What I Like About Youuuu...nothing

My main pet peeve in the world is people who clip their nails in public. And how I can't effortlessly embed an awesome Legally Blonde clip into my blog. Aaaanyway, I don't even have words for how sickening it is. I find the clip clip noise as heinous as nails down a chalkboard, and thinking of all those flying bits of dead human cells in nail form...oh dear God. But today I discovered two new pet peeves.

Well, the first one isn't new per se (Weasley. If Joe read my blog he would laugh. Joe doesn't read my blog, cricket cricket). I've always had a 'thing' with slow walkers (see photo), if by 'thing' we are referring to vendetta or intent to kill. But I thought I was over it after high school (me 2000-2004: crazy short girl making concentration faces running to class basically leapfrogging the Ecuadorian kids with rolly backpacks gottagettoclassomg!). I thought college cured me. But no sireebob. Today I was walking from the subway to class (God, I feel so cool saying that...I know), fighting the magnetic pull to the Sweet Treat cart, when the sidewalk ended and we had to all corral ourselves into the covered scaffolded sidewalk thing. Y'all know what I'm talking about, and by y'all I mean Maddie, because she is my readership and she lives in the city and understands my inarticulateness. Inarticu...lance? I digress.

This basically means that you have to walk single file if people who dare walk in the opposite direction should need to get by. Which they do. Because it is New York City. So I'm walking along, halfway through the makeshift sidewalk, when I find myself approaching a typical Cool Lazy Girl in my lane. Just for reference, a Cool Lazy Girl is the kind of girl who goes to class in a sloppy (yet smooth and shiny) ponytail (why you gonna just shlop it up if you clearly spent time to blow dry it?) with thin sweats that fit just right and a North Face that will always look painfully cool to me and an awesome bag and...basically I aspire to be a Cool Lazy Girl. Anyway, it takes about 2.5 strides to realize how slow she's walking. Quick decision time: I could pull a total cheetah move and pounce around her, weaving back in just in time to avoid oncoming traffic. Or, to stay behind her I'd be walking awkwardly slow, looking ridiculous having to practically come to a complete stop, and I could already see myself like bouncing around behind her, looking around her and over her looking for an exit lane. So I found a break in the traffic and 4 seconds and my bag bumping a small child later, I had passed her. Six seconds later she's standing next to me at the cross walk. One of the millions of situations where Allie Feels Like a Doofus, No One Even Noticed She Was There (But Still) and I Really Hate Slow Walkers.

A new category of people who presented themselves to me as pet peevable today are the Bathroom Teases. Ok, so say you're on line at a public bathroom, and you hear a flush from the second stall in. You automatically expect that stall door to open in 3, 2, 1...wait, no? What are they DOING in there? I've always been a fan of pee, wipe, pull up pants, adjust, flush, go. That way I'm not leading anyone on. The next person in line hears my flush and knows they're getting my stall and not that one next to me where there's a fat lady and you just sort of know it's going to smell. I just don't see the point (unless you've pooped, but that's courtesy flushing, which is a whole 'nother issue) of flushing then letting yourself be a pee-cloud receptacle while you lazily button your chinos. There were three stalls in question today, and the girl in front of me on line entered one right as the other two were flushing. So when no one came out of those two and girl in front of me came out a minute later, I tried to make eye contact with her like "Gosh WHOA what are they doing see how I got your stall and...and...you were right in front of me heh heh?" but she looked at me like "Bitch, you crazy" and washed her hands. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME (commence running up the stairs).

And that, my friends, is how I feel about that.

Why I Have To Give Up Drinking, For The 23434th Time

I think I need to see a doctor about these hangovers I get. I am so jealous of people who drink 74 vodka tonics then wake up the next morning, clear their throat a few times, pop 3 Advil and head off to work slightly tired and sluggish but still entirely capable. Then there's me. I have 4 rum drinks Saturday night and that guarantees that my Sunday will be spent lying facedown on my bed taking deep breaths to try to steady my crazy erratic heartbeat while willing myself not to throw up...again. I don't even know if I get headaches. That nagging "Oh, I think I might actually be dying right now" concern sort of takes precedence. Around late afternoon I usually come back to life. It's the kind of situation where I know that if I eat or drink something I will feel better, but the thought of chewing and swallowing is so horrendous to me, such a far-fetched idea, that I remain horizontal and moaning.

This morning I woke up in my party clothes, clutching a piece of raisin bread and wrapped like a burrito in my comforter, because even in a drunken state I'll never put clothes that have been in direct contact with cabs/bars/smoking on my pristine sheets. Far be it for me to actually CHANGE my clothes. Goodness no. That thought at that hour is just a joke.

I sometimes wonder if I'm allergic to alcohol, or if there's some other reason my body just rejects it. I'm short but I've certainly got the meat on my bones to support a couple drinks. It just sucks that the amount it takes me to actually feel drunk is always an amount that will give me a kill-me-now, but-I'm-serious-please-kill-me-now hangover. There's no happy medium. 3 drinks and I'm stone cold sober and 473432 calories fatter and what's the point of that, but 4 and I'm passed out standing up at the bar and hating my sad, sad life the next day. I spent a year waking up with the man that I love; raisin bread, you do NOT suffice.

It's not like la di daa I'm just going to bed after I drink. Considering the fact that my favorite part of drinking is binge eating and all. I usually try to force a Poland Spring down too. I think a doctor would just tell me "You have an alcohol problem." Which is probably right. So now I shall suffer in silence, when perhaps this is happening because I have some strange form of pancreatic cancer that only manifests its symptoms in easy-to-come-by hangovers.

Talk about a waaap waaaa entry. Apparently, alcohol is a depressant.

Nubby Bubbys

Apparently I'm not really Jewish because I pronounce Bubby like "boeh-bee" like the first syllable of booger as opposed to "Buh-bee."

I love New York because yesterday, when I was walking to the subway, a youngish minority feller sitting on a stoop in the Bronx said to his friend, "If I paid you $20, would you kill that lady?" Ok first off, it was 3:45pm and they didn't look armed. I WAS the only lady in the vicinity, but rather than be afraid my first thought was "Why don't they like me?" I'm so, so sad. But who just asks that in pleasant conversation?

I also love New York because there is a cart that makes fresh-to-order waffles right outside an entrance to Columbia. If orgasms had a smell- and it was something different from eau d'sex- it would be the Columbia waffle cart.

At the park today with Henry, I was thrilled to see a 30-something dad begrudingly follow his little girl onto the playground. It was empty besides us, so I welcomed the opportunity to shoot the shit with hot daddio, talk about property taxes, immigrants stealing jobs, why we ever wanted our lives to end up like this, ya know suburban grownup talk. Rather, he stood silently next to me, and it was up to me to fill the silence. Sample sentences:

"Henry, how do you know Katherine?" Note: they are 2. I don't think I was expecting, "Oh, we go way back, and every now and then we love to just take some time out and catch up over mocha fraps and scones." Although omg with Henry's voice that would be such a YouTube hit...

"Uhh...sooo...does Katherine go to nursery school yet?" This actually got Dad to answer. He mentioned that since his wife is due in two weeks, they've decided to, and I quote, "Take Katherine out this semester." Let me reiterate. This semester of NURSERY SCHOOL. It took every fiber of my being not to crack up and then fart in his face. I mean do they understand the repercussions of this decision? She'll TOTALLY fall behind in her alphabet and fake cooking. I mean, I guess they're just looking out for her best interests- with that baby wailing through the night she'd be in no shape to wake up, slog through counting to 10 and barely share her child-size spatula with Sage. Best to just keep her self-esteem high. But HOW will this affect the dropout rates at her nursey school? Will it fall in the Princeton Review rankings? (I shouldn't joke about this, in NYC preschools are ranked and such, but this is Tarrytown, and our preschools have no maximum enrollment and take even severely retarted kids for the bargain price of $20 a day. What, not politically correct?)

ANYway, happy almost Friday. I'll be hunkering down to write my first grad school paper, which I'm making mountaining-from-molehill so hard right now. It's a 3-page max, BULLET BY BULLET critique paper (as in, no transitions necessary. There is a God). But obviously the trajectory will clearly go, write one paragraph, watch episode of One Tree Hill, write one more, blog about nothing/life being too hard, write second to last paragraph, go on People.com to analyze why Khloe Kardashian is REALLY getting married, then conclude whilst eating leftover zucchini casserole and feeling bad about eating too much casserole so bingeing on apple cider bread.

You Could Read Braille Off My Forehead Right Now

Yup, I've got a serious case of stress-induced eighth grade acne going on. But that is not what I'd like to share this glorious evening.

I am the awkwardest, awkwardest person ever when relating to "adults": I put it in quotes because the woman in question, mom of the boys I babysit for, is approx. 6 years my senior. Anyway, for some odd reason I'm desperate for her to think I'm cool. We talk a lot since she's home pretty much the whole time (did I mention I constantly feel guilty for essentially robbing this woman, AND eating all her chocolate cream-filled Piroutte cookies and organic fair trade unsalted dry roasted almonds?), but so far I'm pretty sure she thinks of me as "Babbling Anorexic Who's Good With Kids." Why? Because I constantly say things I shouldn't say to a woman who is technically my employer, then backtrack. Example: "When I took Henry to Kingsland park I was telling him about all my crazy, great high school times down there...UHH I MEAN not doing anything bad PLEASE I was totally designated driver all the time uh huh and stuff." But the real topper on this cake of awkwardness came last Thursday, when, upon scarfing down my cottage cheese/pineapple duo around 5pm (and planning on dinner at 8 with mom and NBC Thursday night, God my life is sad) and thus refusing her offer of more food, she had THE NERVE to call me a light eater. Are you kidding? My nickname in middle school was Bagel Destroyer, which evolved into Destroyer of All Food in high school. This is not a lie. In college I would put myself in a sad mood in order to have feelings to eat. I am a light eater only if that involves binge eating light foods, and I've been known to go to town on a bag of marshmallows or a can of Reddi Whip or...construction paper. Anyway, so I chuckle like 'I beg to differ, madam' and she goes, "Oh yeah? What do you pig out on?" And what's the first thing I think of to say? "Last night I ate like, a whole bunch of grapes." Commence forehead slap (hmm...is this where the pimples come from?). A BUNCH OF GRAPES, ALLISON? What happened, did you somehow block out that VAT of spinach dip or the fact that at this point you pretty much consume hummus with a soup spoon at 11:30pm nightly or that cute incident last week with the Banana Nut Cheerios...box? Hows about the party two weeks ago where Stacy became your bitch after you consumed an entire bag of her pita chips? Yeah, TAKE it Stacy. Anyway, point understood yet?
So she snorts and walks out of the room, and now not only have I lied to her, and, let's be honest, myself, but she thinks I'm creepy ano-tastic and wont be my friend anymo and probs thinks I'm starving her child. Super.

Voyages of Discovery: Granny Panties '09

I've been so, so wrong.
I, like hmm 99% of the population, have gleefully laughed along with any and all jokes made about granny panties for most of my life. Well world, the joke is on us. Granny panties are the best thing to happen to underwear since breathable cotton crotches on silk thongs. And...sliced bread. Upon my announcement that I forgot underwear for our Rosh Hashanah trip to Rochester, my ever-generous grandma gave me a pair of her never-worn Bali briefs. And as should be embroidered on a sample in every home, Once You Go Granny Panty, You Never Go Back. Here is why:

1) Luxurious fabrics. I spent my Saturday rocking a smooth silk blend up to the tippy top of my belly button. How was your thin, chafing 47% cotton, oh little Victoria's Secret girls?

2) No crack attack. I bent over to pick up a fallen napkin at The Cheesecake Factory and did anyone see anything private? Why no, they simply saw a demure ivory swath of silky heaven. And clearly thought, "my goodness, that youngin has good taste." Also, extra coverage is perfect for those frigid New York winters.

3) No ride up. I could have moved all the furniture out of my house, spent 4 hours on an elliptical, scaled the Sears Tower, and those bad boys would not have crawled up a millimeter. Yet magically, the elastic wasn't anywhere near uncomfortably tight nor did it leave an unsightly red welt on my skin, even after I consumed my body weight in guacamole, cheese, pizza, chocolate cream pie and challah french toast.

And last but certainly not least:

4) Feeling an entirely new kind of sexy. First, forget that these once belonged to Grandma Bev. The 40s chic look of this pair of granny panties was so retro-awesome and if I can somehow come across a pointy cup bra and garters, my WWII-era pinup look will be complete and I will take the world by storm...under my clothes.

So ladies, forget your prejudices, forget your qualms, forget worrying about what guys will think. Buy yourselves a pair of rayon/silk blend lace-trimmed granny panties, slap on a smile and show the world what you're made of.

I Hate Having Arms

...and other reasons why I am a terrible, terrible, awkward dancer. I'm serious, if you want to put the fear of God in me, pull me out onto the dance floor at a bar without my having downed an Igloo cooler fulla Long Islands. I've been known to yank a friend's arm out of its socket to pull myself back to the bar stool/booth/1.4 inches of personal space I've been occupying until they get that I'm 100% serious. I'm not just being cute and cuddly and modest like "oh, no thanks, I'd rather watch." I'm simply avoiding what I consider one of the 5 worst experiences to have. I'm the "cold, bitchy" girl guys go back to their friends to talk shit about because I wont dance, and yes, it's probably because they're creepy and guido, but more importantly, it's because I am physically incapable of dancing.

First off, I'm decent with my hips. I can get a sort of quasi-sexual (PS Research methods prof pronounces it "quazzy" as in rhymes with jazzy as in is she retarted? As in should I forcibly remove her PhD? Precisely) and humpity hump slow gyrationy, but it's all downhill from there. What does one do with arms whilst gyrating? The raking back of hair move gets played out really fast. Arms straight out in front is really 1998 (don't know what I mean find a 98 Degrees video), and arms sort of bent to the side looks like you're about to start snapping at the Mom n Pop Milkshake Stand c. 1953.

But let's not forget what's below my pleasantly gyrating hip flexors. I have absolutely no idea how to work or position my knees. I sort of awkwardly bend them to the beat, and by awkwardly I mean, imagine standing straight and having someone hit you in the back of your legs with a metal pipe. You'd sort of jerk into a bent knee position, no? Well somebody call 911 because that's how this shorty is burning on the dance floor. A whoa ohhh. Oh.

I also can't help it but to two-step my way at da club. I could have a pep talk beforehand: "Allison, seriously now, this is a popular place with popular music, PLEASE do not step-touch your way through Sean Paul or tap your feet and ball-change the weight on your heels while standing and nodding your head like yeah." And let's not forget that I've been known to totally let loose and clap to the beat. Kudos to Joe for a) being an equally heinous specimen of human movement on the dance floor and b) not letting me die single.

Let's not forget chair dancing. It's really where I shine. Alternating shoulder bops with the occasional snap. Charming.

Ok, so we have gyrating hips, arms with no real purpose in life except to flail aimlessly, buckling bouncing knees, toes a'tappin to the rhythm, outstanding chair dancing that pretty much makes you want to pour a bucket of water on me and watch me strike a pose a la Flashdance and...The Oscillator. This is my signature move. It's a fascinating and might I say difficult combination of the buckling/bounce knees, awkward "are people watching me?" look, arms that can't find the meaning in life and the occasional snap or clap to the fly beat with a slow, steady 180 degree oscillation from my hips. My legs never move. I am, in effect, an oscillating fan of awkwardness on the dance floor.

So if you ever say "let's go dancing after dinner!" or "God, I'd love to go to a club this weekend!" and I suddenly come down with herpes, polio or the croup, now you know what's really up.

He's So Hot, He Makes My Teeth Sweat

Here's three things that I (and of course, parents, holla at you Jazzy Jeff) just don't understand:

1) The point of testing lipstick out on your hand. The fact that women can do this and then feel like they've performed an enriching, curiosity-satisfying experiment astounds me. How can a smear of color next to your thumb joint tell you anything? How can it look "good" or "bad" when it's just color on skin? You need the actual face as a frame of reference to see what the color actually works with- ie your eyes, hair color, etc. My ultimate dream is to spend a day working at a makeup counter telling old women, "Oh, I'd defintely go with Mocha Sensation. See how great it looks great right there on your right hand? That's exactly how it will look...on your left near-thumb hand fat area! Will that be cash or credit?" I'd also like to purposely spray gross old lady perfumes in peoples' eyes (here's looking at you, Elizabeth Arden's Pretty, the most un-aptly named perfume in the history of mankind) and then pretend it's an accident.

2) Speaking of dreams, I'd love to know why mine have such a strong effect on me. Last night I had a dream that Scott Baio (mid-80s "Charles in Charge" hottie Scott Baio, not modern-day washed up receding hairline married dad Scott Baio, thanks very much) and I were doing choreographed dances in the halls of my high school, and I woke up this morning ABSOLUTELY in love with mid-80s stud muffin Scott Baio, both miserable at the fact that he cannot be mine and emotionally destroyed that I can't time machine it up to be with him in his glory state. Literally, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I'd be in the middle of SnoozeFest09, reading about cognitive processing in middle schoolers, and suddenly my heart would go aflutter thinking about performing with Scott. Smiling at Scott whilst cha chaing through the corridor between Lower East and the Quad. Oh Scott, does that flirtacious smile mean what I think it does? Then I'd giggle out loud, swoon a little bit, hate the damn stupid cognitively functioning middle schoolers for ruining my reverie and curse my mother's damn stupid cognitively functioning (?) uterus for popping me out 20 years too late to be Mrs. mid-80s Scott Baio.

3) When a stripper/overzealous girlfriend trying to get her boyfriend not to break up with her pops out of a cake, what happens to the cake? I mean, obviously it isn't a reaaal cake with yellow butter cake filling and rich chocolate frosting (mmm cakegasm), but it always looks too real to just be a hollow box on wheels. Is it like, an actual cake on the outside with a sealed-off inner core for the lady? Because let me tell you, I don't care who the hell it was popping out of a cake for me, even sex-me-up mid-80s Scott Baio, if after the lame pop-out surprise real cake was not immediately served to me, expect a bloodfest.

Blogging on Saturday Nights Should Embarass Me

I wont see "Bright Star" because Abbie Cornish is the star and she broke up Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillipe's marriage. Let's just make that clear. Anyway, as I'm watching the preview, I can't help but get in one of those mental knots trying to differentiate her from Debi Mazar. As in, the villain from Beethoven's 2nd. This woman could win Oscar after Oscar, solve world hunger or cure cancer but she will still be a puppy thief in my mind. So there.
So then I got to thinking about the Beethoven series. How, first of all, when you look it up on IMDB the first thing you get linked to is Jamie Foxx's ill-fated "The Soloist." Think with me now about the creative genius that was Beethoven. A poor-man's Steve Martin works in the foot odor industry (I mean, does anything attract kids' attention like stinky feet? Exactly). I was so intrigued by the fact that he and his wife, not in fact a poor-man's Bonnie Hunt but indeed the REAL Bonnie Hunt (thanks, IMDB, and sorry, Bon) named their daughter Rice. When I asked my mom in 1992 why the hell anyone would name their child after a simple carbohydrate, my mom suggested maybe it was after the very good college in Texas. Maybe that's where they met! Maybe Rice has a great program in odor eating innovation! And that is how I learned that there were other schools in the world besides Harvard, Hofstra, Case Western and Michigan. Alas, after further review of IMDB it appears the spelling is Ryce, and so the mystery continues.
Beethoven's Second deals with tough issues like date rape, girls whose bras are visible through their shirts and of course, the lucrative Black Market of St. Bernard dealings. I seem to remember her as a modern-day Cruella Devil, wanting to make St. Bernard-skin rugs and coats, but it turns out she was just using these purebred lovies as bargaining chips in an ugly divorce. See, even more tough issues that aren't easily resolved. God, thinking about this movie really made the 6-year-old in me grow up just now.

Ok, so if you think I'm sad for blogging about Beethoven, or feel bad for reading it, feel worse for this woman, who wrote this review:
"This isn't a bad sequel but it's unable to measure up to the first "Beethoven," which was an extremely likable film. This is still a "cute" film and one parents and all the kiddies certainly will like.It features a litter of St. Bernard puppies, and who doesn't go "aww" at the sight of little puppies, especially St. Bernard's? The puppies are the main story here, which turns into a "crime" story when "Missy" is dog-napped and the little ones also become endangered.I didn't think this was a "silly" story as there are some good morals and lessons to be learned, but it was a bit "sappy." I get a little annoyed, too, when animals are pictured as smarter than the humans. I'm sorry but, as much as you might love pets and hate some people, that just ain't so.Nonetheless, if you loved the first movie you'll find enough to like in here to enjoy it. If you thought the first film was just okay, you won't like this."
Why did she put every adjective in quotes?? St. Bernard puppies are cute to anyone with eyes. Dog stealing is most certainly a crime and is Missy allegedly her name?

Or perhaps pity the reviewer who posted a discussion thread "How ugly is Ryce?" that no one responded to, that's right, because Nicholle Tom was totally 1990s hot with her freckles, shiny bob and short-lived series "Phenom" that no one remembers but me. She hit tennis balls against a garage. Or something.

Sorry this entry lacks any humor and creativity. I am in extreme state of Joe missingness tonight, so much that "Every Breath I Take" a la Puff Daddy is really touching me right now. Joe, I'd give anything to hear half yo bref, I really would.

People Who Are Rich And I Don't Know How: Kelly Taylor

Ok, first, I really need to fix up that there English in the title, especially after out-dorking even myself during Grammar Pet Peeves 101 at my first research methods class.

Anyway, let's examine the life of one Kelly Taylor from Beverly Hills, 90210. The original. Like that even needed to be said, harumph.
1) She is constantly shopping on Rodeo Drive/other select boutiques poor lil Brenda can't afford in season 1
2) Her strange art-deco house may be ugly as sin but still clearly cost a pretty penny and an even prettier fixed-rate mortgage (unless, of course, her mom was coked up when doing the paperwork and agreed to an ARM, in which case, bitch had it comin'. Oh, and the ugly fixed-rate mortgages have to sit alone at lunch, so my descriptive language is important)
3) HELLO JACKIE AND THE COKE/ALCOHOL BINGES

Now let's face the music. Jackie was a model once. Emphasis on the was...and once. Those minimal royalties ain't bringing home the bacon, unless, of course, she was the star of some truly iconic portrait, like the nurse getting smooched by the sailor in New York, although that would make her a weeee bit older than she appeared, eh?
Kelly's dad is rich, but once a woman remarries, her alimony payments end (not child support, so Kelly would still get a slim court-appointed stipend for clothes and sneaks and notebooks). As in, say bye-bye to that house, unless of course all her future husbands were equally rich, and then let's REALLY face the music, Jackie Taylor is the physical embodiment of pure genius.
So yeah, I think that with this highly academic, well-written and clear piece, I've proven that Kelly Taylor should have been perusing the racks at Caldor rather than Brenda, what with her two parents and stable lifestyle and dad in finance.

I should really, really work on clarifying arguments before I hand in my first paper.

My fingers smell like bacon, and this is pretty much the highlight of my week.

I'm pretty sure that People.com is a joke right now, and that I'm going to turn around and the entire cast of Full House will pop out and be like "haha, got you!" Except I'm not Joey Gladstone, I haven't been effing with everyone in the pre-April Fool's day spirit, and nowhere on People.com does it say "Joke on Joey."

1) "Ellen DeGeneres replacing Paula Abdul on 'Idol'." Intriguing, but not believable, as, for as far as I knew, Ellen has no vocal experience (I mean at least PAbds was in the 'industry') and, more importantly, would sooner marry Hugh Heffner than be an 'Idol' judge.
2) "Katherine Heigl and husband adopting a baby from Korea." Nice. Adorable. But unexpected. Didn't she JUST last year say they weren't ready for a family? Gahh.
3) Nicole Ritchie just gave birth to a boy named Sparrow. I mean...no. In no way can I even touch this.

It's like I stepped into an alternate universe of interesting crap. And now I'm laughing, imagining an actual alternate universe where poo is colorful and in fun shapes, like polka dot half moons.

Daily Grievances, 9/5/09

I think I can say I have a relatively easy life. Someone cooks for me, a lovely man has asked for my hand and I have accepted, I am in a very interesting graduate program that is perfect for reaching my lofty future goals, and yesterday I nabbed a new comforter set at Home Goods for $50. No complaints. Except sometimes, sometimes, I get really close to throwing in the towel because Netflix continues to fuck.me.over.
A scratched-to-oblivion, unplayable disc WILL send me into a rage unlike any other. I mean if I can't watch this disc today my whole plan of watching this one today and mailing it and getting the next one in two days is vanquished and I'll never, NEVER get to figure out if Lucas really shot Dan Scott before that literature summary is due. So yesterday, after pouting, whimpering, stomping, the occasional scream of frustration, followed by Windexing the DVD as instructed, and it STILL didn't work, I finally sat down to figure out why this keeps happening to me. And, my 4 friends, I've got it:
There is someone in this world with the exact same taste in Netflix rentals as me ("Romantic Comedies with a Strong Female Lead," "Gay and Lesbian," "Dramas on the CW," etc.). Yet other than that, we are very different. See, for fun, she straps her pet hamster onto a DVD and lets the little guy go sledding down a hill made of Brillo pads. That is THE only way the disc can get so messed up without someone actually taking a pair of tweezers and viciously scratching away with the gleam of hell in their eyes. So while fake Allie is gearing up for the finals of league Hamster Racing, I'm in my den throwing a nursery school-esque temper tantrum because Ineedtoseethisnowwwwworeeelse!!
I think I want to launch a full-scale investigation. I mean I'm sure it wouldn't be that hard for Netflix to track down the person who had my DVD before me. I can just see it now, cops bursting through the door of someone else's parents' house in Westchester, handcuffing both her and her hamster (commence "aww") and taking her downtowwwwn. Justice, consider yourself served.

[So okay I know I have at least 4 readers, someone out there is watching me post my innermost thoughts and demons and whatever, but this constant stream of 0 comments is really starting to hurt my self esteem. Almost as much as being barked at on Wednesday. Barked at. And now that I've officially brought that up 89,037 times, I think I can retire my hurt feelings ('Hurt feelings, I got hurt feeeeeeelings'). ]

The Art of 'Making it Rain'

There is a moment where you realize exactly what it is you want to do with the rest of your life. For many, that moment never occurs (shoutout to YOU, 45-year-old woman in my grad school class with 3 other masters degrees). For some, it occurs 9 times per year (shoutout to...me). Anyway, this time it's for real, I've totally figured it out: When I grow up I want to be a philanthropist.
Easier said that done. You can't just 'become' a philanthropist. It's your family business. Or you're lucky enough to marry into wealth so severe it has its own zip code, just like yo momma, and you easily fall into this role. It's not like there's a school or anything to learn how to become a philanthropist...UNTIL NOW!
Let me introduce my idea for higher education. Philanthropy University, adorably nicknamed "Phil U," is a one- or two-year program. The first year is optional and for those who really have no means of making enough money themselves to ever give away, so need to marry into it. Degree candidates (both men and women are admitted, although I assume the male/female ratio would somewhat resemble Sarah Lawrence...or Wellesley) take classes to better equip themselves to attract a monied mate. Classes in fitness and nutrition, flirting etiquette, ridiculouly in-depth current events tests to force candidates to read 5 daily papers cover to cover each day. A philanthropist's wife or husband needs to be incredibly informed on the ways of the world. Like duh. To the max. And stuff.
An 'accelerated' program would do year 1 in six months and would clearly include stereotypical sorority-style weigh-ins and fat circles to increase motivation.
The second year is your basic "How To Spend All This Dough" tutorial, where the monied elite who just need to know what to do with that $36 million inheritance and the students in the introductory course meet up to learn as one. And make brilliant matches, of course. (Note: Secure funding for traditional Jewish matchmaker in shawl.) Courses run the gamut from how to conduct an interview with someone requesting your funds to learning how to master tax write-offs to practicing kind ways of saying no to writers of grand proposals. Men will receive a special mini-course on how to not awkwardly pose for society photos. Your graduation gift is a book of about 10,000 checks, just to get you through your first fiscal year of donating. On the inside is a quick reference sheet of commonly used numbers, like the development offices at the symphony, local charter schools and Camp Mariah.
Obviously, as the point is to acquire capital to give away, the school is free of charge to those attending the two-year sequence. Hence the ridiculous admission standards- multiple interviews in purposely awkward situations to assess poise and grace under pressure, 10 essays on your top local charitable foundations and why they need our help, professional head shots, perhaps a video from a reality tv audition, and 3 recommendations from people who aren't related to you or named Amber or Crystal. Because only THE most promising candidates can get in. Oh, and upon enrollment you must agree to donate 2% of your yearly philanthropic budget after graduation to the school to keep it afloat. Minor details.
Can't decide what the mascot should be. A man in a suit named Phil? A large, walking stack of dancing $1,000 bills? All I know is this: it WILL be played by either Cecily or Taylor Pomeranz, and this school would have the world's hottest cheerleaders.

Grad School Orientation: A Saga of Sorts

Alternate title: I've Eaten a Lot of Feta Today
I've never thought of myself as "uncomfortable in my own skin." In fact, that statement always gave me the icks (it made me see skin as a wool sweater, sort of loose on bones, and come on that's just grimy). But these past few days I feel like I could write a novel. So now, I present:

How to be Awkward in Grad School:

1) Somehow not know anyone although everyone else is bff (come on this is grad school, not Brownies!), and have to eat lunch alone. I may have reached the wizened age of 23, but "eating lunch alone" is still tops on my "fate worse than death" list (Second place: being a flight attendant. Third place: Ever meeting the girl who got my donated computer with my diary/amateur erotica novellas on the hard drive.). I sort of wandered through the street fair o'deliciousness pretending to thoroughly examine gypsy scarves, meanwhile pondering the loneliness of my grad school experience comma Day 1.

2) Perhaps a continuation of #1, but be so obviously BY YOURSELF that the goobery dweebo student senate president (WHO runs for student government in grad school, WHO? Does that look good for your application for...Secretary of State? Running the moon? I mean seriously) in his swanky black suit comes over to say hi and keep you company. If Columbia Teachers College was a working beehive of nerdy drones he'd be the queen bee in male-bee form. God, analogies aren't my strong suit. How sad must I have looked to attract the sympathies of the Nerd King? It's not like he even talked to me about his campaign platform to win over my support. He just...asked me how my day was going and about my life. Because I was aaaal awooone. I refuse to believe the premise of "some people are just nice" so yeah, it's more a reflection of my loserdome ok thanks life I'll get back to you on that one.

3) At your academic program orientation roundtable, watch as your peers introduce themselves confidently and discuss their current work (I've been a health teacher for 10 years!) and research interests (I want to design curricula to use in African refuge camps!) then when it gets to you, gulp, blush and basically stutter, "I'm Elle Woods, and this is Bruiser Woods, and we're both Gemini vegetarians..." No, more like "Hi, I'm from Westchester (rolls eyes at inside joke with no one because no one's from Westchester and 'gets it'), and I'm getting a master of...arts? And I want to like...eventually work in sexuality education?" But then CRACK UP AT YOURSELF because you can't stop comparing your introduction to Elle Woods's and sit with your shoulders shaking, giggling, while the professor tries to talk about the thesis project.
Life is better because I can make fun of myself. But still. Really?