn't about my husband.

In this dream, it's me and the five hottest men on earth- Apolo Ohno, Chad Hedrick, J.R. Celski (all USA), Sven Kramer (Netherlands), and Ivan Skobrev (Russia).

Am I the only one who thinks that speed skating is like sex on ice?

My obsession with speed skating is getting a little out of control. I know that Ivan Skobrev's birthday is February 9th. I know that Apolo used to date Dancing with the Star's Julianne Hough. I cried when J.R. fell in the Olympic Trails and cut his quadriceps to the femur bone with his own skate.


So back to the dream: I was sitting in a lawn chair, center ice. All five of my speed skating wet dreams were racing around the track in a tight-knit group, the sharp blades of their skates cutting through the ice like a hot knife through butter, their muscles rippling, straining, through their shiny spandex suits like gods wrapped in Saran Wrap. And here's the kicker- they weren't racing in the Olympics, no- they were racing against each other for my heart. I was the gold metal.


Right before the group of them crossed the finish line, all five of them gliding to the end like magnificent birds, my dream world and reality collided when I felt my husband throw his arm over my shoulder and give it a squeeze. "Morning, honey," he said. "Happy Valentine's Day."

I bolted upright in bed. Who won? WHO WON?

My husband stumbled out of bed and headed to the kitchen. I could hear him turning on the lights and running water to start the coffee. "Honey, you want anything to drink?" he shouted from the kitchen.

I sighed and fell back against the pillows in resignation, glancing at the bedside clock. It read 11:23am.

"Vodka," I answered back. "On ice."

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Babies Have Rubber Bones

I think that babies are incredibly cute from a distance. It's when I get up close to them that I get the chills right up my spine- sorry gang, something is just not right about them, and I'll be the first to say it.

First of all, their bones are made of rubber. This makes me squeamish. They drool, constantly, and wave their tiny fist around all bossy-like. I don't like it when people boss me around, and babies do that. It's always, "Feed me, change me, love me, blah blah blah". What, I'm a damn servant now? And don't EVEN get me started on all the shit they need. Why does something so small need a carload of crap? When I have kids, I'm putting them in waterproof gunnysack and calling it a day.

Maybe it's the parents. They always get my expectations up too high. Lies spill from their lips like a waterfall- "he is such a SMART baby", "she just LOVES people", and "he sleeps through the whole night". Really? Your 'smart' baby has been staring at the wall for 2 hours with his toes in his mouth. If that's smart, then I would be afraid to see dumb. And while I admire the fact that your child can sleep through the night, I once passed out in a dirty alley in Mazatlan for 2 days straight during Spring Break 98'- beat that. Or maybe your baby is too busy shitting itself to challenge me, I don't know.

So perhaps there needs to be classes new parents take. Like, "Your Baby Doesn't Have Basic Motor Skills- So It's Probably Not That Smart," or "Stop Talking About Your Baby- We're All Bored to Tears." The final class could be "Just Because You Fucked Each Other and Had a Baby Doesn't Mean I'll Hold The Door Open For Your Mammoth-Sized Stroller as I Walk Into Macy's." Okay, so that's a bit long, but you get my drift. Babies, like zits and flat tires, are an irritating fact of life. Excuse me while I take a birth control pill- maybe I'll take two tonight, just for good measure.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Thank You, Ed Hardy

I would like to take a moment to personally thank both Ed Hardy and Affliction for creating clothing that helps women across America identify douchebags.

Before, it was a little harder to tell if you were speaking to/flirting with/fucking a douchebag. If he had frosted tips but a great smile, I would be confused. Wearing sunglasses indoors? Maybe he was recovering from Lasik surgery. Just a tad too tan? Douchebag or spent the day outside building homes for Habitat for Humanity? How in the hell was I supposed to know?

But NOW, now we have not one but TWO clothing lines, both of which only douchebags buy and wear. Ed Hardy sweatshirt? Douchebag. Affliction tee? Douchebag. Ed Hardy ball cap? Douchebag. (Extra douchebag points if the hat is sideways on his head).

These articles of clothing are like giant red stop signs posted directly on these men. Seriously, they would have better luck if they tattooed "Do NOT date me- I'm a huge DOUCHEBAG" directly on their forehead. If you are male, and you purchase either Ed Hardy or Affliction apparel, you are saying:

-I believe that my spray tan, frosted tips, silver ring/watch/bracelet, and Ed Hardy/Affliction shirt makes me a magnet for the ladies.
-I work at Blockbuster/am a bouncer/currently unemployed.
-I do not read newspapers/magazines/books/anything.
-I don't vote/have any real money/know the name of the vice president.
-I enjoy working out/going to the clubs/sleeping/borrowing money from my mom.
-I get confused when people use big words/ask me about my future.

So THANK YOU, EH & A!! Thank you for the warning label. You guys are like the Surgeon General of dating.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

250 Million

I read somewhere that the chance of one single person existing from their parents is like, a one in 250 million chance. So if you're walking the earth right now, you are basically a lotto winner. It's enough to blow your mind, or, just feel like you screwed over 249,999 million siblings.

I contemplated this while on the couch, watching a Jersey Shore marathon. It was 2pm in the afternoon, and I was still in my pajamas, eating a chocolate pudding cup and watching the cast of JS make out in a hot tub. I thought, 250 million people and I was chosen? Me, who considers Boone Farm's Strawberry Hill a fine wine? Me, who believes that Heidi Montag is 'misunderstood'? Me, who spent last Saturday night rolling towels and stacking them in a pyramid in my bathroom to create a 'spa-like' experience?

Had my parents decided to make sweet love a minute earlier or a minute later, who else would have been born? Maybe an inspirational teacher, or a super-smart accountant, or like some type of adventurer, like an Indiana Jones? I mean really, I beat them all out. My smart, outgoing, giving, wonderful siblings. I feel bad all 249,999 of them are not here right now.

They are missing a really good episode of Jersey Shore.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

High & Low

I was reading Paris Hilton's book, Confessions of a Heiress, and in it she mentioned that you should only eat either very, very expensive food or garbage. Like, either sushi or Cheetos. I read that and thought, so true, Paris. So true.

I high/low it all the time. Diamonds and a white Hanes t-shirt. Drinking PBR in the lobby of a four star hotel. $30 lipstick and dime store eyeliner. Driving my 92' Subaru through gated communities, radio blasting (mostly just to irritate the people that live there).

My ultimate high/low, though, are the radio stations I listen to- NPR on one side, my favorite hip hop station on the other. Admittedly, the NPR is only on about 20% of the time, but still- my drive home from work sounds something like this:

"An Iraqi appeals court overturned a move to disqualify some 500 candidates in next month's parliamentary elections because of their alleged ties to-"
"I see you winding and grinding up on that pole, I know you see me lookin' at you and you already know, I wanna fuck you, you already know, I wanna fuck you, you already know-"
"NASA's administrator is defending the president's proposed budget for NASA, which cancels the space agency's planned space shuttle successor and instead relies on private companies to-"
"Baby, I be stuck to you like- glue baby, wanna spend it all on- you baby, my room is the g-spot call me Mr. Flintstone I can make your bed rock, hey hey hey, I can make your bed rock hey, hey, hey, I can make your bed rock girl-"

So I get what Paris is talking about- high/low is like being classy about being trashy. You'll have to excuse me- I'm going to get drunk and read Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. In my diamonds, of course.