Monthly Archives: August 2009

Bumper Stinkers

Just as I predicted, it seems as though my blog is turning into a way for me to complain about the injustices of the world such as inglorious Ocean City teenie boppers and unsightly gym attire. I now turn my attention to another societal bunion: informational bumper stickers. Whenever I am a behind  a car that has a bumper sticker telling me that “God will save my sinful soul” or asking me to “Join the Resistance” I nearly pop a blood vessel trying to restrain myself from ramming into the back of whatever station wagon the sticker is attached to. No, I do not need divine intervention and I certainly do not want to hear your thoughts on abortion while I am on my way to Target or to go rob a bank and like overbearing parents you are encouraging me to rebel.

Your nonverbal yelling hurts my soul, please stop being bumper stinkers.

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Why My Dogs Are My Dawgs

Every once in a while, usually when I am feeling overly stressed or significantly overwhelmed, I wonder how other people deal with these particularly nasty feelings. I then think of the stress that come with raising a family or running a big business and realize that in comparison my stresses are mild and underwhelming. Selfishly I then become increasingly stressed that my problems as a 22-year-old, middle-class and white college girl are not important and my blood pressure returns to the state of a 65-year-old habitual drinker and steak eater, that is, high and boiling. Today, I was in the depths of demented self-loathing (mainly because I could not decide whether I wanted to eat a hot dog for dinner or if I could settle for a bag of Ruffles) and I wondered if life would be easier if I were a dog.

See, I have two dachshunds, Mo and Billy. These pups are especially important in my life as we adopted them from a dachshund rescue group. Before they were rescued, both doggies were severely neglected by their owners and though I’m not a huge P.E.T.A. activist I do think if I ever met Billy and Mo’s former owners I would introduce them to the back of my hand. Anyway, knowing that these dogs have had such toughs lives makes me particularly prone to spoiling the pants off of them. I take them for long walks, pet them for as long as they will let me and snuggle with them to the point that they struggle to get off of the couch. With OCD-like precision I make sure their food and water bowls are full and fresh and I constantly shower them with doggie treats and play toys. As someone who was once indifferent to the idea of having a dog I have shamelessly become, for lack of a better word, a dog person.

I know it sounds weird and it probably seems ungrateful but in becoming a dog person I’ve thought about how I would love to be a dog. For the first time ever, I want to be treated like I treat others. Think about it, as a dog all you need to do is wag your tail and stick out your tongue just a little and you are automatically loved. If I did that people would think I was a low-grade stripper and I would be booed off stage. Secondly, dogs get to go on walks, they get to sleep all day and they are basically hand fed every morning and night. Also, they get congratulated for not pooping or peeing inside of the house (something I was never congratulated for). Dogs get bathed and receive guilt-free treats. From where I’m sitting, it seems like the life.

This is perhaps why people are “dog people”, because they admire the lives of dogs. Why then, are dogs so loyal to humans? It’s for the same reason, they want to be us. Why, you ask? Dogs don’t have to pay taxes, they don’t need to get jobs and they certainly don’t have to deal with homework or car troubles. But, aside from the few unfortunate children at Disney world, many of us do not have to walk around attached to a leash like dogs do. We get to wear shoes and eat chocolate without having a case of the runs or dying. Dogs probably want to be able to open their own dog food but unfortunately only have four toes and no thumbs.

The mutual respect between our two species brings us together as one big happy family. My dogs are my dawgs because they’ve got my back and I’ve got their back. Is one better than the other?  I do not know. All I know is that right now I wish someone would scratch my belly.

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What Not to Wear…Ever

Today, like most days, I summoned the will power to drag myself to the gym. Now, I believe I should be skinny and fit without putting forth any effort. My body’s failure to live up to these expectations means that I must deal with my seemingly backwards metabolism by “working hard” and “pumping iron” at the gym so that I do not turn into a sumo wrestler. While I find my metabolic inadequacies disturbing enough, I am even more perturbed by the fact that when I do decide to go to the gym I am confronted with overwhelmingly offensive gym attire.

First, of course, we have the sweat pants man. This man wears the same pair of gray sweat pants every single day and for the sweat pants I do not judge him. Instead I direct my anger toward the large sweat rings in his lower back, arm pits and behind his knees. If you are that hot then you should not be wearing sweating pants. You are disgusting and smelly and if I had young children I would keep them at least 50 feet away from you.

Secondly, to the man in the khaki cargo shorts, Timberland work boots and filthy white cut-off T-shirt. We get it you have a job outside, possibly a construction worker, and I applaud all that you do but you must learn to separate work attire from gym attire.  I mean, I am currently unemployed but you don’t see me strolling into the gym with the polka dot pajama pants I’ve been watching re-runs of NCIS in all day, do you? Furthermore, all you need when you go to the gym is an iPod; I don’t think that requires all the pocket space that comes with a pair of cargo shorts. Also, get a shirt with some sleeves. I know they didn’t just mysteriously fall off so lay off the scissors. Finally, Timberlands? Really? You aren’t in Eminem and you aren’t in “Eight Mile”. You don’t see Lance Armstrong wearing Timberlands do you? That’s right, because they he knows only an idiot would wear them while exercising.

To the woman who wearing half of an outfit: Your shorts may as well be underwear and ugly ones at that. We get it, you are skinnier and more fit than the rest of us but please stop making me feel bad about myself for having a life and drinking alcohol.

The large woman in the spandex suit. Now, I am no fashion expert but if there is one cardinal rule in the world of fashion it is that spandex looks good on no one, plain and simple. An addendum to this rule is that all colorful, tye-dye spandex is sinful and should be burned so that they can feel the same pain my eyes feel when I look at them.

Now, I know this may seem harsh but in reality it’s the nicest thing that can be done. Being honest to these offenders about their gym fashion faux-pauxs will help them in the future. It will also help me not want to poke my eyeballs out while I am on the elliptical.

The moral of the story: next time you think about going to the gym in Timberlands, sweat pants or half a pair of shorts find a good friend who will have the backbone to tell you not to wear that, ever.

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Away We Went

There’s something special about the Sundance Film Festival. Let me preface this post by confessing that I’ve never actually had the pleasure, or what I imagine would be the pleasure of attending this weekend-long opportunity for imaginative, quirky film makers to strut their stuff in hopes of one day being discovered. My opinion stands only from films I have seen in theaters which boast the Sundance Film Festival stamp of approval in the opening credits. The beauty of the festival nests in the organic, helplessly honest and sometimes uncomfortable nature of these films.

Although these films are undeniably intuitive and meaningful, they are rarely, and sadly, salient among the common folk they most closely relate to. Any number of the festival winners cannot combat the watered-down taste of the general public who would rather watch Meghan Fox run around helplessly with huge lumps of exploding robots that can turn into cell phones. The people don’t want to see themselves on the big screen; they want to escape into the land of glitz and glam.

Personally, I enjoy seeing those closely similar to me and to be honest, I like seeing those a little worse off. This gives my confidence a well-needed boost. In fact, all of us would feel a little better if we watched more of these organic movies. I saw “Away We Go” and really felt the underrated power of raw honesty of the movie. Next, I am going to see “Paper Heart” and “500 Days of Summer” because who doesn’t love awkward love movies?

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Beach bums

This weekend I had the pleasure of returning to the wonderful, warped world of Ocean City, Maryland. For those of you who live under a rock, Ocean City is a beach town on the eastern shore that is an eclectic blend of classy and trashy. I’ve been going there since I was a kid and I can still remember walking up and down the boardwalk with my friends and thinking I was a smoking hot babe. Looking back, I realize I was a tall, lanky, boyish-looking tween and it’s no wonder that the only thing I picked up on the boardwalk was athlete’s foot and Fisher’s popcorn. If I ever have kids I am never letting them go to Ocean City to go “walk the boardwalk” unless they wear rain boots and sweat pants.

But let’s move on. My weekend in Ocean City was fabulous. It was a great way to get a break from sitting on my couch and watching Comedy Central. I was certainly getting sick of laying around all day and thinking about the productive things I could and should be doing. What’s great about the beach is that laying around all day is acceptable, in fact, it’s encouraged. You go to the beach, plop down on a appealing plot of sand and legitimately roast in the sun for the next five to seven hours. To do otherwise is considered a waste of vacation, which therefore makes you a bad person. I want to go back to the beach where I can settle in among fellow summer bums. I’d also really love some Fisher’s Popcorn for breakfast.

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Blah blah blog

I’ve always been against blogging. In fact, I’ve come to generalize those who do blog as 35-year-old introverted internet (by internet, I mean porn) addicts who live in their mother’s basement and eat Cheetos on their bed which doubles as a futon. Either that or I thought bloggers were narcissistic pansies who wanted to use the internet as way to display their public diary to the world. Either way, the word blogged creeped me out more than Amy Winehouse which is why I generally avoided the whole thing.

Now, I am not so ignorant. In fact, I have developed a new appreciation for the the act of blogging so much so that this is actually my second blog sight. My first was a Google blog and I am so thoroughly embarrased by sub-intelligent posts I published on that sight that I decided to start new on WordPress. No, this is not a plug for, it was simply just another free way to blog and in this economy, free is for me. Also, I feel like I finally have some things worth blogging about which will hopefull generate some interest. So hopefully, my future blogs will be something worth reading. We shall see.