Thursday, December 1, 2016

It's Time to drop the "The" from The Rory Gilmore (A Gilmore Girls Review)

It has taken me awhile to put into words the feelings I have towards the Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life revival on Netflix. Generally speaking, the joy of seeing all the characters I said goodbye to ten years ago was gratifying. A special shout out to my spirit animal Paris, who stole each of her scenes. Emily Gilmore's progress from heartbreak to healing in dealing with Richard's passing and her relationship with Lorelai was inspiring to watch. Lorelai and Luke's story was stagnant and at times hard to endure but they got married and that is all anyone wanted to see anyway. Let's all agree that the musical was a total time suck and Zach looks a thousand years old.

The only storyline that left me baffled was Rory's.  I could not in a million years have guessed where a year in her life would lead. Hearing Alexis Bledel speak in recent interviews, she didn't either.  Rory's journey was the hardest to understand.

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Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Paging Dustin Hoffman



Hello everyone. With today's news that semen can detect traces of Ebola for 101 days I thought it time to release my post  about my new favorite hypochondriacal paranoia.  This post had been languishing in the barren wasteland called "drafts" but this stroke of relevancy allowed me to reveal my inner thoughts on the subject. In addition to semen seizing,  a doctor with Ebola died yesterday in Nebraska. From the little to no fanfare with respect to coverage of this second US death, it seems pretty clear to me that Americans have become desensitized to the idea of Ebola on our shores.  Be desensitized no more.

Reminder #1: Ebola can kill you.





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Thursday, October 3, 2013

Try a little Tinder-ness

"Hey ;)"

"Hi!!!"

You see that exchange right there? The exchange with a total of 10 characters including emoticons and exclamation points? Those 10 characters are the impetus to your burgeoning Klonopin addiction and eventual descent into madness stemming from the mindfuck permeating singletons everywhere.  Welcome to Tinder kids.

 I'll spare you the minute details of how this works but suffice it to say you feel like your sifting through the Sadaam Hussain playing deck.  And actually you just might be. Pretty sure a terrorist or two is cruisin' the site looking for easy American females to beard them for their sinister plots. We dumb asses mistake their actual beards for a unique brand of hipster and swipe to the right accepting the proposal lurking within those big brown eyes visored under unibrows. See, that's the thing. Tinder is purely based on looks. Four looks and a tagline to be exact. What's a tagline?  A tagline should be a phrase or two that gives a sneak preview of your personality but from what I've seen men are either egregiously illiterate or figure just posting their height will distract from the essence of Drakkar Noir emanating from the swirl patterns saturating their tight tees. I've seen taglines with twitter handles, websites, long ass paragraphs about their philosophies of life, and my personal favorite, the motivational speech. "There is no time like the present!" "Be the change you want to see in the world!"Aww that's so inspirational!  So much so it inspires me to change my screen by deleting your face. I know I sound like a shit of a lady but if I'm going to engage in mindfuck it needs to be worth it. As for the women I have no idea what they use for taglines. What do they use? Measurements? Credit Scores? Quinoa recipes?


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Saturday, August 24, 2013

Zumba-Death by Gyration

It is a secret to no one that I identify myself as a Latina. Admittedly a Latina with zero legitimate hispanic blood coursing through these veins. I'm what they call a nebulous Latina. My hispanic-ness arises from both the penumbra of rights afforded me by the U.S. Constitution and the summers of 0 years to 12 when my parents shipped my brother and me to El Salvador to partake in "camp El Salvador". This particular camp consisted of three months at my grandmother's house where her idea of entertainment included hiring clowns for the better part of an afternoon. I'm convinced my early childhood exposure to clowns is why I don't trust men. And also, coincidentally, why I attended clown school and used my skills to entertain old folks in assisted living facilities. No, I'm serious. I did.

Now inherit in all Latinas is the ability to move one's hips in a circular rotation. This circular rotation mimics the flush of a latrine. Amazing imagery here. You can thank me later.  Round and round they go where they stop nobody knows. "Nobody", of course, being the name you give the one night stand you eventually pick up based on said rotation. "Give" because you don't remember his name or really even asked for it. Sometimes it's best not to know. I mean, his name could be Brett. Or Tristan. Or frankly any name where the parent believes the best way to fine tune and add flair to an otherwise established and sturdy nombre is to shit all over its spelling. Like when one exchanges an "i"  for a "y" for uniqueness. If you come across a gentleman where this is the case then you RUN lest the percentage chance of your child becoming a Trystan Jr. rises considerably.  And while I'm at it let me just say that if I personally encounter a name where the "h" is silent for experimentation...so help me God.  Rhyan. "Oh hey Rhyan, GO FUCK YOURSELF!" I once came across a Gipson. Yes, G-I-P-S-O-N. I couldn't help but wonder why Gipson's parents wanted to ensure his son's complete failure in any romantic relationship. Can you imagine a wedding invitation with Gipson? People would assume you had the biggest typo party foul. And we all know that if phoentics is brought into the equation then it is safe to assume a 1st rate education was denied Gipson's parents and therefore Gipson himself. Maybe not denied eduction, but rather D'd their way through it. This tangent has taken quite a negative turn especially considering I don't do one night stands. Moving on.

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Wednesday, March 20, 2013

The Female Handbook




Dear readers: As you may or may not know Sleepless in Seattle is one of my favorite movies of all time. Now before you bore me with your own favorites just know that I don't care. This isn't about you. It's never about you. It's about me and my opinions which, as we all can agree on, are so ridiculously unnecessary it makes Andy Rooney's curmudgeon-ous opinions over the possible discontinuance of the copper penny seem relevant. Back to Sleepless. Anytime it's on TV, and let me tell you it's on a whole fucking lot, I have this gravitational pull, a compulsion if you will, to watch it no matter what.  This compulsion is so strong I couldn't break it even if I tried. I imagine this is the same compulsion that drives Middle Easterners to Lindsay Lohan's vagina but that's neither here nor there nor currently in a locked-in rehab. I've always just assumed my instinct to tune in had to do with my affinity towards the flick but this time I wasn't so sure. This time, for the first time, I felt like, wait for it, I wasn't feeling it. Say what Sister Sledge? Exactly.

Let me explain. The other night Sleepless was on blah blah blah I was watching. However, in a multitasking moment of viewing my screen, mental contemplation, and casual perusal of Pinterest (more on that later), I took the time to ask myself, Do I want to watch this? Am I in the mood to see Rosie O'Donnell attempt femininity? And then I say, wait a minute, why do I have to watch this? I don't want to watch this. I don't want to hear Meg Ryan say "It's me" to Tom Hanks' "It's you."  So why did I? Why did I sit through it again? And then again because frankly original programming is dead and these movies repeat themselves immediately once the credits clear. I figured if it wasn't grounded in desire it had to be compulsion and since I refuse to believe said compulsion is the sheer result of the subconscious wish of a sad singleton craving "its you, it's me," (Impossible) I came up with an even better, more realistic, and obviously rational explanation. Listen up and take notes because this makes complete sense.  We women are compelled to watch rom-coms on television, even if we aren't feeling it, because there is a female handbook that exists in our collective consciousness that lays out the framework for our lives. This important handbook sets out rules of law that we all abide by unconsciously. An example would be jean shopping. The rule of law plainly states a woman is never to buy jeans in the right size. We know this doesn't make sense. We know the too small waistband hurts our gut really really badly. We know when we sit down we fear permanent scars to both our bellybuttons and inner thighs. There is also, by the way, the high risk of a crushed uterus causing infertility, but guess what? We do it anyway. Why? Because it is rule of law.

Click on "more after the jump" to read the rest. 

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Sunday, March 10, 2013

Change

Tomorrow I embark on a brand new adventure. I haven't been on one of those since I got  bangs last March. I just hope this new adventure doesn't become a YEAR + odyssey to make life right again. False advertising Zooey D. False. Advertising.

For me, change is akin to the 5 stages of grief in an obviously condensed, more blatantly pathetic and irrelevant form. The last couple of days went something like this:

Denial-Of course I'll see everyone from the office again, right? My last job wasn't so bad was it? Just because I was always the last kid picked for kickball doesn't mean it was always like that, no?  Wait wait wait, stop, that's inaccurate and unfair.  I wasn't exactly the last kid picked for kickball. I was thought of as the super retarded kid bribed by the allure of a "special" uniform in a different color. I got to take a permanent seat on the bench and hold the orange slices for everyone else. But still, is that so wrong?

Anger- Hold up. HOLD UP guys. I am not retarded. Damn you for calling me retarded. And for the record I am offended at your use of the word, "retarded." I hate you. You're retarded.

Bargaining- Can I still use my parking pass for convenient Grove parking? Shit, can I? Oh God what have I done. 

Depression- Hey, roommie, can you go with me to an Olive Garden 30 minutes from the city for their unlimited bread sticks on this Saturday night? Yes? Cool. Do they take reservations? There is nothing else to say here.

Acceptance- First day of school backpack ready? Check. First day outfit ready? Check. Lunch prepared? I dunno. If I bring a sandwich on my first day am I showing my hand too early? Do cool people even eat plain sandwiches?  Fuck, where is my panini maker?!?!?!?

So this is where I'm at right now. Well, physically anyway. Mentally, I'm still hoping I can teleport myself to a month from now when I'm happy at my new job dancing to Sergio Mendez on top of my desk with my coworkers. We're all in sunhats. We're also all laughing at a joke and admiring what a smooth shave our razors have accomplished.

Until that time however I'm going to continue to listen to New Order's Ceremony over and over again. Anytime I start to feel my heart beat increase out of nerves or a heightened sense of impending failure I crank this tune up. You should try it. It totally relaxes the soul. I mean, you know, if you're a fan of new wave music, that is. I get that not everyone is attracted to melodies meant to take all the hapiness experienced on this earth and turn it into dirty black coal but it totally does it for me. Yeah, I'm weird. Whatever. 

I'm off now to watch the latest episode of Girls on my DVR. Nothing like extreme second hand embarrassment and topless ping pong to remind us all that it could be much much worse. So much worse that it's actually more worser or even the worstest. Practically the most worst worstest ever.



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Sunday, September 30, 2012

Beautimous Maximus


On the heels of TLC's announcement of more "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo," in our future  I felt compelled to write a little something about what has become my FAVORITE show of the now defunct summer. I do mightily confess I originally judged this gem because of its gross representation of Americana. At the time I believe I deemed it the best deterrent for  immigration into this country. And well, jeah, it is. At least to the white-ish ones trying to make it over. However, after closer inspection, and by closer inspection I mean watching every episode at least twice, it has become apparent that while on the surface the show highlights the dangers of extreme heat and public education, deep deep down at its core, aka, the inner recesses of June's vagiggle jaggle, Honey Boo Boo is nothing more than a sweet slice of what families these days ought to be. It is the true essence of "You is smart, you is kind, and you is important,"without the "you is smart" part.

For those of you who haven't tuned into the show yet because either a.) you're protesting  the exploitive nature of reality TV (c'mon who doesn't want to see the lives of conjoined twins making it in this world? ) or b.) quite simply have a loved one to come home to at night let me break the show down in a quick paragraph or two:

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