The Mostly "About Katherine Heigl" Romantic Comedy Review
Movie: 27 Dresses
Starring: Living proof that ‘bitchface’ is marketable, James Marsden actually getting the girl.
So I’m sitting at home drinking whiskey, ready to prepare for another fabulous night of “going to bars and staring at mildly attractive guys but not talking to them” and luckily for me 27 Dresses is on so I feel happy again. Now- within thirty seconds of this film I already have problems with it. The premise of this film is as follows:
Chick loves weddings but has a terrible uptight personality so finds herself single at the tragic age that Women’s Day Magazine says you should be married already She loves being a bridesmaid and has been so 27 times. Michael Buble is on the soundtrack.
There’s more to that, something about a boss that loves her sister and I think some kind of betrayal I don’t know I can’t finish this movie it hurts so much.
The main reason why this movie is terrible isn’t even because of the plot. I mean-I really would love to be able to sit here and type how the line "YOU’D RATHER FOCUS ON OTHER PEOPLE’S KODAK MOMENTS THAN MAKE MEMORIES OF YOUR OWN" is in this movie. But it is really terrible because of Katherine Heigl. I cannot believe that any movie would cast her as a lead in a movie. Why? Because she looks like such an uptight horrendous bitch! I can’t even look at a picture of her for too long without thinking she is critiquing my outfit or calling me fat. She actually looks racist. LOOK AT THE ABOVE PICTURE! She makes Sharon Stone look maternal! Even when she smiles, she has the venomous quality of some Southern Boutique owner who tells the nice black family to kindly leave her store. But somehow, she has been the lead in this movie, and that movie with Gerard Butler where they have angry hate sex all the time, and probably some other romantic comedies in the future. What gets me is that for 27 Dresses, the lead girl isn’t even that other romantic comedy girl typecast: the c*nty business professional who needs some hot dude to slowly pull the stick out her ass. That I would mostly believe. But no- they instead cast her as the chick who 27 different girls love so much they want her to be in their wedding. I don’t even have three friends who would grant me that and I don’t look like I kill puppies to make gloves out of. I simply cannot get over how they picked her for the lead role in this movie. I mean, if I could, I would make this post about how the average bridesmaid dress is 200 dollars so she has spent a minimum of 5,400 dollars on dresses when she works as Personal Assistant. I would love to make this post about how the two ‘theme’ weddings that are displayed during wedding montages are ‘vampire’ and ‘Indian.’ But instead, I have to write about the mean alcoholic eyes of Katherine instead. First, she got to make out with Seth Rogen, than she ruined my ability to make fun of this specific romantic comedy. Why is this witch so intent on ruining good things? She probably laughed at all the pictures of the cute little birds covered in oil during the Gulf Crisis. Well, maybe not. She mostly just looks like one of those women who casually mentions that welfare is only for lazy drug addicts during meatloaf dinner but I still think that whoever casted this movie chose Katherine because these specific actors were too busy to film:
I spent the better part of my young life in the pursuit of healthiness. I always wanted to eat well, work out, be in shape and look good. Thankfully, every women’s magazine out there wanted to help my misguided, impressionable female self do just that. They figure we girls are stupid and lacking in self control enough not to be able to eat right on our own, and so often in every issue they propose an easy-to-follow meal plan to tell us dummies exactly what’s okay for us to consume.
For a while, I tried to follow these things. For breakfast they always suggest something along the lines of a slice of whole wheat toast with a tablespoon of peanut butter and a medium banana. And so that’s what I ate, making sure I measured out the peanut butter and selected not-too-big bananas. Lunch is usually a green salad with something like three ounces of bland chicken. (You can do an egg white omelet if you’re feeling crazy.) Bottom line: these plans are boring. And the sense of failure I’d feel when I went off them was overwhelming. As a “reward,” the mags will offer you some devilish treat like a cocktail, or half a cup of frozen yogurt. Guess what? I’m not satisfied with half a cup of frozen yogurt. If anything eating that little of a dessert only fuels my craving for more of it. But you know what’s going to happen if you have more, don’t you, fatty?
I stand here today, a complete deviant in the eyes of the glossies whose calorie-precise menus I used to follow so religiously. These days I’m eating mostly whatever I damn please, and liking my bananas big (wink!). It takes more than one drink to get me drunk (do you have any idea what my tolerance is by now?), and so I forgo the “treat” cosmo in favor of a few G&T’s. And I’m sorry, Shape, but do you think I’m going to stop at your suggested four m’n’ms? I’m going to eat half the bag, and that’s if I’m being “smart.” If this makes me a total lardass, then sobeit, I guess. At least I’m not driving myself insane.
And the thing is, as long as what you eat has some sort of balance, you’ll be fine. Which isn’t hard to figure out. I don’t think you need to be told that eating Double Downs and Big Macs on a regular basis isn’t the best thing you can do for your body. We all know that fatty, processed food < lean protein, and that fresh fruits and veggies are pretty important. No idiotic pre-planned meal plan necessary. No need to shell out the big bucks for organic shit. No reason to try some bizarre macro-biotic or raw food diet. Leave that for the crazies.
So remember: it’s fine to have the occasional pancake breakfast and to clean your plate when you’re out to dinner. Nights spent in front of the TV with a pint of B&J’s or at the bar with a pitcher of margs should induce feelings of relaxation and sluttiness, not guilt. Everything in moderation, as they say, but ya only live once. Eat, drink, and be badass.
About the author: Emily is a fine ass chick who can be found dressing way better than most normal people and being one classy wino at bloggingtipsy.tumblr.com.
I don’t even know what this Cosmopolitan Article is about. I didn’t read it, mostly because I really enjoy my brain in full functioning mode and not slowly bubbling and melting into a puddle of goo.
Anyway, I read this title on the Cosmo website and thought: I bet I could write that article without reading the real one, compare it to the real one, and probably get it mostly right. I promise you I did not read the ‘journalistic achievement’ beforehand. The description fo the article said there were seven tips. So I will do seven tips, too. Anyway, here goes something:
1. Put a candy necklace somewhere sexual on your body. Possibly a thigh or straight up the vag. Have him eat it and mumble sweet nothings and love you forever while you are wearing a pencil skirt because you just got back from your job at Express.
2. Trail candy hearts (probably stale and old because it’s fucking JULY) all over your stomach and your bed. Have him eat them and massage your breasts while remembering how much he ‘B MINE’ and how much he ‘TXT ME’
3. Eat a York Peppermint Patty/Mint Candy/Pop Rocks and hob on his knob. The tingle will make him release his protein shake so fast into your mouth you’ll be choking on ‘I love you’ for days afterward.
Those three were giveaways. Now it’s getting harder. I feel pressure: Cosmo cannot, will not win this round. I don’t even eat candy! Why? Because nachos> candy, that’s why. Duh.
4. Paint him with chocolate body paint that you can buy on some skeevy porn shop in the Lower East Side or maybe melt a Hershey Bar if you are so inclined to be cheap and don’t need to stock up on dildos: Lick it off him and get a little bit fatter. Work out tomorrow. Do it the next night.
5. Make out with him after you popped a Lemon Head or a cinnamon hot candy or a sour candy into your mouth. Pass it back in forth. Not sure if I’ve already read this one in Cosmopolitan, or I saw it on Sabrina The Teenaged Witch.
6. put a couple of M and M’s in your hand and give him a handjob. I know it’s a stretch, I just don’t want to foreplay with candy anymore. Why? BECAUSE I DON’T LIKE TO HAVE SEX WITH CHILDREN.
7. Use Twizzlers to create a noose after reading this article. Make sure you use the Twizzler pull and peel, because I feel like that would make a better noose. Write your suicide note with candy buttons. Okay, that one I just wrote because it was funny.
Okay. Those are mine. Now let’s see Cosmo’s and add up my score:
1. Candy Necklace: Use as an edible garter. Cosmo: 0 Alida: 1
2. Melted Chocolate: Melt a chocolate bar in the microwave for 15 seconds…have him use the bar to draw a trail down your body..lick it up. Cosmo: 0 Alida: 2
3. Warheads: Blindfold your guy or send him into another room. Suck on the sour candy for a few seconds before running it over five unexpected hot spots on your body—like behind your knees, on your left nipple, near your collarbone. Then he has to use his sense of taste to find those areas. If he gets all five right, pass him a Warhead and ask him to challenge you. WTF? Okay. You got one. Cosmo: 1 Alida: 2
4. Sour Belts:While you’re making out, use the belts to playfully whip each other’s butts. I’m being real here- that’s disgusting. Cosmo: 2 Alida: 2
5. Hot Tamales Candy Spray: Use the spray version of this red-hot cinnamon candy to graffiti each other’s bodies. Fuck you Cosmo! I don’t even know that Candy exists! Cosmo: 3 Alida: 2
6. Candy Buttons: Peel off the dots, lick the back then stick them to all the places you want your guy to pay extra attention to. Suicide Note Reference totally counts! Cosmo: 3 Alida: 3
7. There isn’t one! Cosmo fooled me! It’s an ad for Secret “strong enough for a man, made for a less important gender!” So it’s a tie!
A tie? What the fuck Cosmo! How about we both just bite a Jawbreaker, lose all our teeth, and give a better BJ tonight? Who wins now? WHO WINS NOW?!
Pretty sure the Buddhists didn’t intend for one of their fundamental laws to be one of the most fundamental phrases a trashy reality star/drunk girl/general idiot uses to sound intelligent and foreboding.
Recipe to Try: Lifetime Television for Women "My Daughter is in Trouble"
Everybody knows there are three different Lifetime movies 1. This man is not what he seems! 2. I’m a cop and I will emotionally involve myself in order to solve this crime! and this one, the “I question my parenting!” edition. This is the recipe for that one, as follows.
You Will Need:
Sixteen years of gentle yet stern parenting
One night of late night drinking and boredom
Take mother. Give her a sassy yet short haircut, add smart and functional jeans and a variety of cardigans and tank tops. She’s still got her figure, but she won’t show it off!
Take daughter. Add lots of jean skirts/leggings and message t-shirts. Crimp her hair, splash with headbands and braids.
Shove them into a nicely furnished condo in respectable middle-class neighborhood.
Give daughter an older boyfriend. Have older boyfriend wear a leather jacket and one hoop earring.
Sprinkle in the phrase ‘everybody’s doing it.’ Chip away at daughter’s usually smart decisions and good grades, using one red solo cup and a basement party with approximately 6-10 teenagers.
Make this party a horrifying sex and drug party with lots of peer pressure. Depict this by adding rock music from non-specific band (cannot afford to purchase song rights) and slow motion to depict mild drunkenness.
Have daughter experience extreme impossible result from party, such as quadruple pregnancy or incredible addiction to marijuana and Miller High Life.
Marinate in mother’s despair at parenting skills by having her bury her hands at her secretarial job/arguments with her Sears Catalog insurance salesman husband. Have husband be an incredible breadwinner who takes no part in parenting and possibly forgets children’s names, which obviously makes him best husband ever.
3-5 minutes of conversation with ethnic best friend who says things like ‘kids will be kids’ followed by frightening statistics of teen death.
Have daughter slam door in mother’s face. Have other, younger daughter try on slutty clothing. Eat dinner as a family.
Mother catches daughter smoking light cigarette and looking at how cool drinking is on the internet. This makes her throw a vase, run around screaming, or some other overreaction that begs to ask the tough question ‘where did I go wrong?’
Answer: she didn’t go wrong. Because-
Classmate of teen daughter dies as a result of babies she has had, fatal STD, or overdose on three beers.
Have everything work out swimmingly by showing daughter hug her mom, realizing how much of a slut that dead classmate is, and breaking up with boyfriend by school lockers.
If daughter is pregnant at this point, have her give her babies to infertile widow with one hand. Daughter goes back on swim team and wins match/
Mother is satisfied, drinks a glass of chardonnay to celebrate followed by insinuation of missionary sex with husband.
Credits: Reba McIntire song.
Serving Size: Six million moms who do not understand their children.
High waisted shorts, I am on the fence about you. Sometimes I think you make people look good. Sometimes I think you make people look like Mickey Mouse.
I mean I’d wear you, but I still have the fear that I’ll end up looking like one of those mom’s who has a FUPA, three young kids/a pending divorce. She eats yogurt in her car and really likes ‘that Tina Fey.’ But that’s because I have a small torso and sometimes I watch The View. So I’ll just have to have mixed feelings about you on other people.
I read today that the military jacket is going to be big for 2010 fall fashion. As a jacket lover-leather and blazer being mine and everybody’s favorite-I beg you: please don’t wear these because nobody normal looks good in them. Seriously. You will look stupid and I don’t want you to look stupid. If you are a girl living in the present, bypass this jacket. Spend your money on something useful, like beer. You can, however, wear them if you are :
The mice from Coraline
The savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned.
Girls are so bad with phones. They’re always losing them, or they’re off, or they drop them into something.” -Kevin, on girls.
Well, that’s not really true, Kev. Girls are perfectly capable of using phones. In fact, some studies show that the top things girls are best at are:
(2) Using their phone.
(3) Using their phone while walking.
(4) Using their phone while walking to talk about how shocked they are that ‘he would like, do that.’
So yeah. We’re well versed, to say the least. However, you might notice that the list I have listed actually starts at number 2. So I bet you’re wondering-what is the #1 thing girls are good at?
Lying about the status of their phone.
Seriously. I lie about my phone virtually every day. Whenever I don’t want to talk to somebody, or am too lazy to talk to somebody, or am doing something important like watching Real Housewives, I say one of the following-My phone was off, my phone is kind of busted, I was out of service so I didn’t get that text, oh my god i think i broke my phone but I’m not sure, I’m not passive-aggressive person, my PHONE is!
You see, technically, my phone is fine. I mean, sometimes it does fuck up because it is old (which may or may not be true) And yes, technically, sometimes I keep my phone in the other room, but technically sometimes I can fly. For the most part, I, like most females, keep my phone clamped in my jaw, sweaty palms, or in my line of sight because if I miss a text blast I will die. Most people know this about us, yet we still claim our phones are what keeps us from calling you about grabbing Thai food sometime. But we use the same excuse! We got to at least spice up this Duncan Hines, ladies! So, for your handy dandy, I’ve compiled a list of sassier communication excuses that might help you through a “oh fuck not you” moment:
1. I was going to call you but my carrier pigeon got sick and died so I tried to send you a smoke signal turns out white people were total dicks to Native Americans so they didn’t want to help me out, the shits.
2. My phone became self aware and then died of heartbreak because it fell in love with a guy on the wrong side of the tracks who soon died in a poverty typhoon and it also is quite a shock to know the sad, sad state of this cruel world.
3. My vibrator broke so I was using my phone alarm on vibrate while staring at pictures of Robert Pattinson and I didn’t know I had a phone call.
4. I got your text, but I just saw Inception so I figured ‘oh this must be a part of my created dream world.’ so I just ignored it because I didn’t really understand the technicalities of that movie and so I was confused.(FUCK YEAH I MADE AN INCEPTION JOKE! I AM FINALLY A PART OF THE MASSES! I HAVE MADE IT! LOVE ME! LOVE ME!)
5. I got your phone call but I was emotionally unavailable to answer it due to low self-esteem, Daddy Issues, cruel ex-boyfriend or any combination of the three.
6. I am a tool, sorry. (only works if you have a Blackberry)
7. My parents pay for my phone bill, sorry. (only works if you have an Iphone)
8. I was too busy shitting on the floor wearing a dead squirrel but I would totally love to go out tonight!
9. I’m not mature enough to pick up the phone and have an adult conversation with you, outlining that I am too busy to go out, or that I can’t really talk right now, or anything that isn’t childish like not answering your call and then pretending my phone doesn’t work.
So there’s that list. YOU CAN THANK ME LATER FOR IT.
Take boy. Sprinkle with stripes (2003) or plaid (present day) and depression.
Hang his head with the loss of his father or give him a sketchbook where he draws people from his town and pretty girls. Put Vonnegut in his backpack but make him 23.
Add in girl, who has marinated in four to six years of B cup breasts, high-waisted shorts and angelic lighting.
Make them both vaguely townies.
Have boy look up.
Preheat oven to 3-24 minutes of quips.
Add Zach Galifianakis/Fred Willard in bit part where they wear sweaters and give comical yet wise advice.
Wash out all color of scenes to make seem more real.
Introduce someone having an unusual and endearing job or habit. Jobs include but do not limit: guy who puts on makeup at open casket funerals, carnival worker, sock maker, something that makes you do something monotonous for eight hours a day while looking pretty and listless and you can dream. Habits include: talking to somebody dead, people watching at funerals or airports, something that maks you do something weird for eight hours a day while looking pretty and undertstanding people more.
Have a step-parent or boyfriend that does not understand girl and hates boy. Suggest emotional abuse but do not address this. Let them think about this next to a record player.
Remove I-Pod of all Muse, Creed and Coldplay. Put on one song from Garden State soundtrack, but do not play that one. Instead, hit the Genius button and play all of those songs.
Have them kiss once or twice whenever a xylophone plays but mostly have them talk.
Sexual tension expressed through uncomfortable scene on bed. This can include boy masturbating. Girl can masturbate through white linen dress. For 23 year year olds, they should be more sexually aware, but if that seems so you’re making it wrong.
Scene where somebody eats oatmeal and makes appropriate quote that will make it on it’s very popular IMDB page.
Continue to wash all color out of movie. Have a scene where boy lays on ground outside and thinks through leaves and sunlight.
Make them now love each other, kind of. Do this through long discussions of (a) stars (b) the hopes of opening up a sandwich shop, be a circus performer (c) somebody dead (d) getting out of town they cannot leave due to retarded uncle, dying somebody, broken car.
Long scene in car, if car is not broken.
Suicide attempt through pills or something that nobody dies from, like perhaps going off the diving board of an empty pool. Make it metaphorical.
Boy becomes man because of somebody dead.
Cute ending with stop motion animation.
Garnish with a movie poster that has cutesy handwriting, one bright color, and a guy with a Member’s Only Jacket holding one flower behind his back.
Serving Size: Kid who’s I-pod you stole and his like-minded friends, all who think they could write this movie better.
Starring: That Mac Guy Who Boned Drew Barrymore, Girl who looks like Drew Barrymore.
Premise: So this girl that works at a bank denies this old woman a loan. Which is good, because old people didn’t do anything to deserve special treatment except not die. That’s all. I haven’t died yet AND I don’t smell like mustard and basements and old timey racism: why don’t you help me cross the street? Anyway, this old woman was the worst kind of old woman because she had lots of tissues and hard candy in her purse and what the fuck is up with hard candy in old people’s purses? Do you just get a bunch of pieces of hard candy when you’re forty with instructions that say- now don’t start handing this out until twenty years from now when you start having strong opinions about ‘the gays’ and you become a hoarder? Anyway, this old woman is also the worst kind of old woman because she’s a gypsy and casts a spell on that girl that will suck her into hell in three days. At first, I don’t feel bad for this girl because she looks really good in those fifties style sundresses that make me look like my armpits are fat. She’s also dating Justin Long, who just seems like the kind of guy you want to marry because he doesn’t look like he’ll go bald and he also doesn’t seem to hit too hard. But then there are a bunch of scary demon moments that are startling and also gross and kind of funny and the girl ends up seeming kind of nice and why do women hate on other women anyway? So I didn’t want her to go to hell.
Why You Should See It: Did you read the premise? If that’s not enough for you, it happens to be directed by Sam Raimi of awesome Evil Dead fame. Still not convinced? Well, I’m sorry that this movie isn’t romantic enough for you. That’s it, isn’t it? You miss the soft golden waves of Matthew McConahue? McCoughney? McConnahee? You miss your gentle yet relatable Sandra Bullock? You want your lovable advice from ethnic best friends? You want to eat bonbons in your pajamas? (which by the way, nobody’s eaten in ten years) You wanna hold your cat forever? Why don’t you climb right into your tomb of Dido CD’s and scrapbook projects-because you are on the fast express train to dying alone! Do yourself a favor and expand your mind, Halter McMuffin Top- maybe you’ll actually meet a guy who..well. He’ll probably play a lot of video games and talk down to you. I never said this was easy.
Why It Ruins Love For Us All: Remember Justin Long, her cute boyfriend? Yeah, well he STICKS BY HER THE WHOLE TIME. He is even willing to go to hell for her. Plus, he doesn’t even really believe her. He’s all like ‘my girlfriend is probably crazy but I love her so much that I will go on a ridiculous quest with her so she will not go to hell and I will give her a lot of my money even though she has hawk-like eyebrows!” Would Keanu Reeves do that? No! Would Zach Braff do that? Not even to an indie soundtrack! Would I do that? Fuck no! I would dump her skinny ass on the Lucifer’s doorstep because even if she’s not a crazy skank, nobody’s that hot to worth messing with the devil for. I am going to heaven with all dogs, Patrick Swayze in Ghost, and the baseball players from Field of Dreams. But adorable Justin Long risks all of that for this girl that he eats dinner with and has sex with on a consistent basis. And that’s way better than any romantic comedy I’ve seen. It also makes me kind of believe in love. Because nothing says ‘I love you’ more than ‘You may be one psychotic bitch, but at the end of the day, I just don’t want your soul to be lost to the demonic pits of Hades.” Hallmark couldn’t have put it any better if it tried.
“I’ve been so busy with Mardi Gras…I’m covered in bruises I don’t even know how I got them. I black out so easily now!”—Chick from the Real World, who is only funny because she comes home drunk and tries to eat macaroni and cheese which is kind of like watching a blind puppy try to find its mother’s teat.
When I was twelve years old, I used to have a subscription to Girl’s Life Magazine. It opened me up to a wonderful tween world of period horror stories, full page layouts of pre-douche John Mayer, all sorts of ways to wear a tank top, and non-sexual algebra flirting. Of course, once I hit fourteen and started wearing a real bra, all I could think about was how I would one day get a subscription to older, cooler magazines like Cosmopolitan. Those would teach me how to French Kiss college guys and show me where the hell my bikini line was. However, as it sadly turned out, Girls Life magazine was really just Cosmopolitan magazine with more underwater sex tales and slightly more Plan B. Most of the time they were virtually indistinguishable. How disappointing, considering one is marketed for people who get wet watching Twilight and one is marketed towards teen girls. Don’t believe me? Prove me wrong by taking my handy quiz. I will give you a series of article titles from either Cosmopolitan or Girl’s Life. You guess which one is which, and yes, it’s harder than it sounds.
1. Seven Reasons to Date a Geek
2. Six Reasons Nerds Rock
3. 5 Annoying Things Guys Do On Facebook
4. How To Ask A Guy Out
5. Mr. Right-On!
6. Snag That Dream Job
7. What his Favorite Superhero Reveals
8. Are you a Twilight Addict?
9. Brush Up On Current Events
10. Top Lauren Conrad Hairstyles
AND NOW, A TWEEN BREAK!!!!!!!!!!!
1, 3, 4, 7, 10 from Cosmopolitan
2, 5, 6, 8, 9 from Girl’s Life
1-3 correct: Well, pour yourself a glass of White Zinfandel, sister, you are a true Cosmo Girl! Now go out there and make out with some guy with a goatee!
4-7 correct: Now I know you’re only sixteen, but keep on reading books and hating Lindsay Lohan and you might be a true friend of the frenemy someday. Oh, and do yourself a favor now by admitting to yourselves that the Jonas Brothers are all gay. All. Gay.
8-10 correct: If you’re reading this, I hope this is your score. If not, go drink some whiskey and sarcastically watch an episode of Gossip Girl. Then take this quiz again.
Listen up, noseless bitch. You and your one woman frame by frame minstrel show have made me hate women on more than three thousand occasions, and I resent you for it. You tempt me into thinking I should blow my brains out before I ever hit thirty-five. It’s not even because you’ve tried to convince me that my thighs will turn to cottage cheese, Jell-o, or whatever else old people eat in hospitals. It’s because you have made me realize that when a CosmoGirl grows out of being a calorie counting shoe robot, she becomes a calorie counting Cathy shoebot with saggier breasts.
I know, I know. I’m pretty sure you were conjured up by the devil when the devil was like “it’s the ‘80’s? Better make sure I create something that throws women back two hundred years or so." And for some reason, you have lasted decades and so have your stereotypes. Like these:
Hi, I’m a woman. I have sex dreams about pies. I am obsessed with shoes.I literally have no self-control when I see a chocolate bar. Oh, is that a chocolate bar? I have to scream and run at it. It’s so funny because I have no dignity when it comes to candy. I refer to summer as ‘bikini season’ because i’m sassy about my body insecurities. Did you know secret shame has no calories? When I finally get married, I will hilariously control my husband because we have stale missionary sex three times a month. I have six friends named Jan. Come look at my collection of needlepoint pillows and coffee mugs with diet phrases on them now.
First of all- shoes? For Fuck’s sake Cathy you barely have ankles. Second of all, my aunt had this Cathy comic on her fridge and it has always haunted me. I don’t remember what it was exactly but I know it was along the lines of this-
From then on, I was scared that my aunt would see chocolate and go blind with rage, attacking all who came near her. Why do people think that chocolate makes women go violent? ie:
That’s a phrase I’ve seen a lot. On like, tote bags. It’s not even funny- that’s a terrible, terrible thing to say about a menial thing you can buy mostly at any store ever. No need to attack, fatty fatty two by four.
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that, in the same way that Family Circus ruined families and dead grandpas for me forever- you have really ruined a lot of things I look forward to when I get to be a middle-aged woman. Like still being alive. However, to be fair, I do give you props for claiming that this is a joke:
What the fuck are you even talking about? You make me want to suicide bomb Ladies Home Journal. Seriously- life after 30 isn’t like taking out all the sex tips in Cosmo, baking it into a fiber bran muffin, and shitting on a picture of The View. I think you just make it seem like it is. Personally, I plan on gaining ten soft pounds in my hips and wearing smart blazers.
Anyway, go continue being a pear-shaped socially anxious chocolate terrorist. I will continue hating you from afar.
Just so you know- this is a list of your books. Like, maybe you don’t know what they’re called. Because you block out dumb. I’m just reminding you that this is what you think about women:
"What do you mean, I still don’t have equal rights??!"
What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing With a Double Bed
I think I’m having a Relationship with a Blueberry Pie!
A Mouthful of Breath Mints and No One to Kiss
Men should come with instruction booklets
Wake me up when I’m a size 5
A hand to hold, an opinion to reject
My Granddaughter Has Fleas!!
Only Love Can Break a Heart, But a Shoe Sale Can Come Close
The Hills, in its quiet yet relentless terror, is a documentary series that shines a blinding light into the face of a dim reality. And when we step knee deep into that black unknown, we are faced with a horrible truth- as citizens of The United States, as human beings, we must take note of the growing epidemic that is the Female Zombie Virus.
The audacious camera crew follows around one girl who I will now refer to as Patient Zero. Through peroxide bleach, LA sun, and chemicals on money and expensive hand lotion, she has infected and therefore melted her own brain. This has produced a reaction similar to the previously legendary zombie virus. She limps slowly through the streets of Los Angeles in gladiator sandals. Her thirst is mighty for colorful cocktails, beating hearts of young men, and the most expensive maxi-dresses. The viewer soon discovers that Patient Zero is aggressive and prone to attack. She, like most zombies, target the brain with shrill incomprehensible grunts and moans of “like, I’m like, like, I’m like.” She wil rip out your hair extensions. She will steal your boyfriend. Studies show that if one listens to Patient Zero long enough, the body’s heart rate will slow down and experience the beginnings of both physical and spiritual death. The brain will begin to turn away from its previous functions of normalcy: endeavors of career, intelligent discussions, and the ability to consume a normal meal will no longer be possible. As seen in the most publicized Case #2435 Heidi Montag, the body becomes bloated, vapid, and lifeless. It retains both the intelligence and appearance of a corpse.
Although some- see Case #153 Lauren Conrad- have experienced a return to normal brain function, most are doomed. They live infected, damning us and damning themselves, lost to an “on-again off-again” life with the same alcoholic douche over and over until somebody finally severs their brain stem with a spikey stiletto heel or they get fat.
To protect yourself from infection, here are some ways to spot a Female Zombie before she catches you unawares:
1. She goes for long lunches. Lunch is the most worthless meal of the day. It’s not as delicious as breakfast and you can’t drink like at dinner. Only those afflicted with the virus think it’s necessary to take 40 minutes to eat a salad/roll of sushi, mindlessly spinning ice water with lemon as she talks about how her boyfriend is emotionally abusive.
2. She abandons pants. She no longer has circulation in her body, so she can wear the tightest of leggings, pleggings, jeggings, and perhaps even saran wrap without pain.
3. Most of your conversations have a terrible pop soundtrack playing over them. Same when you go to bars, nightclubs, the ocean, shopping, or even when you’re staring at the sunset. You might ask her how her day was to the musical soundings of Paramore, Kelly Clarkson, Natasha Bedingfield, or LMFAO. Run away. That’s not normal. Or good.
4. She has problems that don’t matter, she dates guys with the stupidest fucking facial hair, and every time you hang out with her for thirty minutes once a week for SIX YEARS NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.
5. She and her friends are shockingly, disturbingly illiterate. Here, a Hills fan website tries to catch people up on the fifth season:
The Hills in 150 words
If 150 words is too many for you to read, here’s the tweet sized version
literally followed by
And if you’re not into words and reading and all that- even only 140 characters-I give you a visual to sum up the last six seasons.
I have never met a guy at a bar. Well, that’s not true. I have met David, the computer analyst with the Flock of Seagulls haircut. His dream was to be a park ranger and believed me when I said I do not use any electricity in my house. I have met Mario. He dedicated a Counting Crowes song to me and lived with his parents in Long Island! They’re his world!
So yeah- what I mean is I’ve never met anybody normal, certainly not anybody I’d give my number to. It’s not like I haven’t seen cute guys at bars before. I see them, but I don’t like, talk to them. I lure them in with my eyes. Just like any good single girl, I’m very good at standing in a corner sipping my drink. How? Well, depending on my mood, I usually look one of these three ways:
(A) Like a baby deer in a sundress or some other kind of outfit with lots of Lolita layers. The trick is to look like a mature child. And just like the doe dips her little head into the creek, I sip my gin and tonic. Innocent. Mammal sexy. Nurturing with just a tinge of mental instability. Practically screaming to every recent divorcee or financial analyst-Pick me! Pick me! I am your girl next door! Douse me in flowers and parfum and I will make you emotionally unstable oatmeal cookies! (B) Like one tough bitch. That’s right, mother fucker. I wear studs. These are my fingerless gloves! I know your type, jerkwad- You’re just like my father! You’re all just like my father! I drink this whiskey no ice, through the side of my mouth. I will break your bed. Seriously, though. I miss my dad, he’s such a sweetheart. (C) Like your average quirky indie chick. I wear tortoiseshell glasses and have colorful tattoos of things from my childhood. You can see my veins! Figuratively and literally! Plus, like the same vintage shirt you bought for 3.50 at the Goodwill, I too smell kind of weird.
I guess the real reason I am not apt to having men approach me at bars is because I watch Dateline and I know that everybody at bars gets murdered. Girls at bars who think they have found a clean cut Prince Charming end up with their heads in freezers next to chicken cutlets and some other single girl’s head. Seriously, Barbara Walters wouldn’t let me down on this one- guys who approach you at bars don’t like you, they want to cut your flesh off.
But Cosmo (specifically Cosmo.com) has, once again, come to the rescue. They have left me with a handy list of tips for wading through the pools of men and coming out victorious, or at least not probably getting murdered and maybe getting a number.
These are there tips. I’ve…added my own flair.
Tip #1: Go in groups no larger than two or three: Guys hate that girls have friends. Studies show that girls who have little to no friends are easier to overpower and control. Remember ladies, you’re not going out on a weekend to have fun, you are treating the situation much like a member of the Black Ops. You get your team, you go in, you find your target, and THIS! IS NOT TIME TO! FUCK AROUND! SOLDIER! LEAVE NO MAN BEHIND EXCEPT! KATHY! CUZ SHE’S A SLUT! OVER! But beware- if a guy is looking to murder you, two to three girls are easier to store in a basement than a larger group of people. So carry a knife.
Tip #2: Hold A Drink In Your Hand Fool guys into thinking you are at a bar to drink. I go to bars to boost and lower my self esteem and also wear these new pumps! Also, maybe to drink the pain away, or drink myself funnier, or to drink you less funny-looking.
Tip #3 Smile Genuinely Thank you Cosmo. Now I smile like this! Dead inside and plastic! But so young!
Tip #4: Hold The Eye Contact I also like to mouth things like ‘nobody knows I’m here’ and ‘I’m on Birth Control.”
Tip #5: Don’t immediately ask him what he does Thanks for saving my ass, Cosmo. Thing is-I rarely ask him his name. Instead, I ask him to fill out a form that asks for his address, SSN, occupation, and Blood Type. It also asks if I am pretty. But seriously- be sure not to ask him any basic questions about himself. You don’t want to get to know him you want to get him to love you.
Tip #6: Make Positive Small Talk Yeah, I like long walks on the beach, my baby sister and I have lost contact because she has a slew of mental disorders that were probably passed down onto me! I also like romantic comedies mostly because I actually had this whole year where I was afraid to leave the house because I thought I saw demons scratching other people’s eyes out. I do love your tie it really suits your eyes I eat raw pasta to scratch myself on the inside what’s your favorite tragedy of the last five years?
Yep. So there’s that list. Personally, my list would just be (a) man the fuck up (b) approach him (c) decide if you like him, not if he likes you. Come on, don’t be such an insecure pansy. But forget that, I’m so glad Cosmo has finally helped me figure out a way to talk to a guy awkward for ten to fifteen minutes, scribble his number on your hand and meet up with him later, having casual sex in an apartment that smells like stale cheese! Way to look out for a sister!
The Mostly Daily "Romantic Comedy?!" Review (by Greg)
(image from tamilwire.com)
Movie: Leap Year (but I haven’t seen it)
So this chick really wants to get married. I mean, obviously right? She’s probably a high-powered business lady and she’s got like this sick-ass apartment in the Lower East Side but she doesn’t have a dick in her constantly. So she wants to get married. It’s obviously a true story.
I think it’s Amy Adams but I’m not sure ‘cause I didn’t look at the IMDB page. That broad from Enchanted? With the red hair? Yeah so that one wants to get hitched and she’s so fucking desperate that she starts proposing to random dudes on the street. But they all turn her down ‘cause she’s hot and rich and lives in the Lower East Side with her cat named Dr. House ‘cause she likes that show and it makes her feel less lonely.
There’s probably a scene where her mother tells her about this fake Irish tradition where on every leap year any Irish desperate rich girl in the city/like-minded red head can propose to any Irish dude and, because Amy Adams is such a desperate chick in need of dick- she goes to Ireland to meet that dude that Collin Firth is in love with in that small, little-known Indie flick called A Single Man. That movie is like a two-hour long perfume commercial. Not that I’ve seen it.
So anyway, Red-headed, big-boobed, Enchanted chick goes to Ireland and rents a car because she forgets she’s a woman and can’t drive and she’s driving in Cork or some other random city in Ireland and her car breaks down. So she starts crying ‘cause that’s all girls can do and her boobs probably bounce a lot when she cries so the dude from A Single Man (who again was gay in that movie so that’s kinda funny) sees her and helps her a lot.
Then there’s like a thirty-minute montage where gay dude and big-boobs hate each other while they drive through Ireland (but it was probably filmed in California) and like, big-boobs is rich so maybe she gets into these wacky scenarios where she has to deal with chicken poop and then she learns that life isn’t about money or having boobs or her cat named Dr. House. But it’s still about marrying a guy cause she can’t be like a real person or whatever until she’s a married and not just successful in other ways.
So I think there’s this scene near the end where this guy that Big Tits was once in love with finds her and proposes but then the gay dude from A Single Man storms in and is like “I’m Irish and in love” and Enchanted chick proposes to him because they have to tie that part of the story together.
I give it a B-.
(Editor’s Note: I haven’t seen this movie either. I assume that this review is mostly correct, except that I stand by the fact that she’s probably not a high-powered businesslady. She’s probably a free spirit who makes shoes or handkerchiefs or perhaps sits in a room with spoons she has crafted out of her own femininity. She does really adult things like wear cocktail dresses and drink out of clean glasses. Also, I’d like to point out that she also has a bofyriend doctor who is made out of cardboard or at least some sort of fifteen-grain wheat bread. He is gently boring and has a stable bank account and probably a supportive family. She hates him, because unlike the guy in the poster, he doesn’t have a beard made of pipe cleaners and eyebrows of the most whimsied caterpillars. Also, her cat is named Precious-not based on the novel Push, it’s just adorable to look at.)
Premise: You might already know this, but nothing is funnier or more romantic than dealing with brain tumors and dead people. This movie is an example of that. Hillary “Jawz of Steel” Swank snagged herself a husband but he died of head cancer. She is devastated, which is appropriate, because through flashbacks it is revealed that he was the nicest, coolest Irish guy in the world and she is a heinous toothy bitch. For example- he wants kids and is a badass at guitar, she just throws her shoes at his head. For other example- he demands shots of Jameson at his funeral and is best friends with Spike from Buffy. She just kind of flirts with Harry Connick Jr. at her husband’s funeral . Side Note #1: I often confuse Harry Connick Jr. for a cheesy piece of toast. Most of the first half of the movie is her rolling around thinking about her tragic life and mourning profusely. Are we laughing yet? Oh, look! She can’t get out of her bed! She listens to his answering machine! She drinks a lot! OH MY GOD ARE WE LAUGHING YET?
But wait! Because her hubby was overly fantastic and also knew he was doomed to take a dirt nap he prepared by sending her a series of letters to help her get over his death. This is about as funny as (a) When Little Foot thinks he sees his mom’s shadow on the rock wall (b) When that farmer tells Babe “That’ll do pig. That’ll do.” or (c) If instead of Bambi’s mom gettings shot it was our incredibly awesome and creative significant other.
So that, I guess is when the movie starts to be "funny"- like when she does karaoke! And goes to Ireland! And sleeps with his best friend. Yes. That’s right. She goes to his hometown to visit his parents who did not get to see their son before he died because they could not afford to fly to America and then sleeps with his best friend. Holy Rob Schneider, we’ve got ourselves a laugh fest and a half!
Why You Should See It: Because not only does it remind us how slapstick hilarious the death of our loved ones can be, it also reminds us how you can make any mid-thirties actor look like an eighteen- year-old through flashback by giving them bargain basement wigs! (Here is Hillary in ’60s hippie wig and Gerard in “My weird cheek distracts from my” wig) Side Note #2: Why do women find Gerard Butler attractive when he kind of looks like his face is falling off or he had a stroke?
(image from canmag.com)
Why It Ruins Love For Us All: It doesn’t! Because it proves that we can be a heinous bitch to amazing people that we love, and they will just die and we can go floozy around with all his friends Plus, just when you think that the movie will end with Hillary alone with her caricature mouth, thus redeeming itself from its horrible message- she doesn’t! She ends up with the Mr. That’ll Do For Now! I appreciate your pretty little packaged stages of grief, P.S. I Love You. P.P.S I’m just not in love with you.
“If you’re too active to drink beer, drink this.”—
-Z and B’s reaction to my low carb beer of choice.
Confession: I am ashamed to admit that, yes, at times, I will drink beer that is light. It’s sole drawing point is how it won’t make you fat, it tastes like beer flavored seltzer and it’s the cottage cheese of alcohol. This particular beer has commercials that feature couples jogging. “Oh here I am in my 80 dollar sports bra running to my hybrid car” I’m embarrassed. Now, as much as drinking a fine IPA or ale pleases me to no end, let me defend myself with this. It’s better than water? Ugh. I’ll try again. Actually, I really look at drinking light beer (at home, certainly not in public) as a part of my growing up. In my college years, beers that came in “30 racks, bro!” were my lounging weekday beer of choice. Now, much like my college degree, I have reached another milestone that won’t get me a decent job “in this economy.” I may be a tool, but at least I’m an older one. A weak defense, but one I will stand by.
Everything I Learned About Love I Learned From The Bachelor
Ah, The Bachelor. Just as The Real World set the precedent for reality show television- or as I like to call it “shitting where you eat”- the dating show trails were certainly blazed by the all important quest for that final rose.
Single girl that I am, I have recently realized that The Bachelor shouldn’t just serve as soothing background music to my lonely ice cream eating sob fests. This groundbreaking show should actually be used as a handy guidebook to all things romance. So fasten your garter belts ladies- after this post, you’ll be swept away by your dream man before you know it.
1. Buy A Gown
Stupid fucking me thought the floor length satin diamond encrusted number I keep next to my wedding vision board was just for prom and pageants. Little did I know it was also useful for meeting the right guy! Gowns really are great. For example, when else would you get to say “sea-foam green” and “chiffon” and not be, like, in a mermaid costume? Anyway, try to buy a gown that says “I”m a virgin who gives fast hand jobs! I enjoy cupcakes, lakes at sunset, and having a short-lived career!” So ladies, you know that means pink. Look! Here is a Bachelor surrounded by gowns!
(image from thetvgossips.com)
2. Have Nice Teeth
Those are just a few examples of previous Bachelor smiles. White! So White! (Which reminds me: 2a. Be White. If you are not white, be a percentage of white that is larger than 50%. You can be European Spanish or a light-skinned African-American.) Remember, to smile in the right manner, pretend if you don’t do it right you will die alone.
3. Choose a career that Barbie has had.
Flight attendant is unoriginal, try second grade teacher or third grade teacher!
4. Have a douchebag follow you around.
(image from babble.com)
Make sure he listens and nods a lot, but never offers an opinion or even helps you at all. Make sure he is orange.
5. Always be surprised.. Say things like “I never expected to eat” when you are at a restaurant or “I never expected to fall in love” when you are on a reality dating show trying to date one particular guy you are trying to fall in love with.
6. Say the word “fairytale” at least six times a day. If you see lit candles or a jacuzzi, use it every other word. In the jacuzzi, remember to wear a tasteful bathing suit that showcases your tasteful boob job. Learn the art of the classy straddle.
7. Don’t do anything but date. Forget your job and your family and seclude yourself in a mansion. Find one guy who is tan, decide to love him. Let him decide when he is ready to love you back, and be sure to watch him make out with various other blonde girls. Be sure to know nothing about him, but be sure to let him know that you will marry him. Have virtually no alone time with him, except for two or three extreme outdoor dates and one night where you have sex at a hotel. Make sure he looks like the biggest fucking idiot in the history of the world.
(image from rateyourworld)
Seriously. He looks that one guy who always says things like “Way to Go!” and “Let’s Do This!” and is always touching your shoulders. I want to punch him.
8. Make every decision the "hardest decision of your life". If you’re choosing what to wear out tonight, or even deciding what television show to watch, make sure you think about it for a long time. Show that you are thinking about it by stroking your chin. Cry emotionally about it. Dab your tears away. Introduce it to your parents (9.) Give your decision a rose. Because even if it’s just going with the skirt instead of the pants, or eating eggplant instead of zucchini, every decision needs to really be solidified by a single rose. That’s how things are decided in the Supreme Court, I think. That’s how Roe v Wade was settled. Whatever, I’ve never voted.
10. Get ready to get dumped.
Because out of 14 seasons of The Bachelor, no couples remain together. Yep, that’s right. None. And it’s spinoff, The Bachelorette, had a success rate of one out of five. So..that’s 1 out of 19.
But who cares? I have blind optimism! Blind, blind optimism- blind from my future Southern Prince Charming’s glaring teeth, blind from visions of fame and fortune- oh, and love is blind. Yeah, love. Huh? Is that what I was talking about?
Writing a Dead Horse Volume One: Nicholas Sparks Sucks Volume Two
After the joy I felt writing yesterday’s post about The Notebook, I realized I was nowhere near done talking about how much Nicholas Sparks suxx. I carry a fury in my heart for the man who makes so much money writing amateur porn for the heart. He’s the Thomas Kinkade of writing. He makes love look like Froot Loops vomit. However, I will be constructive about this. I have organized my hate in a handy list.
Reason one: His shit-eating grin.
I don’t trust anybody’s smile if it makes him look like he’s constantly watching a child’s softball game. Or if he looks like the creepy, unmarried real estate agent at every neighborhood barbecue. Or if it just makes him generally look like every Lifetime TV movie’s version of a good guy turned wife slapper, you know, the kind who buys you flowers but later steals your ACE hardware garage door opener and hides in your breakfast nook with a blunt but powerful weapon. Hmpf.
Reason Two: Every quote from his books ever.
“Love is like the wind, you can’t see it but you can feel it"-The Notebook
Things you can’t see but can feel also include rage for this quote, the obvious nature of this sentence, and specific ghosts.
My quote: “Love is like an upset stomach, you can’t see it but sometimes it makes you regret eating that curry.” “Love is like bad writing, and so that is my generic metaphor.”
"Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it can. And just when you think it can’t get any better, it can." -At First Sight
And just when you think you need to have talent to get published, you don’t.
"PMS- Pissed at Men Syndrome"-Another shitty book he wrote
MEN ARE OUR MENEMIES! MENEMIES! WE HATE MEN! UNTIL WE LOVE THEM SO SO MUCH!
There are so many here are a bunch of them.
"She was everything I wanted..she supported me in everything I did." This works because I am a murderer!
"What problems?" "Well for starters.. you’re an evil duck killer." Okay Nick!
"you have to love something before you can hate it" Oh, how I used to love Hitler.
I feel the warmth of her body, and…I allow myself to slip away. I close my eyes and become a mighty ship in churning waters, strong and fearless, and she is my sails” And thank you for ruining sex for me forever.
”We’re gonna have to work at this everyday, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, everyday. You and me… everyday.” - The Notebook
Lessons learned (1) When in doubt, repeat yourself. (2) You can only be in love when some guy delivers some huge emotional speech to you. It is a very intense speech because you are perfect. Love is never, ever based in reality. Only blind, scripted passion.
I could list more, but really, why bother? Just take every love reference you have ever heard about the stars and the ocean, add in a couple of stale Wonderbread sentences about passion, forever, and infinity. Then take a bunch of boring, chiseled abs, put them on the DreamBoat S.S. Disappointment and sail them to “Create Expectations” Island, inhabited by teen girls and some divorced women. Wam! You’ve got yourself the Sparks Special.
I feel like these two reasons are good enough to explain themselves. Or, perhaps, I could just end this with the illustrious words of the man himself..
“I am nothing special, of this I am sure.” Yep. For once, dude, you are right on the money.
Starring: Two slabs of ham that like holding each other in the rain.
Premise: So this old dried up man and woman live in a nursing home together and the guy’s like “i will read you my diary because you literally have nothing else to do so you have to listen.” So do we. And we are blessed to watch multiple flashbacks where everybody dresses up like Newsies and all human encounters are overly romantic and this guy and girl fall in love a lot. But! The chick is rich and the guy lives in exceptional bone structure and poverty! Oh! Her parents don’t say much except things that are blatantly hateful towards the poor. They kiss. Girl is forced to leave by Republican Parents. Girl gets engaged to James Marsden (the guy who gets shafted in both X-Men and Enchanted) but later meets up with Poor Guy. They canoe through swans. I mean that-there is a five minute scene where they canoe through swans. It rains. She yells “why didn’t you write me” BUT HE DID. They do it. She pretends she is a bird in the ocean. That’s also a real scene I don’t remember much else.
Why You Should See It: I hate this movie so much I’m skipping this part.
Why This Ruins Love for Us All: So one time, I worked with this girl who was like “Alida, you will never fall in love because you don’t like the Notebook.” I hope that’s true. Because apparently that means this:
I learned that life is about sitting on benches next to ancient creeks with my hand on her knee and sometimes, on good days, for falling in love.
What the fuck does that mean? Why don’t you get a job, moron? ‘I’m sorry my credit sucks but I was sitting next to old water grasping a chick’s knee.” And what do you mean on good days you fall in love? Aren’t you grabbing the same knee all the time? Or is it a lot of different knees?
Well, calm down ladies. If you think that love means you are going to go around grabbing the faces of every poor attractive man you meat-I think you’re going to end up with a lot of plan b medication and a lot of alone time. And if you think that love is defined by heavy rainfall and wrong sides of tracks and only one big big moment, you’re going to be the kind of girl that listens to too much ballad radio, waiting around for the one thing that will turn your life around. Welcome to reality. Get your head out of the oven. Use your fucking notebook for your own g.d. thoughts, huh? And if the weather is bad, thanks anyway, movie- but I think I’ll use my umbrella.
A romper suit is a one-piece garment worn by children and sometimes women.
(BCBG’s spring romper via tqn.com)
I have a romper. It is floral. I have trouble going to the bathroom in it. Because in a romper- You have to take off your whole outfit in order to pee. Having trouble going to the bathroom + wearing an article of clothing designed for babies= a fashion choice just not one worth making. Too many a romper has hit a dirty public bathroom floor, as we shiver in our bras and hope there are no hidden cameras or peepholes.
But, alas, they are popular. Why? I don’t know. We look terrible in them. Terribly hip! Terrible hipster babies! Anyway, after the first romper got eaten by monster dryer I had to call a friend up and say “Listen, I’m at the store. Tell me not to buy another romper.” And she was like “You’re insane, Alida.” Whatever, she had one too so eff off.
I did not buy the romper. However, I still want to dress cool. So obviously that means like a baby? Appropriate hipster substitutes I have come up with include:
(bib via littlemischiefs.co.uk)
Bibs: Enough neon and irony in this picture. Plus I could wear it with a bandeu, also catches spilt PBR.
(swaddle via timabear.com)
Swaddling Clothes: Eat burritos, dress like burritos. Hipster way o’ life in the making.
If you’re not a hipster, however, but a true.. I don’t know…a Cosmo Girl?!?! May I suggest
(pathetic babies via bayan.org.ua)
Perhaps full on Anne Geddes Gear? Floral is back this season! Oh screw it, you know you think it’s precious.
Just please, people. Don’t wear rompers. I mean, you can. But just know I will know what happens when you pee.
"These days, ‘calling’ is practically a commitment. I mean, she might actually pick up the phone!"
-A guy in Cosmopolitan Magazine
OH NO! NOW WHAT?! I THOUGHT A PRETTY GIRL WAS A QUIET GIRL!!!!!!!
Cosmo also suggest smartly putting a timer by the phone (ten minutes, to be exact) and hanging up when the timer is up. Timers are good for pies and hams in the oven, too! I suggest getting into a really serious discussion around the minute 9 mark. Perhaps about politics. that way- he’ll never know you don’t know about politics, he’ll just think you hang up a lot. Real Advice: I don’t know- fucking call him? And don’t time it? Just thinking outside the box or something. I made a handy list for you anyway:
Starring: Mark “You’re Better than this” Ruffalo and Reese “People Think You’re Better than this” Witherspoon
Premise: So Reese Witherspoon works a lot and dies. She gets hit by a truck so she’s fucking dead. The very nice apartment she lived in is soon inhabited by Mopey Mark, a guy who is depressed or has a severe drinking problem. All of a sudden, Reese’s ghost appears and is all like ‘why do you got to be an alcoholic on my couch?’ And he’s all like “oh..I see a ghost I”m definitely not insane I should just let it follow me around. Also, I should probably LOVE IT.” And so that’s the premise of the movie. Mopey Mark is followed around by Cape Cod Cardboard Reese, telling him how to use coasters and play in gardens and obviously bringing light and love back into his life. We find out his wife died (which is why he has a drinking problem). Ah yes. His wife kicked the bucket and his grieving process-fueled by heavy amounts of alcohol- has forced him to hallucinate a human being? Sounds like a tragic French play or some shit. But nope! She’s not dead! She’s in a coma! This film is filled with color and joy! Fuck you, cinema!
Why You Should See It: Because if you ever suffer a tragic loss, you will obviously be visited by a hot ghost spirit. Because diseases of the mind look sexy on Mark Ruffalo. Because my dad called it “Almost Dead”. Because you are an idiot.
Why it ruins love for us all: For some reason, mental health disorders are not only a serious problem in real life, but they also serve as adorable plots for romantic comedies. (See: Me, Myself, and Irene, Bewitched) Mom, I think I’m seeing things. Oh that’s so cute, Lily! You should love him! Mom, I think that I have multiple personalites. Oh sweetheart, I’ll call the wedding planner! Mom, I think I’ve suffered severe brain damage. Great! I loved Just like Heaven, too!
Side Note: Unlike the poster depicts, no, Reese Witherspoon is not a giant ghost. She is normal sized. Also- factor her out of that picture and get an idea of how effing insane Mark Ruffalo is in this movie.
“Lessons to learn: For fuck’s sake- go clothes shopping by yourself. Why? You don’t look fat. YOU’RE NOT FAT. And even if you ARE overweight, you are not going to miraculously drop pounds in the dressing room. So go for a run later and eat some fruit. Anyway, our friends aren’t going to tell us we look bad in a dress. If they did, you’d just get pissed and silently make fun of their hair. The salespeople won’t tell you the truth, either. So make up your own damn mind. Go by yourself- it’s your freaking style! Besides- nobody wants to hear your boy troubles when we’re all trying to sort out the mixed emotions we have about rompers.”—Girl Encounter #1: Kathlee’s First Day in NYC Retail: I wouldn’t say I had “high” expectations or even “reasonable” expectations, because I had no expectations. I will say that my experience shopping alone in New York City had been like dating a moody teenager. In some stores I was greeted with a snide smile, in most I wasn’t greeted at all, and in some, when asking where the sales rack was, I was asked, “Do you want me to show each and every sales item we own?” I knew my purpose had been born. I would change the face of New York shopping. I would be a friendly face, a face you could trust, a face that said “Ask me where the sales items are! I buy things on sale sometimes, too!” However, working here is kind of like hanging out in the girls’ locker room in 8th grade: “You look so cute!” “No, oh my God, I’m fat.” “No, you’re totally not fat, I’m fat.” “You are not, you’re gorgeous. What do you think about this?!” “I love it. You look fabulous.” “I don’t look fat?” “You look like Jennifer Aniston.” “I heard she was a bitch.” “I heard that too.” “What do you think?” (this time, to me) “It looks good! I love that color.” (Sales associate response 101) “Really? It’s not too… green?” “No, not at all, green is the color of…grass…and grass… is outside.” “I just feel like it makes me look fat.” “You don’t look fat.” (My co-worker and I exchange looks) “Really? I just feel like I…I look fat.” So instead of changing the face of shopping history forever, I end up concentrating on my work, the equivalent of reading a book when a crazy person starts talking to you on the train, while for the next two hours, she asks us about everything she tries on.
We take issues of Cosmopolitan magazine, the go-to mag for thin girlz everywhere. We read their articles, then we rip em apart. MAY 2010 ISSUE: Interpreted by Duchess
In the wholesome yet wildly risqué! Fun and Fearless department, Cosmo compiles 50 Great Things to Do With Your Breasts. Oh, those balls of docile flesh hanging from either side of my breastbone—I should become acquainted with them? Small fact: I am (as most young women are) fairly well aware of all the fun and fearless things I can do with my breasts. They’ve been hanging there long enough. It might come as a slight surprise that I don’t feel maddeningly enlightened after a list of 50 things that can be broken down into three categories:go braless, slather on lotion, have a significant fellow trace the bulbous things in varying geometrical patterns. One, going wireless is as aged an idea as my patchouli oil. If you haven’t yet inherited the pedestrian earth-momma notion that skin feels good on cotton (or silk, or whatever) and wind feels good on skin, I offer zero congratulations. Two, my boobs don’t like smelling like raspberry. I asked them. Three, if he (as in the universal He referred to in all Cosmo literature) can’t find his own way across the terrain of my naked chest, I’m not going to move his hands Helen Keller fashion. They aren’t blocks. This isn’t kindergarten. The point, here, in my first attempt to School Cosmo (or any other women’s lifestyle magazine), can be learned in two succinct lessons: don’t give advice we’re already socially wired to believe. Additionally, don’t give faulty advice. Allow me to punctuate my endeavor.
The Flipside: Terrible Things to Do With Your Breasts
11. Strategically place rose petals over your bare nipples just before he comes to bed.
Should I also light the room with a gritty soft hue used by the great photographers of 50’s sexpot pinups? Am I a postcard? Not only does this suggest a delicacy I don’t totally equate myself with (though at birth I may have fallen from a hibiscus tree), it suggests immobility. Scene: “Can I touch them?” “Noo, the petals will fall off.”
4. Score a perfect sunless boob tan: shower and exfoliate, then put a dab of petroleum jelly on your nipples to make sure they keep their natural color. Evenly apply the self-tanning lotion or spray to your tatas, and lean forward for a few minutes to help them dry blotch-free.
Bonus points for using the phrase tatas—Cosmo, you’re so hip and colloquial. I can say with confidence that I’d realize my prime moment of idiocy should I ever find myself leaning over the bathroom sink, Oompa-drip falling from my chest, thinking about how I would eventually scrub all of the petroleum grease from my stupefied nipples. Seems compromising.
5. Master the art of using double-sided tape. The secret: Stick one-inch strips of tape a quarter inch away from the edge of your clothes. It keeps everything in place but still looks natural.
As long as I look natural. I thought it was trendy and self-fulfilling to go braless. Does that not include office supplies? Cosmo, you confuse me.
7. Overheated at the beach? Slip an ice cube out of your drink, and glide it over your cleavage.
(a) I’m not sure if everyone else has an iced cocktail in hand when grazing an East coast trash beach, but I drink beer. Warm beer. (b) I hope someone is filming this for Girls Gone Wild. 16. Dare him to unhook your bra without using his hands.
I dare you to use a spatula lodged in your jaw!
25. Slip your guy a mint pre-sex, and have him lick your nipples when you start to orgasm.
Why is everybody always slipping someone something in Cosmo? This irreverent, sly way of passing objects and information makes my real-time life seem clumsily awkward.. I have questions. What constitutes pre-sex? Wine on the couch or zippers down? Do I stop him from progressing to go grab the Denny’s mint from the bottom of my dirty purse, or do I keep a stash in my nightstand with condoms, feathers and Plan B? What if the mint’s gone by the time I get to the Big O? (that one’s for you, Cosmo). Do we have to start over? What if he slips it into my mouth when we’re kissing and I think that’s weird because I don’t want to suck on someone else’s gobbed saliva? What if he chokes? What if he dies?
28. Strip to your undies, and perfect your practically topless pose (experiment with different hip tilts and angles) in front of the mirror. Then use it to greet him at the front door.
First, wearing only underwear is not practically topless, it is topless. Second, high fives around for the neighbors putting the trash out when he gets home. Third, you got it this time. There is nothing I would like more than dialing my hips 20 degrees to the right so the bulge of my thin torso completely disappears behind my spine. Practice makes perfect. Pies make perfect. I should bake a pie posed naked. Wait, you already went there:
17. Cook dinner topless, apply a little tomato sauce to your nipple (make sure its not too hot), and ask your man if it’s spicy enough.
HEY IS IT SPICY ENOUGH? WHAT IF I ADD TOBASCO AND CRANK IT UP TO THIRD DEGREE BURNS?
And, my favorite.
49. Work silicone bra inserts in a tank top for a day, and keep a tally of all the men who stare at your cleavage.
Now I know what to do with that new mini-moleskin I bought. And I happen to live around a number of construction sites that will shower you, Cosmo, with unadulterated appreciation. I’ll do the same. I’ll ride this confidence wave til halfway through next month, flipping through my tallied list any time I need a little boost. Thank god for cleavage, am I right ladies?
Starring: John “Aging Fast” Cusack and Kate “Pearl Harbor” Beckinsale
Premise: Goofy man meets British woman in department store on Christmas Eve. Both looking for socks, gloves, or half wit diatribe with another like-minded shopper. So, they hang out and talk about stars and birthmarks and that’s literally what they talk about. Kate’s character, let’s call her Dull, suffers from what I assume to be a variety of personality disorders, decides that if John Cusack writes his info on a 5 dollar bill and SHE writes her number in a book they will one day reunite in love and stuff. 10 years later, THAT DIDNT WORK and they are engaged to overly white slabs of meat that previously appeared in Sex and the City (chick that Big marries and dude that Carrie almost does). I think Dull lives in Oregon because her fiance looks like a weirdo hippie. John lives in New York. They are both still obsessed with each other. Dull flies to New York to try to find John the week (gasp!) he is getting married. Stuff happens. Jeremy Piven’s in it, I think pre-cocaine. Eugene Levy and Molly Shannon are in it. Do they make jokes? Maybe. I don’t know. They are not funny, but there are montages. And oh my god this is bad.
Why you should see it: “The Greeks didn’t write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died. Did he have passion?” Jeremy Piven says that. .
Why it ruins love for us all: It is impossible to reach for the last pair of socks at a department store and have the other person also reaching for it be a former teen heartthrob. But now every time I’m at the grocery reaching for the last container of Egg Beaters, I’m going to fall in love with some middle-aged gay man. Or every time I’m at the liquor store reaching for the last 24oz Heineken Light, I’m going to fall in love with some middle-aged gay man. Also why do the fiances of the main characters always get the shaft in romantic comedies? I mean, you might always root for the main stars but sure, these B list actors years of their lives only to have their manic-depressive fiances yap about some sock encounter they had ten years ago, thus breaking up weddings and destroying their lives. If I recall most high school Facebook statuses, girls mostly feel all “why do the good guys always cheat” and stuff. Well, Serendipity is your answer, Tiffany Daisy- because he met his true love ten years ago and so will you. If you know where to reach.
I’ve read a whole slew of articles about how a man’s alcoholic drink says a lot about the man who orders it. Something about how light beer shows he’s still stuck in his frat boy years and whiskey makes him a communist or something. Basically, it’s deep psychological evaluation, coming to you live from a tiny straw on a sticky counter. So, sassy forward thinking me began to ponder- what about MY drink? Could I be saying back off when I really want to say ‘come on down?‘ Anway, I went Dr. Drew all over my cocktail. (He’s that silver fox therapist, ladiez) And I’m sharing the results.
DAIQUIRI: Congratulations- your fake ID worked! What are you waiting for? Go unzip that velour hoodie a little lower and start pretending you’re in third, okay, second year of nursing school. After all, curfews at 12 and you know your dad will be up watching Glen Beck. Bedability: 3-5 years, 2 on good behavior.
MILLER LITE: So you think you can hang with the boys? Well, listen up sister. The only thing that’ll be “hangin” is that developing muffin top out of your jeans because one Miller maybe be ‘lite’ but four is anything but. A lady doesn’t drink beer. IN fact, the only beer she’s holding is the one she’s handing out to that super hawt FSU lacross player who will later be her husband. Bedability: (3/5 chubby pizza eaters)
MARGARITA: If you’re in Cancun and it’s spring break, we say go ahead and throw ‘em back. This drink shows your sassy and ready to have a good time makin’ that porcelain throne a giant marg glass by the end of the night! Anyway, be careful drinkin’ them year round, you don’t want people to peg you specifically being of Mexican/Spanish origin- you want men to view you as ethnicity-less. That way, they’ll only view you as the Single American Girl you are! Bedability: 2/5 in America, 5/5 across the border
GIN AND TONIC: You’re not going to sleep with him, are you? You little tease. You’d rather go and talk about movies and music. You probably know who the Coen brothers are. You’re probably not even on Team Edward. We don’t really know why we hate girls who drink gin and tonics. We just don’t like them because they are not pink. Girls should only drink vodka, anyhow. It’s smooth and comes in bubblegum. Or maybe it’s because we’re thinking of Sarah Miner, the chick with the nose ring who stole Bobby Freindecker from our undergraduate fingertips because SHE knew that Benjamin Franklin wasn’t a president. Whatever. White Stripes shouldn’t be worn after Labor Day, anyway. What were we talking about- gin? What are you, my grandfather? (Bedability: 0/5 Sarah Miners’s left breast was totally smaller than her right breast)
WHISKEY: Lesbian. And I mean like, even after college. We’re so not even rating this one.
COSMO: Don’t. Even. Like the first time you got your period, or the first time you used a guy to boost up those p-o-pularity points, drinking Cosmos is a rite of passage. A NECESSITY. So if you’re not drinking these, you better not even like, read this. Carrie Bradshaw (basically our Buddha) would be so ashamed of you. I die. Bedability: (A Lady never tells! LOL!)
Welp. I hope you got a lot of out this article, ladies. Drink Cosmopolitans or be lonely and fat. Balls in YOUR court ladies- your fat, fat court.
It’s one of the biggest sports games in my city tonight: the playoffs, game seven, a serious basketball rivalry. The perfect night to drink four dollar beers and meet cute boys who share an important hobby- not of sports, but of going to bars on workdays and screaming, pretending to understand what’s going on. Probably making fun of the middle aged men who take sports very seriously. Probably getting slightly into it. Ladies, I’m going to be all over this one tonight. From the southern gentleman with crew cuts and credit cards to the gauged ear once-a-season sports fans, surely I’ll get a number or two. After all, I plan to slap on a tank top and practice my lady shout. I am on the prowl. I mean, I’m supporting the team. Oof.
4:40pm: Get out of work. Decide to go to grocery store. I need reduced fat potato chips. End up buying Healthy Choice frozen meal, and then some. The cashier ends up making fun of the fact that I buy six eggs instead of twelve.
5:10pm: Buy whiskey. The only customer in the liquor store is a like-minded homeless man who approves my purchase.
5:50pm: Cute guy at the CVS! I purchase my pantiliners from him, so he knows I’m the kind of girl who has a light flow or maybe urinates a bit when she coughs.
6:10pm: Eat Healthy Choice. Check out profile pics of cute guy on Facebook and old high school classmate who is pregnant. Also eat half a block of cheese.
7:30pm: Drink whiskey with diet soda. Try to portion size my potato chips. Fail. Watch MTV. Drool.
8:14pm: Get a call from friend- we’ve got a bar location, baby! It’s game time! Put on push-up bra and mascara.
8:45pm: See spot on bathtub. Decide to clean with a bleach wipe. Like result. Clean bathtub, sink, and do dishes. Sweep the kitchen floor. Text my mom. Push-up bra uncomfortable, so I put on a dirty one.
9:30pm: Mall Cop is a show? I am IN! Make another whiskey drink. Check out ex-boyfriend’s Facebook and that girl from high school who’s always getting dumped because she got fat. Itch eye, mascara all over my face. Look like crack whore. Tease my hair for Lindsay Lohan chic. Go back to computer.
10:45pm: Games almost over. Subway will take forty minutes at least. Drunk, and have work in the AM. Bummer! Will eat my feelings. Fuck portion sizes, I am having six-make that twenty three-more potato chips. Whiskey is extra delicious. Check score on game, text guy friend appropriate reaction to score so he thinks I’m watching. He texts back so I wonder if he’s into me.
10:48pm: Check Craig’s List Missed Connections. I am not on it. Soon, though.
11:30pm: Listen to Band of Horses. Muse on why I’m alone.
Didn’t find my dream guy tonight. But at the rate I’m going…any minute now. Whatever, I don’t like basketball, anyhow. Baseball season’s still going, though! S-C-O-R-E!