Sunday Top 10, Part Two: Demented and Sad, but Social...Right?

This is Part Two of this week's Sunday Top Ten, "Clubs Which I Do Care to Belong To," which's really a Top 15. For the explanation behind this theme, please see "Part One." I could go on about it here, but let's face it: I probably will go on. And on. For hundreds and hundreds of words.

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SUNDAY TOP FIFTEEN, INSTALLMENT TWO, 7-1:
CLUBS WHICH I DO CARE TO BELONG TO

7. Duane Reade Dollar-Savers Club, Food Emporium Gold Card Club, Subway Sub Club, et al.

File Under: "Examples of Riese's Questionable Money Management Skills."

I grew up clipping coupons and donning hand-me-downs/TJ Maxx-pilfered "trend items," so you think I'd be better at things like "Buy nine subs, get one free!" Not so. This's one of many of my endearing incongruous personality quirks.

I visit Duane Reade almost every day, yet I lived in NYC for two years before joining their club, a choice which's likely cost me hundreds of dollars. What's wrong with me? Nothing, obvs, my fate's repeatedly sealed by Duane Reade's sub par line-waiting experience.

The Scene: Two employees idly re-stock Massengill, one totally-over-it cashier stares wistfully at the tiny sparkles on her acrylics. A line of impatient bitches mutates into a store aisle. The customers in line are suspicious of all customers not in line; their eyes dart dangerously at every passing patron because now that the line's spiraled out of control, someone could possibly CUT in line, unjustly, then act all innocent about it, Really? The line ends HERE?, yes, someone could misinterpret the line's evolution, someone could start a new line, a shorter line, over in Photo, where a half-brain-dead employee is possibly opening a register [or doing nothing at all, probs], and I start wondering if it'd take less time to get sick, go to the doctor, get a prescription, take it to the back register, get it filled and pay for my other items as I pay for my [by this point, necessary] Xanax.

By the time I've actually paid for my items, I'm certain I can't spend one more moment of my life on this particular errand, and thus, I repeatedly forewent filling out the membership club forms.

Similarly, back in Michigan when I was living off lunch shift tips [total=$30-$35/day] and dining at Subway daily, why didn't I just ask for a Sub-Club stamp? I don't recall ever earning a free sub. Haviland's always amazed that I've foregone the Tasti-D card as well.

However, I was always a member of the Delia*s Discount Domain. For those of you unfamiliar with this particular club: sorz. I'm not gonna footnote it, because it's better for my reputation as Super-Cool that you stay in the dark. For those of you who know what I'm referring to: yeah, totes.

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6. The Wingnuts

Wingnut:
1. "A nut with wing-like projections for thumb and forefinger leverage in turning."
2. "What Delp dubbed us."

Ingrid¹ reminded me in the last post's comments of one high school club I proudly belonged to: The Wingnuts. Our writing teacher, Delp, at boarding school² [cited in last post for the "this school's a country club" doctrine] referred to us [us=Ingrid, Sheetal³, Meg⁴ and me] as "Wingnuts," because we were very bright children with excellent thumb-forefingering skills. From what I saw on television and read in YA novels, the cool kids at other schools had more prodigious monikers, like 'The Heathers" or "The Queen Bees" or "The Plastics." That's the difference between High School and Weirdo High School. I've illustrated this difference below, employing photos from Beverly Hills 90210 and Sweet Valley High.

Club activities included: riding in Delp's car/istening to Bob Dylan, driving to the 7-11 for Frozen Cokes, lounging in the Traverse City Borders Bookstore, eating lunch and talking about poetry, being reminded of our status as Grasshoppers. When you're stuck on a tiny little campus, "driving to the 7-11 for Frozen Cokes" is like "train-hopping to Chicago" for other kids. It was AWESOME. [Seriously.]

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5.The Mickey Mouse Club

I watched The MMC every day. Granted, it was on a short list of shows I was permitted to watch [including Fraggle Rock, 3-2-1 Contact, Square One and Kids Incorporated], but my love for this variety program was pretty tried/true. I wanted to be in it, too, and fantasized about traveling to Orlando and being [discovered] in the studio audience [read: fully sent out for pamphlet, begged parents, etc.] Mostly, this was related to my dreams of becoming a fab singer/dancer, like my hero Shirley Temple. Unfortunately, my dreams were thwarted because I cannot sing or dance. Instead of being on the MMC, I performed Send in the Clowns on my futon for my parents. A lot of kids from that show got famous and some are in rehab, so in retrospect, good thing I wasn't on it. Instead, I'm living proof that not all drug addicts need rehab. [JK, everyone! I'm unemployed because I want to be, not because I'm a drug addict! I can't afford DRUGS!]

My Dad used to tell me how in the 50s, the show was semi-decent and Anette Funnicello brought all the boys to the yard. Personally, I liked Tiffany, who joined MMC-spinoff band THE PARTY. I bought all their albums, and danced alone in my room to them, like a totes weirdo loser:

Tiffany's the girl with the curly hair. I love Chase and Damon's matching haircuts, and that I still remember their name, and probably all the track listings. My fave song was "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend." I performed that a lot too, sometimes for my grandparents, those lucky ducks.

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4. Vodka/Club Soda and a Club Sandwich

Though clearly this category, included here on Lozo's suggestion, is enabled by it's play on words, it ALSO enables me to discuss the essence of Groucho's statement [which, P.S., I realized yesterday was quoted in Annie Hall, which is probs where I know it from]. I'm not sure what's in a club sandwich, but I think it involves a lot of meat and possibly bacon. The consumption of club sandwiches is one of many things that separates me from other Americans, along with watching American Idol, knowing the rules of the game "football," and enjoying pork products and outdoor BBQs.

I don't like sandwiches. Here's why:
1. I don't like lunch meat, except low-fat beef bologna.
2. I don't like biting into things.
3. I don't like things that other people like.
3a. Unless that thing is Freedom.
3b. Or vodka.

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3. Fruit of the Month Club

I need some vitamins like whoa. Monkeys eat more fresh fruit than I do, by like, 400%. Harry & David used to just sell fruit and chocolate, but now they probably sell like, Sushi. If someone got me a FOTMC membership for a major or minor holiday [Purim, Bloomsday and Belated Memorial Day totes counts], I'd give this person something special. I can't promise marraige, because back in December I promised to marry whomever purchased me The Paris Review Interviews, and said "I am a decent cook, and I promise to always keep my svelte figure," and TB bought it for me. So I have to give away something else. Okay, my first born.

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2. The Bloomsbury Group

I suspect the Bloomsbury folks--Virginia and Leonard Woolf, Vanessa Bell, E.M Forster, Clive Bell, et al--purposely shunned the word "club," but I'm going to include them anyway because it's my blog and I make the rules. I sometimes wonder if the internet's prevented the emergence of true artist/writer groups like they had in the old days, or at least in the old days of my imagination. Which's why TB and I are opening a bed & breakfast and it'll be special for artists and writers and such, especially homos. Once, Ryan-C and I accidentally went to a gay bed and breakfast in the middle of nowhere, upstate New York. Luckily, Ryan was gay, and both of us liked eating banana bread and reading all day while the lesbians went a-hikin'. I was sick then and was limited in what I could do, physically, so I was jealous of the hikers, but also happy to read. Ibsen, Nadine Gordimer and Homer. The owner hated us, we ate all his banana bread. At our place, you can eat all my banana bread, cause I made it for you, weirdo.

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1.The Special Secret Lesbian Club

On Episode 408 of the Showtime Hit Series [and by "hit" I mean "listening to TLW dialogue often feels like being HIT over the head with a dead lesbian horse, except that lesbians don't like horses, they like monkeys, I learned that on The L Word"] The L Word, Tina confesses to her ex, Bette, that now that she's gone to the dark side [a.k.a. dudes]: "I miss the way we communicated subtly, I miss the way that we worked together to make everything around us so beautiful. I miss being surrounded by women, and I miss being part of something so secret and special."

Then this conversation, which I've cut-and-pasted from my L Word Online Recap Blog, Auto-Straddle, happened in my living room following Tina's statement, which was found dubious by my friends and "popular opinion."

Haviland: Did she say secret?
Me: Yeah, like you know--it's not a secret but [I understand what Tina is saying and I like it, but everyone is talking over me, so I retreat to my cave of ignorance/bisexuality.]
Meg: Yeah, she misses the secret code and the secret handshake--
Haviland: What did you say?
Yana: What, you don't know the handshake?
Haviland: [totally in "Maude" voice, all gravely and been-around-the-block-and-had-a-ciggie-after]
Honey.
[beat]
I've been a lesbian for a looooong time.....

That being said: I've been an Undercover Outsider in the In Crowd most of my life, finding corners in the middle of crowded rooms, but [forgive me, ye womyn's music Haters, in advance, for what I'm about to say], even as a kid, I'd feel a particular peace when my Mom'd tote me to lezzie folk music concerts--though I had no conscious forbearance of personal queer-dom, I've been breathing easier in the queer world far before I came to identify as such. It's outsider culture, and it is, still, to me, a little secret and special; at least it's somewhere that lacks the presupposition that I'm anything like anyone else.

*

My book, when I get back to it, is not so much about bisexuality as it is about being "bi-everything." About the 10,000 clubs to which I've pretended/genuinely deserved to be a member, about masks and trying to be happy/sad with such paltry, ridiculous truths, about feeling always like at least half a fraud, like I couldn't stop being undercover. Like I needed to hold something back--at least fifty percent--or else lose everything. Like not giving everything's the same thing as lying. Who's the "real you," yeah? Generation ME? Is there a "real you," and why's the default "reality" always whatever's being pulled off in the present tense?

*
Dr. W: Why's it so black and white? Why're you a fraud or always telling the "whole" truth? Is there anywhere in between?

Me: No, there is no coexistence, [dramatic flourish of legs over armrest], I'm a FRAUD!
*

No one ever guessed anything about me just from looking: no one'd guess that I'm queer, or a writer or a or even smart. "I would never guess that _______" I can be anybody, I can be anything, tell me what to do, you say jump I say I'm already jumping, look--

For every apparent revelation: a million secrets, stories denied and squelched by each reincarnation. A love/hate relationship with everything I've stood behind. Gay/straight, Jewish/Quaker, Genuis/Airhead, Sane/Insane, Artist/Robot, Social/Recluse ... It's like I've been everything and it's opposite, and've gathered enough narratives to hold my own amongst any of them, now. Though I refrain from anything of import following "I am." Maybe here's a place where I can be all of those things at once and be validated instantly simply by the very fact that I'm writing it and I have a sitemeter.

In fact, this particular truth feels indulgent, why should anyone care, that even acting as though I think you should care is breaking into another character, which's the only one I've yet to actually play: confidence.

Sometimes it's nice, after all that, to retreat into a club which you find you're already a member: someplace special and secret but already understood, maybe with only one other person, or two other people--maybe with virtual people that you don't even know--maybe with hundreds, where you've got nothing to prove, you're assured you can handle at least what this situation demands, because but what more assurance can I have you have not told me, that I will be there, I and the canyons of my heart, its vast and vacant majesties...

*

Dear Mr. Vernon,

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us. In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question?

Sincerely yours,
The Breakfast Club

*
I am
a brain, an athlete,
a basketcase
a princesss
and a criminal.
Does that answer your question?

*

Join the Club.

Let's rock.

Hands-down-totes-Auto-Straddle.

*
Some remaining clubs I hadn't the time to cover: Friendship Club [Degrassi: The Next Generation], I Hate Rachel Green Club [Friends], Hunt Club, Cat Scratch Club, Buena Vista Social Club, Culture Club, Equinox Fitness Club, Drama Club, Yale Club, Harvard Club.

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¹Ingrid: Ingrid and Krista were my suitemates my first year (11th grade) at boarding school. Then we became BFFs and, the subsequent year, became Wingnuts. Ing lived in NYC, twenty blocks south of Krista and I's Sparlem place, following her graduation from University of Wisconsin. Now she's in Chicago getting another degree in Art History, which's a very useful topic.
²boarding school: Interlochen Arts Academy.
³Meg: Is Meg. Northern Michigan reared. I'd crash at her NYU dorm almost every weekend when I was at Sarah Lawrence. Now she's in Michigan, I think. We met in my first writing workshop--which's also where I met...
⁴Sheetal: Raised in India, then Laguna Beach, then Interlochen. Then Johns Hopkins. Then NYC. Once convinced me, based on her evident germ-a-phobia, that she and her boyfriend had never even made out. I believed her because she wouldn't let me drink her PowerAde.

Sunday Top 10: Why New York is Better Than London

This week, Natalie Raaber is guest-blogging the Sunday Top Ten. I did some editing and added some imagery, and as Natalie is currently in the air somewhere between Newark and London, it is likely that her boyfriend Peter will see this before she does, and if he does, Peter, this would be a good moment for you to comment on the blog. It would mean so much to me and I would totally freak out, like I did when my Mom commented on my blog.


First, this is a photo of Natalie and I in Central Park in November of 2001..... ...after our plane back to U-Michigan was canceled (we were visiting NYC for the weekend just to chill) because of the crash that happened in Queens with that Dominican Republic-bound flight, which obvs sent us into a major panic. At this time, we both imagined living in NYC one day. I live here now, but Natalie is in LONDON!!! She says she will come back.

Here she is to tell you why:

In an attempt to shed some much needed light on the age-old debate of "NY vs. London: Which City is Hotter?", I am guest blogging for my dearest friend Maaaarie.

Okay. A disclaimer. Many apologies in advance…this entry will not be nearly as memorable or witty or clever as readers have come to expect from the very talented, very with-it, Ms. Bernard. But because I promised, and I never (reaaaaaly?!) fail to deliver, I will write this Sunday’s Top Ten. Just this once. Marie helped me out with an extra infusion of trademark wit, but really most of the jokes are my own. Reeeallly.

SUNDAY TOP TEN: TOP TEN REASONS NEW YORK ROCKS JUST A BIT HARDER THAN LONDON.


10. Carrot juice. Freshly pulped (on every corner!)

9. Colombo frozen yogurt. Actually, frozen yogurt, in general—-with toppings, like Oreos and Reeses peanut butter cups. London’s version of “frozen yogurt” consists of frozen fruit (that’s right, you heard me, real, healthy fruit) mixed with frozen PLAIN Dannon yogurt and excreted in ribbon like fashion from an odd metal contraption. It just doesn’t do it for me.

In New York, on the other hand, women have the option to buy soy frozen “yogurt”, Colombo frozen yogurt OR a 30-calorie frozen yogurt like substitute (e.g. Tasti-D-Lite), which they often coat with the crumbles of a 600-calorie candy bar. I love it!

8. Taxis! Ahh, those beacons of hope. Even though I have been hit by two of them (errr, it was sort of my fault, but whatever) and almost killed by at least 11, these modern day rickshaws are little yellow and black temples of delight. And in New York, they’re around for the masses to enjoy. Always. (except if it’s raining, in which case, it’s impossible to find one.)

7. Things actually go BUMP in the night, like after 11pm! To be fair, there are things that go bump in the night after 11 in London, they are just much farther and fewer between. As New Yorkers, we demand constant convenience. If we want carrot juice at 3am, we better have it easily accessible, dammit! And, beautifully, it usually is.

6. Martinis. I love them. I really love them. The fact that you can get a better martini at the Ding Dong Lounge on Amsterdam and 106th than you can ever hope for in all of London makes me want to die. Or just go home at 11--without, of course, a cab, frozen yogurt or carrot juice.

5. Brunch. Sigh. The Londoners version of brunch consists of sausages, undercooked bacon, baked beans (which alone make me want to vomit) and a Guinness. (Are you joking?! That’s like 75% of my daily caloric intake before 1pm, and while I'm talking about 1pm, I should mention that brunch in London is often over before I even wake up! The latest brunch-spot closes at 3pm.). It’s a tragedy.

And also, only in NYC can you order an egg white omlette without the waiter thinking you are insane, anorexic, difficult, a total bitch or a diabetic. And if you are anorexic? Well, welcome to New York.

AND THIS IS THE BEACON OF MY TALE: In order to obtain a good egg white omlette, I take a thirty dollar cab ride (sixty, really, because it's there-and back) to Vignt Quatre in South Kensington.

(Marie's side note: Natalie could also learn how to cook. Just sayin'.)

4. All Things "M": I already mentioned martinis; however, this list also includes: mojitos (the best one's I've had are at Mercadito on B between 11th and 12th), the MTA (or subway), money, the mail (as in it actually gets to where it’s meant to go...or, at the very least, to one of the 4 apartment sublets you've lived in during the last two years) and the MOMA.

The “Tube” is impossible, overheated and always breaking down. It is NOT true what they say about the MTA being so awful--it is, at least, better than The Tube. It’s an archaic logistical nightmare. And it’s fucking expensive. The dollar is weak—and as I am still in exchange conversion mode everything is twice as expensive in London than in New York. A sugar free skinny vanilla latte is about 5$. For a tall! The mail, like the transport system, is a mess. The Tate Modern, in my opinion, does not quite live up to the MOMA or the Met, but to it's credit, it's still fairly awesome.

(Marie would like to add a note and claim this note lest there be any confusion that this particular statement could be attributed to Natalie, that Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum (another M WORD!!) in London beats the New York version any day. Marie would also like to add this semi-humiliating photograph of Natalie, myself, Monica and a wax figure of James Dean, from 2001, in the NYC Madame Tussad's, which is where I begged my quasi-boyfriend Marc to take me all the time, because I am totally obsessed with wax museums)


3. No Plastic Toilets. NY has yet to latch on to the innovative (?) plastic urination stations and I for one couldn't be happier. These Tyco-like toys stand like proudly displayed gray penises in the middle of places like Trafalgar square and China Town. Men (and some daring/drunk women) pee into 1 of the 3 (or maybe 4) receptacles strategically located around the plastic station. This happens at all hours of the night (but they become particularly busy after the tube closes...at 12am, or, if you're lucky 1am). In New York we have civilized places for people to pee publicly---like alleys and behind dumpsters. Or in Barnes & Noble.

2. Singing: In London, people sing all the time. In bars, in restaurants, on the street. In New York, we have places for these people, e.g the A train at 3AM, Julliard (if you know what you're doing), American Idol auditions (if you don't), and, of course, KARAOKE BARS.

1. Maaaariiiiie! My love—who understands that fingers are to be picked. Wait no, she doesn’t get that, she slaps me (hard!) on my hands every time I start picking. It’s her only flaw, really. She is a special woman—and very close to my heart. I owe her (a huge portion) of my mental, physical and emotional well-being. I am about a million times smarter than I ever would be because of Marie. She is hip and she is a star!



In conclusion, I (it's Marie/Riese now) would like to share another lovely photograph. This is Lewis and I in England. You can see that we are about to become Knights of the Round Table.

The One Where I Almost Start a Trend, Do Christian Slater, Become the Favorite Child

There was this boy (read: many) in college who enjoyed bragging to his female friends about how he "almost" "hooked up" with this-or-that young lady at this-or-that-party (read: Rick's American Cafe, which was not, I should point out, an actual Cafe. It was JDate-Live for boys with cell-phones bigger than their cocks).

The goal, of course, was to inspire his paramours to say to one another: "I mean, he says he almost got with ____ (usually her name would be Rachel, Lauren, Becca/Becky, Lindsay, Sarah, Stephanie or Allison). So maybe he's hotter than I thought?"

But, like, you know? 'Almost'? I've almost done a lot of things. It's pretty easy to almost do things, the challenge, of course, is in actually doing these things. There's a reason why we are all almost getting hit by cars (or, at least I am). Because there is something that stops us every time from actually getting hit by a car. You know what that "something" is? Reflexes and Fate. Or, in my case, a companion who yanks me by the beltloop and yells at me.

I am almost a Rock Star:

(actual proverbial rock stars)

Because I am cooler than you, I get to go to nice things and see famous people all the time. This only matters because when I talk to non-city-dwellers about my life I can just like, talk about famous people? And then they don't care as much that I haven't like, "finished my book" or "accomplished very many long-term goals" or "found love" or "gotten out of debt" or any of those traditional marks of "success."

Caring Family Member: Do you have a boyfriend?
Me: Did I tell you about the play I saw on Monday?
Caring Family Member: A play?
Me: OMG, so I was at the Broadway premiere of "The Little Dog Laughed" AND the after-party with Haviland, and guess who was there? Christian Slater! Yeah, we almost had sex. Tom Everett Scott was in it, and so was the guy who played David in Roseanne? He was actually really hot, too, like way hotter than when he was dating Darlene. Wanna know who else was at the premiere? Okay, um, well: Lisa Kudrow, Nathan Lane, Jane Krakowski, Richard Kind, Caroline Rhea, B.D Wong, Tommy Tune..... CHRISTIAN SLATER!!!" He was almost sitting next to me.
Caring Family Member: Oh my Word, that is so exciting! Is Darlene a lesbian?
Me: Speaking of lesbians, have we discussed The Cruise?

C.S. actually was sitting nowhere near me, but he was def. looking at us. Remember in Pump up the Volume when him and Samantha Mathis were dancing and she had her shirt off? I think if he just spoke to me, like in his sexy Christian Slater voice, I might like, die or have an orgasm or have an orgasm and then die. US Weekly says he's kind of an alcoholic, but um, I'm not sure exactly why that's a problem.


I am almost a Person of Great Wealth and Leisure

Let's talk about my day on Monday:

First I woke up and I hit the gym after a nice lean pocket quiche? and I then trotted back home for a warm steam bath shower.

Then I went to my Upper East Side plastic surgeon and got botox.

Look.....I know what you are thinkin'. It's not for my wrinkles (cuz yo, I'm young and beautiful, obvs, no wrinkles yet, though I'm expecting all that Tanfastic time to add up sooner or later and I will have to fix that), and it's not for whatever else it is that people over 26 (I'm 25, and I've been hitting the B-to the - oh-tox for three years now) use botox for. So it's actually not glamorous at all.

And um, I've been pondering this....do I talk about this? But then I saw the good work being done by Miss Teen USA contestant Frances Rivers, and I was inspired, like her, to take my cause to the public eye and not be embarrassed for the betterment of all people who suffer from this very real condition (I'm being serious, and if you scoff at it, I will poke your eyes out with my attitude).

Then I went to my psychiatrist, also on the Upper East, to get an RX for some uppers and some downers. I love him, too. Yeah, I don't know. To be honest with you, there is a tiny little shred of me that might, given the chance, jump Dr.Cohen's bones. If he read this, I'd probably kill myself, and hopefully he can write me a prescription for that.

Then I went to see The Little Dog Laughed open on Broadway with Haviland. Hilarious, full frontal nudity, Julie White, who was amazing in Six Feet Under, is so sharp and brilliant and witty, her performance is like, Tony winning or whatever. Go see it and you will laugh your ass off, which will lighten the pain when I poke your eyes out with my attitude.


I am almost so far ahead of the curve that I AM the curve. Here's why:

Exhibit A:

ME: October 11, 2006: In my interview on Susie Bright's blog, I said that the (bad) stories I am seeing "these days" at the lit agency are:'"The DaVinci Code" rip-offs, and five-volume epics involving mythic lands and vampires.'"

THEM, A BIT LATER: November 8th, 2006: Gawker's 'Unsolicited' recently published an interesting piece (read Cameron's take on it here) written by an editor, written to "agents," in which the editor said: "Don't send out a manuscript if...."it is clearly a half-assed mass of pages trying to capitalize on whatever the latest trend is ("it's the next Da Vinci Code ... plus vampires ... and elephants!")"

Exhibit B:

ME: October 12, 2006 In my blog entry "The One Where I Blind you with Science,Genius, and Glitter Glue, in which I discuss various genius ideas for additional blog entries beause Janet said I didn't post enough, I suggested that I "eat nothing but Tasti-D Lite for an entire week? You know, like Jared Fogle did with Subway sandwiches..."
THEM, A BIT LATER: November 13th, 2006: Some douchebags really smart writers at Columbia decide to eat nothing but Tasti for an unimpressive three days. They talk about it on their 'bwog' and are linked by Gawker...wtf?! Just don't come to me for the calorie count, ok?

Exhibit C:

ME: Everyone knows my favorite quote EVER is: "Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off...but it's better if you do." It's on my myspace page, it's on my journal, it's just like, it's just everywhere. It's from "Closer." I also always use Alice Ayers as a code name, which is why nerve.com probably still gets mail addressed to "Alice Ayers, BIG BAD MAMAJAMMA" cause that's what I put as my name and "position" when I needed to lie to get information to do marketing surveys as an intern.

THEM, A BIT LATER: Now Panic at the Disco! Has a new song. Guess what it's CALLED? 'Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off.' That's right, motherfuckers.

Did any of these people copy me? Nope. I just have my pulse on the finger of this generation. I mean, strike that, reverse it.

I almost burnt my entire box of Eggo Waffles
no, i kinda did.

Sunday Top 10: This One is For the Monkeys

Wednesday: out drinking with My Girl Stephanie, the honorable Stephen of the now-defunct Rambo:A Literary Agent, My Star Agent Cameron a.k.a. Book Cannibal, fellow blog-star "Gigi"a.k.a Life Regurgitated For Your Chewing Pleasure, Gawker-hawk agent Michelle and former co-worker and eternal laugh-track Vater AKA ForkLift AKA Lit Agent X......

"Oh my God you are so beautiful and your blog is so wonderful,¹ I mean, you must spend a lot of time on those things--on your blog entries, right? At least like, two hours or something?"
-Stephen

Yes Stephen, yes I do. The actual typing and making jokes part is really fast. Usually ideas are also fast because I am an Idea Monkey. But all the other stuff (what other stuff? Er, photoshop? Um, research? If I knew, um, geezus, wow!) takes forever-ever.

This week, the Idea Monkey is--ok, and also, I accidentally took two Adderalls instead of one. I realize this in retrospect. I feel like I'm on the verge of a breakdown into a big white completely agitated calm. Bwazzah!

TOP TEN HALF-BAKED IDEAS FOR THIS SUNDAY'S SUNDAY TOP TEN

10. TOP TEN SEXUAL EUPHEMISMS SPOKEN BY FICTIONAL CHARACTERS, THAT, UNLIKE (DESPITE THE BACKLASH) BORAT'S "MAKE SEXYTIME," MAKE ME DRY AS A DEAD DINGO'S DONGER:

Number one would be: "Do I make you horny, baby? Randy? Do I make you horny baby, do I?"

My skin is literally crawling. In fact, it's crawling away from my bones and like, forming a new human and turning into a nun and running to the other side of the room where it can be far far away from any half-naked man who dares to utter those words in some frat-boy-turned-drunk-Brit accent. This is why, unlike everyone else in 1998 or whenever, I loathe Austin Powers. I mean, saying that? Basically ruins the possibility of me being aroused ever any time in the foreseeable future. I think that's worse than Borat.

Sascha Baron Cohen is kinda hot, right? I mean...he is. In any event, I'd shag him. Also I would shag Wayne, even if he said SHWING! Yup.

9. TOP TEN GOOGLE SEARCHES THAT BRING PEOPLE RIGHT HERE:
Mostly, I'd like to direct 50% of my web traffic to Tasti D Lite dot com. That, my dear friends of all shapes and sizes, is where you can find out how many calories are in your chemical rice-pudding-swirled-with-butterfinger sugary concoction. Side note; I'd recommend Pumpkin Pie, I just had some, it was better than Thanksgiving.
Also, I feel bad for whomever searched for "What is an NSA hookup?" and I hope he found some guidance here.

Other favorites:
bizzare fetishes
free dumb sang whips chains
jenny mccarthy foot rub
college ennui
orgie parties in Toronto
craigslist good girls
mtv true life jersey shore house location
homosexy


8. TOP 10 ACCIDENTAL DATE MIX-UPS: I was super proud of myself for calling my Mom on her 49th 50th 45th?Very Best Birthday, November 9th. It turns out that her birthday is actually November 8th! Who knew? If this was like, 1989, I'd probably be punished and have to sit outside "with all the other animals" like she made me do when I wouldn't stop rocking my chair or blowing bubbles in my milk. But also I'd like to add that Lewis didn't call her on the 8th or on the 9th, UPDATE: IN FACT HE DID NOT REMEMBER TO CALL OUR MOTHER UNTIL I REMINDED HIM OF HER BIRTHDAY DURING A PHONE CONVERSATION ON SATURDAY NOVEMBER 11TH AT 8PM, which means I'm the favorite child.

So it was gonna be other date fuck-ups, like when Janet and I went to the Mary Gaitskill reading at the Y on Monday October 16th and the usher told us it was on another night, so instead we walked across Central Park to my apartment and got stoned. Then it turned out it was the right night, but the usher had read the wrong tickets because he's even dumber than me, Lewis, or Janet.

"You're gonna blog about this, aren't you? I can see it already. Please don't."
-Janet, when she still thought it was her fault.

7. TOP TEN MOVIE-BYTES WE SHOULD BE REPEATING INSTEAD OF IMITATING BORAT ALL THE TIME (this is different than the make sexytime idea, seriously, like all the movies that we used to imitate, like, several years ago, in the old days, when I was still young):
"Do NOT go in there." (from Ace Ventura? When he goes into the bathroom? OMG, gets me every time!)
"Cowabunga, dude!" (or "Eat my Shorts!")
"We're not worthy! We're not worthy!" (Wayne's World!)
"San Dimas High School Football RULES!" (bill+ted)


6. TOP TEN "WHEN I DISCOVERED I LIKED GIRLS" STORIES FROM THE SURVEY: Then I realized it would do a disservice to my favorite story of all to crowd it with 9 others that cannot possibly realize the same level of glory.

"when i was like 11 or 12 i had the biggest crush on one of my really good friends i would sleep at her house EVERY weekend like all weekend long and we would play "House" or "doctor" and yea when we played them games there was always touchin in them special places but i didnt mind because in my head i was in love with her so it was ok"

Here's why that's awesome:
6a) It's all one sentence. Suck it, Faulkner.
6b) "them special places." That wording manages to convey her awareness of childhood naivete while also acknowledging the hindsight of a sexually adventurous adult. Amazing.
6c)The capitalization of EVERY. She's like : "Seriously, EVERY weekend. Even on holidays, bitches! Nothing stops the "doctor!" EVERY WEEKEND."
6d)"it was ok" not because it was fun, or because they were kids, but because they were in love (at least, of course--in her head). that is just too incredible for words, seriously.


5. TOP TEN REASONS SHEELA LAMBERT SHOULD AGREE TO HAVE DINNER WITH ME AND LET ME INTERVIEW HER. Good question for self.

4. TOP TEN NOVEMBER SONGS, LIKE "NOVEMBER RAIN": Okay, the thing about November Rain is that it's like, 7 minutes long. I think men can get hard and ejaculate in like, what, 30 seconds or something? Where am I going with this? It's a long time for a 7th grade girl to be dancing with a 7th grade boy, so you better pick a good boy.

3. TOP TEN WORDS I MISSPELL FOR SUBCONSCIOUS REASONS: My therapist (who swears she doesn't read this blog) thinks I misspelled the word "marriage" in my survey because of my conflicted feelings about marriage. I said no, that cannot possibly be true. For example, look at this recent convo between myself and Haviland:

plaster: haviland I'M ASKING YOU TO MARRY ME
hps:haha, nice!
plaster: wouldn't that be funny though, if i asked you to marry me on AIM?
hps: yes, it would be pretty amazing.
plaster: when i do meet the right person i am going to ask them on AIM.
hps: we'd be the best married couple. no sex. lots of love.
plaster: like real lesbians.
hps: but i don't want kids. so thats not so fun.
plaster: i'd knock you up while you were sleeping.

Here's the other words I misspell all the time: Disney, restaraunt, pyschological, Wendsday. Simmer on that.


2. TOP TEN BEST WAYS TO BE WOKEN UP: On Saturday morning, MM knocked on my door--well, knock/entered--flopped down on my bed and announced. "I HATE the suburbs. They woke me up at eight a.m! Who wakes up at 8 a.m? People in fuckin' Piedmont with fucking like--curtains. Ugh. I hate the suburbs."

This would have been a good list, including but not limited to:

-My father cranking up "Wooly Bully," flipping my reading light on so the light shone directly into my slumbering eyes, and screaming while singing in my face. He did this almost every morning that I slept at his apartment. Sometimes Lewis (this is the bad son, p.s, if you're not paying attention) joined in.

-Matty smacking my ass and screaming "WOMAN! MAKE ME A BOWL OF CEREAL!" or "WOMAN! MAKE ME SOME COFFEE!"

-Scot knocking on my window at 7 a.m: "Adventure time! My Car got towed!" "Adventure time! I'm drunk from last night!"

"Hello, this is Simon, your cruise director!" (anyone on the Rfamily cruise to alaska in july 2006 feels me on that one. holla, gay-mos!!)


1. TOP TEN ELECTIONS: You know, like how the Democrats won the house? Hey, how come no one reminded me to vote? (that's a joke, monkeys)

All I could think of was the Interlochen Student Council Race of '98, in which Manisha Snoyer--who had doggedly run for office and lost for three years in a row--pounded the podium and screamed "OBVIOUSLY I WANT TO BE YOUR VICE PRESIDENT AND WOULD DO A GOOD JOB, OTHERWISE I WOULDN'T GET UP HERE AND RUN EVERY YEAR AND LOSE AND HAVE YOU ALL LAUGH AT ME AND MAKE FUN OF ME AND THEN GET UP AND LOSE AGAIN! I KNOW I'M NOT COOL OR POPULAR BUT I WANT IT! ELECT ME! ELECT ME! I WILL WORK HARDER THAN ANYONE ELSE ON THIS STAGE!"

(Those caps are entirely necessary, for reals. That's how she said it!)

Obvs she won V.P, and that was AWESOME. Below you can see the yearbook photo. Coincidentally, I also got a special spot that election year. Secretary. I composed the weekly notes for the school, which were really quite funny because Manisha gave me lots of material. I'd write them all down in my note-pad while also responding to the vaguely sexual drawings and comments Ingrid would scrawl in the margins. I think that was the beginning of my training to become a blogger.


¹ the part about me being really beautiful and my blog being great is me just reading Stephen's body language, but not because he actually said it.

The One Where I Blind you With Science, Genuis, and Glitter Glue

Janet "Anonymous," who prefers the jackrabbit rapid-fire qualities of blogs like--hmmmm--g**ker--thinks I don't update enough to require her daily attention/"checking."

I don't perform well under pressure I love pressure and perform very well under it (get it, boys? "under it?) so as I was waiting five thousand years minutes for the 1 train I got to thinking (does anyone else who unfortunately watched too much Sex and the City ever want to start every blog post with "So I got to thinking about relationships"? Is that just me?) about all the things that I've considered doing for Blogince. (That's Science+Blogging)

Gimmicks I've Pondered for the Purpose of Having a Reality-TV-Competition-Esque Blog

-What if I ate nothing but Tasti-D-Lite for an entire week? You know, like Jared Fogle did with Subway sandwiches, except that I weigh considerably less than he did and don't actually need to lose weight? Would I lose weight anyhow, would I go insane? If so, would I die? Would I turn into Mocha Marble Cheesecake, but fake and without dietary fats?

Where this thought stopped: Would I have to eat Tasti D Lite for breakfast? ew.


-What if I went out with one of the complete juiceheads from myspace who send me annoying e-mails or photos they took of themselves in their garage holding drumsticks and trying to look like they actually have balls? You know, like this guy:

... accompanied with a pickup line like this :"i work long hours i love what i do always looking for a bit of adventure i think that experience is the most important thing in life you have to have fun enjoy yourself and look for new things"

HOLD UP! LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO OUR FRIEND THE COMMA.

Jesus.

While trolling through my inbox for prime subjects for textual flogging, I realized that this guy:

has contacted me no less than 10,000 times, and I've never opened his messages.

What if I went ou Where this thought stopped:UM EW.


-What if I tried to freak my roommate (in the spirit of gingerbread+latte's "Christitute," I will call her the "AlAnonititute") out to see if I could get her to admit that she hates gay people is a lesbian? I recently found out that when Maggie first moved in to this apartment, the 3rd roommate was a homosexual lady, and this made the AlAnonitute uncomfortable. (Didn't homophobia in NYC go out of style like, 15 years ago?) Since I think I come off as mostly straight (and I kind of am mostly straight), I really enjoyed her look of shock/near-death/surprise when she walked down the hallway towards the bathroom and into suspect behavior on the cusp of my room. A little later, I suggested that we keep it down so the AlAnonitute could sleep and my special friend exclaimed, audibly to a ridiculous degree: "I don't care, I will fuck her with a strap on!"

Where this idea stopped: I need to ask G-d to help me accept the things I cannot change, or whatever. I don't know, she's the one who goes to the meetings, not me.

-What if I went to every Duane Reade in New York City and timed the lines to figure out precisely which Duane Reade is the absolute worst most inefficently run Duane Reade of all?

Where this idea stopped: I may as well jump off a bridge, and also I'm pretty sure it's the one on 76th and 1st avenue..or 14th and 6th avenue...or 90th and Columbus....I mean, I could get cocaine faster than those douchebags could get me some goddamn Allegra.

-What if I just tried to freak the AlAnonitutue out by bringing a lot of boys home and a lot of women home at various intervals to see if I could get her to say something bad about how immoral bisexual people are, and then I could use that in my book?

Where this idea stopped: I so don't even have the energy or desire to be promiscuous. Really all I need is people to come over and yell like I'm giving them an orgasm while I put away my laundry and write this freakin' blog. Clearly.

Some of Them Want To Use You, Some of Them Want To Get Used By You

The graphic on the left is a timeline of Boys who Have Helped Me Move. As you can see, I've usually had a boy around--be he a boyfriend or a "close friend with a large Jeep who happens to be unemployed and lives across the street" or a "Whatever"--to help me when I move, which happens about every two minutes. Cuz I'm a Ramblin' Man, I'm a Desperado, etc. Also yes I am aware that Tolliver (cited as 'Mover: Ypsitucky 02') only weighs 135 pounds, but the thing about it is that even 135-pound boys (he was 6'4, p.s., so just kinda simmer on that ratio for a while) have something to prove which is that their souls weigh a lot more than 135 pounds and that they are not Wusses. The past few months have been unusually--but intentionally--free of what the grownups call a "steady gentleman caller," and I admit that I have enjoyed a respite from such things as the irrational fear of pregnancy and the magical sensation a woman feels in the morning when the remains of her A.M romp tumble from her cervix as she walks to work. But uh, right now, I could kinda use even an "un-married ex who lives in the tri-state area" or a "good male friend who happens to be unemployed and drives a large Jeep" or really, I mean, probably I would settle for any good male friend who will not be working from 9-5 on the 31st of august. We're not talking like a Melrose Place move or something, this is serious, it's from Williamsburg to Warlem (that's my new word for West Harlem), so like, obviously this situation is problematic. And don't tell me to look on CL for movers. I know. I know all about craigslist and I know all about tree trunks with posters on them too. But they aren't FREE. Or at least, like "just buy me dinner" free. I know that um, as a feminist or whatever, I'm supposed to think that I need men like fish need bicycles, which is funny because I did actually sell my bicycle today which I obviously need less than a man, but I have heavy stuff and men are just stronger than women. That's just how it is. Also I think if I had a really hard core butch lesbian friend, that might be good. I was thinking about that girl at the Lesbo White Party during Pride who told us we were pretty and most lesbians looked like John Goodman. That's what I need. A John Goodman kinda lesbian. This graphical collage of fun contains the biceps of myself, Hav and Lainy. I think the photograph speaks for itself. And also, one time I did move by myself, without any boys or butch ladies. That was when I ended up with a flat tire at 3am on the side of the road with a dead cellphone somewhere in New Jersey and was rescued by a man in a white van (which everyone knows is the vehicle that serial killers use) who said he was an ambassador of Allah, which was awesome because he changed my tire and didn't kill me. But then he called my cell phone about 20 times to see if he could become my gentleman caller once I moved into my NYC apartment. (I tried giving him a fake number but he tested it while I was there so I had to pretend it was a mistake) It's possible that much of this post could be considered un-P.C., but that's fine because I saw this thing on VH1 about how P.C. is over. I am still a feminist and I believe in human rights, religious freedom, and um, equality. Yup. Also "being a spoiled co-dependent asshole" is also Over, and is now considered "being cool." Update: I've hired movers. Which means that these guys are going to move all my shit while Hav and I eat Tasti-D-Lite and watch DirectTV. Any other friends without office jobs are welcome to join the party. We'll be listening to 'S.O.S' and Dolly Parton.

The Gospel of Tasti-D-LIte

The other day, I wanted Tasti-D, but I was running late (per always), and the guy in front of me wanted to order some BananaDoucheBerry Smoothie, and so I couldn't get any 'cause I was gonna be super late instead of sorta late. I don't like there to be consequences to my actions (of being late).
So this is the Gospel, which satisfied me almost as much as that "d-lite" would have.

1. If the line at Tasti-D-Lite exceeds five (5) persons, you are no longer entitled to a sample. Sub-rules apply:
a) If the Consumer-in-Question (henceforth referred to as "CIQ") truly needs a sample in order to chose her flavor, the CIQ must defer her place in line to the person directly behind her while she mulls over the delicate composition of "Rice Pudding" or "Oreos n' Peanut Butter" or the deceptively titled "Coconut Joy" from her piddly little to-go-ketchup-cup thing.
b) If the CIQ already knows what flavor she wants and she still demands a sample of the flavor-of-the-day just because she can ("I just wanna seeeee!"*)--she is a douchebag.
*I have an idea, why don't you see some other time? Everyone knows they only have ten flavors, but just like, 500 different names for them. Like Jelly Bellys.

2. If the line at Tasti-D-Lite exceeds two (2)persons, the CIQ should not order a smoothie. Here's why:

It's like getting lobster or pot roast at a 24-hour diner. Here's why:
-They get out the manual. Yeah. Instructions. Because no one orders smoothies at Tasti-D-Lite, except douchebags. I did it once and I saw them dump a liter of actual peanut butter into my 60-calorie delite, and that obviously ruined the point. I shoulda just gone to Haagen-Daaz. Or Starbucks! Then at least I would have gotten caffeine. Also I'd like to add that if you order something with coffee in it, the Tasti-D people will put actual Folger's coffee grinds (from like, 1993) into your "smoothie." Gross, right? Yeah, go to Starbucks. There's one around the corner, I promise.

-If the CIQ wants an actual smoothie, she should go to Jamba Juice or whatever, they're taking over the world so she shouldn't have trouble locating one.

-You think that powder they're shoving in there is wheatgrass or protein yeast or something? No it isn't. It's anthrax.

-In NYC, where health code violations are enforced about as well as marijuana and prostitution laws, you don't want to order anything anywhere that is not the specialty of that particular establishment. (Thus the lobster metaphor.)

Which means:
-In addition to slowing down the line--no, basically, completely halting the line's progress altogether, the CIQ is going to spend the rest of the day spewing up rotten bananas. Which, I suppose, is one way to cut back on calories.

3. The CIQ can order a milkshake--as in--Tasti-d, milk, ice, blend. That's simple. We can wait for that. But those complicated smoothies are not for anyone, unless it's 10 A.M. and the CIQ is the only one within 30 feet of the selected Tasti-D venue.

4. If the CIQ's parents or other near kin are in town and she would like to take these relations to the Low-Cal Paradise of Tasti-D-Lite, she should discuss the specifics prior to entering the establishment. This is what I don't want to listen to:

Girl in Hard Tail pants: See, Mawm, there's only six-tay cahlories in one of these!
Mom from Idaho: What? That cahn't be true! (it isn't)
GIHTP: No, Mawm, look at the poster!
MFI: Well, they must taste just awful, like paste!
GIHTP: No, you'll see, I lahve Tastay, you cahn't even tell it's good for you! (yeah you can)
MFI: Oooo what flahvor should I get?
GIHTP: Owh, you can just get a sample! (please don't)
MFI: Oh, mmmm.
GIHTP: Oh my gawd they have pineapple cheesecake my fahvorite!
MFI: Oh, Fluffernutter Fudge that sounds delicious! (it isn't.)
GIHTP: Oh, mm. Get a swirl, always get a swirl!

And so on and so forth. Don't sell it! It's all lies anyhow (see below).

Everyone knows that GIHTP is not about to order a low-cal item. You know that GIHTP is gonna get a large with five flavors smashed inside it, covered in a crumbled Heath Bar, and she may as well have gone to Haagen Daaz or perhaps to the innermost circle of Dante's Inferno or Duane Reade. And MFI--she'll probably want a smoothie.

Also, you should check this out. It's an article about how Tasti-D is a scam. FYI. So see? Get out of there! I'm skinny anyhow, so I don't care about the truth, I just like to imagine that I'm being healthy, that's all. I think it's a fab illusion, like love. JK, I'm not THAT big of a cynic. I believe in love, I just don't believe in low-calorie things that taste good.

5. The most annoying Tasti-D-Lite in the city, in my experience, is on 86th and Lexington. Often there is a line out the door of people hankering for their fix, and they are the wrong kind of people. Usually I'd rather go get some Alpha-1 from the nice man in the red polo shirt next door, even though Alpha-1 is probably made from nuclear waste, crushed ice and splenda. But then I'll also get a pound of gummy candy and chocolate almonds and eat them until my stomach hurts, and then I'll put it away until my stomach stops hurting, and then I'll eat it again.

6. This is my Tasti-D-Lite. For some reason, there are two really hot guys that work there. This is not typical of Tasti-D-Lite establishments.

7. This isn't really related to Tasti-D-Lite, but it is related to things that are both Tasty and Delightful. At the gym I was watching the music video for "My Prerogative" by Britney Spears, and i was like "Holy Smokes, She's HOTTT!!!" So Britney: get it together and writhe for us again, like the old days. Thanks!

8. So, I was just looking on the internet for pics of Tasti-D, and I came across this super-recent blog post on three-toed-sloth about tasti-d-lite. I thought it was funny, and also funny because I am writing a blog post about tasti-d, which means i must be on the pulse of the bloggeration. (that's generation blog, p.s.) I started reading all the comments, then realized I was going to have a panic-attack that like, someone might have already said what I just wrote, and then I'd have to trash this whole thing! (See that? That was an insight into the "proccess" of a writer. It's like Paris Review interview, but quicker and with only 600 calories an ounce) So I stopped and thought about Britney Spears, and then added number 7 up there, and made this number 8. God, i'm getting so behind the scenes with y'all today!

9. If I use the term "tasti-d" one more time, I'm going to throw up all over Bloomingdales, I'm totally grossing myself out. Ew.


Better.

First Sunday Top Ten: It Would Surely Be that Sunday, The Day I Met You

My number-one prophet Angela Chase once said: "There's something about Sunday nights that makes you want to kill yourself." True 'dat.

So...since all my suicide-angst was used up on Kurt Cobain and the hot blonde girls in The Virgin Suicides, I'm gonna like, save some serious lives here with the weekly top ten on Sunday nights! Like Casey Caseum, but I'm cuter than him (usually). Normally I'd watch HBO on Sunday nights, but our Renter, who's clearly a Player-Hater, won't tell us how to find the previous tenants, wherever they're hiding (probably in a jungle, cave, rathole, India, Olive Garden, Duane Reade, etc.) to make them pay Time Warner whatever they owe so we can get some goddamn cable hooked up and never have to work again!

For more tips on what the social elite (e.g., me, my friends, Lindsay Lohan) are doing, please check out Haviland's Pluggin' myspace blog.


TEN THINGS THAT MAKE ME WANNA SHOOP THIS WEEK

10.TASTI-D SEASON
It's totally Tasti-D season, y'all! If you wanna get skinny really fast for swimming-suit-season, start shoving your holes with Tasti-D ASAP. Combined with ciggs and lots of Diet Coke, you can lose 10 pounds in 10 days! If you feel like you're about to die, close your eyes and think about Ally McBeal.

(Sub topic: When I see a dude eating Tasti-d out of a little blue cup with a little pink plastic spoon, I do not wanna be his lover. Um, ew. Get a protein shake or a sugar cone or somethin, Jesus.)
(Sub-sub-topic: Both men and women should get Tasti-d on cones and then lick it. It's HOT.)

9. CHELAINISM
Lainy: I'm like, the next Buddha.
Me: I'm in. I'm totally a Chelainist.

8. JANE DOES RIGHT FOR THE NEW POMOSEXUAL TEEN
I was feelin' dubious about Jane's sex issue, but after suffering through the retro-patriarchal-grossness of Cosmo at the mani-pedi place, I gotta totally give props to Jane. On an entire page of sex tips, they bust out with "your partner" and "your lover" and even a "he or she" (which is the only time they use gender-specific pronouns at all)! I feel your finger on the pulse of our politically progressive generation, Ms. Holley!

7. TASTI GUM
Trident Splash Gum, Strawberry-Kiwi Flavor.

6. JAW PROBLEMS
TMJ. That's what you get for chewing too much gum. But it's HOT. click, click.

5. PRIDE IS IN THE AIR
It's PRIDE MONTH!! It's not PRIDE WEEK yet, but it almost is!

4. OFFICIAL SUMMER JAM: S.O.S.
The official jam of the summer of 06 is S.O.S BY RHIANNA. I can't get enough!

3. THE MOVIE IS BETTER THAN THE BOOK: MERYL STREEP WEARS PRADA
I despised the book The Devil Wears Prada. I'm not even linking to it because I think it's total bunk (mostly because by the end the narrator, who has no character development whatsoever and is supposed to be real but is actually vacant and full of these actually quite machocistic behaviors that are never actually explained, throws away everything--including everyone who loves and cares about her--for an internship without any specific rewards for a magazine she doesn't even like. She's a totally unsympathetic narrator and ... ok fuck, I could rant about Lauren Weisberger all night, let me just say that this book ranks right up there with my Bunkiest Books of All Time with Pure by Rebecca Ray).

But the movie looks totally awesome! I mean, when does that happen? Like, never. I wanna see it real bad!

2. CUSTARD PIE AND FRIED SHRIMP
I was reading my diary from 1998 (I'm writing a book, so I get to research myself a lot) and I saw that I made a list of all my favorite foods--cause that's when I was like, Somalian looking, and always trying to eat all the time to put on weight hopefully in the chestage area. Some of these foods I haven't eaten in a while, so I'd like to mention them:
-Kraft Cheesy Alfredo
-#36 at Zingerman's Deli in Ann Arbor, no swiss, sub mozzarella
-Billy the Kidd Burger at Bennigans
-Mom's Meatloaf at Bill Knapps
-Fried Shrimp
-Mozzarella breadsticks from Ciceros
-Custard pie (what the fuck?!?!!)


1. STEPHEN DUNN, DUH!
So, in honor of the fact that I totally noticed that Lauren is reading Stephen Dunn, and that Natalie's boy got her a Stephen Dunn book, I want to write this Stephen Dunn poem here. Ok, hold up, I'm gonna be serious for like, a paragraph.

A lot of people keep fighting! (Not me though, Baruch Hashem!) Sometimes though you gotta fight, and sometimes you can't make up. But whatevs, just link to More Potato Products, the Blog Behind the Music to read a Stephen Dunn poem called "After the Argument."

Then go buy all his poetry books, and then You, just like Chelain, can start your own religion!