My favorite day of the year just passed. The day my news feed is filled with everyone sharing “THE PICTURE.” You know, THE picture of ALL Facebook pictures. The Holy Grail of pictures… The picture of the Coachella line-up. (Cue: Angelic hymn)
Why is my favorite day of the year, you ask? Well, it kicks off my favorite season on Facebook… Facella! (Yeah, I’m not going for creativity points here.)
Facella is a special time of year, where my news feed takes on a life of itself, filled with never-ending Coachella posts. There are very specific phases during this time of year. And Every. Single. Year, my Facebook feed looks identical. In a way, I find it comforting… to know, we don’t evolve much from year to year.
Phase One: The “I’m going to Coachella/ I’m so indecisive I need my Facebook friends to tell me what to do” Phase
“Wow, so many insane bands. I may consider actually going this year!”
“HELL YEAH. This is the best line up EVER! Who’s going???”
“OMG, this lineup is sick! Should I go this year?!”
Look, it’s always a good line-up. They book most of the best bands of our time, shove them into an obscenely small amount of time, stuff you with alcohol and drugs, and convince you this is the closest thing to heaven you will ever experience. You’re either a Coachella goer, or you’re not. I’m not going to comment on your Facebook posts, weighing the pros and cons of going. I have to make VERY important decisions of my own each and every day. Like if I should get Taco Bell for lunch, again. I’m not making your decisions too.
Phase Two: The “OH FUCK I didn’t get tickets!” Phase
“OMG. I can’t believe Coachella sold out! Anyone have an extra ticket I can buy?”
“Yo. Anyone have an extra ticket for my friend?”
“I’m so bummed. I forgot to buy tickets and now they’re sold out! I really wanted to go to this year!”
Guys, you are all a bunch of lazy ass procrastinators. Look, we all let things slip through the cracks. But this is an event that happens, EVERY YEAR. You know it’s coming. You know it always sells out. You saw the lineup. You talked to your friends about it. You knew it was gonna happen. You just were too lazy. And now I have to scroll through posts of knowing you didn’t learn your lesson from last year, and that all the things my mom said about my friends were spot on. Tsk Tsk.
Phase Three: The “Pre-Show Hotel Accommodation Scramble” Phase
“Hey, who’s all going to Coachella this weekend? I need a place to crash!”
“Ugh! Every house is booked up already! Anyone know of a place my friend and I can stay?!”
Listen, you got your tickets months ago. You knew you were going. You knew hotels would book up. We’re seemingly responsible adults, capable of many things in life. Make a hotel reservation. Get a group together and rent a house. And do so, more than 24 hours before a sold out show of 80,000 people. I had faith in your competence. Stop disappointing me.
Phase Four: THE Show aka The “Blurry pictures of bands from 1000 yards away” Phase
I’ve never been to Coachella. I enjoy going to shows. I love seeing my favorite bands live. I myself look at the lineup every year thinking, “Wow! there are some incredible bands playing. Bands I would love to see perform.” But I don’t have a desire to stand in the absurd desert heat, surrounded by 80,000 people just to catch a glimpse of the top of Anthony Kiedis’s head from a mile away. There is nothing worse than being a 5 foot tall chick having to stand in a sea of people unable to see anything but the guy’s sweaty back in front of me. Call me crazy, but I enjoy being able to see. Also? I have pee anxiety. Like, I’m going to need to know where I can pee at all times, but refuse to use a porta-potty and probably will get busted for peeing in a bush. So that concerns me.
Phase Five: The “Next Year” Phase
“Coachella was sick! This may be my last year, though. I’m getting too old for this shit!”
“Great time at Coachella. Not sure next year’s line- up could top this year’s!”
Oh it will, Facebook friends, it will. And you will in fact, go again. And the Facella cycle will begin, again. And I will still be here, facing my computer, reading your posts, eating Taco Bell.
Until I was in 4th grade, I was the only Jew in my class. It wasn’t a big deal seeing as my family was not very religious. While we celebrated the traditional Jewish holidays, our religious beliefs stopped the second the brisket was eaten and the Hanukkah presents were opened. I went to Jewish day summer camp and had many Jewish friends, but my closest childhood friends were not Jewish. My parents even let me go with my best friend to a week long Easter Camp at her Church. I’m pretty sure it had more to do with my parents wanting me out of their hair for the holiday week, than wanting me to learn about Jesus. While I was Bat Mitzvahed, it was solely the fact that a 12 year with far too much energy and a desire for a grand party, was willing to learn Hebrew. So I got a tutor, learned Hebrew in record time, and 14 months later I was crowned a woman.
I really only noticed how different I was from my friends, around Christmas time. Every year, without fail, I asked my parents if I could convert to Christianity. Every year, they said no. Jerks. Every year I begged my parents for a Christmas tree. Every year they said, no. Rude. I argued that we were not a religious family and that I would keep it KOSHER, decorating it only in blue and white. Nope. Every year. Assholes.
But the first time I ever remember feeling different was in 2nd grade. It was nearing the holiday season and my teacher, Miss Kraft, went around the classroom handing out Christmas stockings to everyone, to decorate. But then the strangest thing happened. She walked right past my desk without handing me a stocking. I sat there, tears welling up. I was so upset. Why did she not give me a stocking?! When she got back to her desk she asked me to come see her. Thinking I was in trouble (Because let’s be honest… As a first grader I got detention TWICE, so it wasn’t really out if the realm of possibility that I was getting into trouble once again.) I racked my head wondering what I had done wrong this time…
As I stood at her desk, she opened the drawer of her big silver metal desk and pulled out a beautiful hand sewn, blue and white stocking in the shape of a Dreidel. My first reaction was embarrassment. Why did I have to have something different? I wanted to decorate the cool, red and green stockings like all of my friends! What is this Jewish Dreidel Bullshit!? (I didn’t say it out loud. I was 7 after all, but I’m pretty sure I was thinking it…)
My teacher looked at me with the kindest eyes and said “I know you don’t celebrate Christmas, and I wanted you to have something special for Hanukkah.” My anger subsided, I wiped my tears, and smiled. I knew, even at 7 years old, how kind and thoughtful this was. I realized how special I was, that she had gone through the trouble to make this, JUST FOR ME. She handed it off to me and told me to have fun decorating it. I walked back to my desk armed with my glitter and glue ready to start my Hanukkah masterpiece. When I sat down, I stared at it, smiling. I pushed the glitter and stickers aside. I didn’t touch it. It was perfect, just as it was.
Despite my incessant requests every Hannukah, my parents refused to let me hang it up. Assholes.
Growing up, my family never had a shortage of Hostess Treats around the house. From Ding Dongs to Cupcakes to Twinkies, Hostess treats were as much a part of our family as our dog, Ginger. Except we only had the dog for like a year.
We always kept the treats in the freezer. The creamy filling would never freeze, only it harden, akin to the texture of ice cream. The cake would never be frozen, just cool and deeeeelicious. On cold weekends, my sister and I had a tradition. We would wake up early, watch tv, and “bake” the treats. And by “baking,” I mean we would sit in front of a heater vent on our living room floor and let the warm air heat up our ding dongs while impatiently waiting for the moment we could sink our teeth into the cake. The baking process did nothing to them. At all. Yet, it was tradition. And totally imperative.
While I rarely eat any Hostess treats today, I often get cravings. And if I do, I must have one. If they no longer exist AND I am craving one, I worry for the human race. (You should be worried too)
I’m hoping this is just a brilliant marketing plan, creating fear and panic to get us all to buy up boxes. If not, I think Obama needs to seriously consider a bail out. They did it for GM & Ford. Twinkies > Cars. Duh. Get it together, America.
Someone recently said to me that I was very “gay friendly.” I don’t think they meant it as an insult, but the more I thought it about it, the more that I felt it was. It felt like some sort of back handed attack on me and my gay friends. I’m a straight woman who lives in one of the biggest, most diverse cities in the world. I have always had a large network of friends. A very large percentage of them are in fact, gay. A fact I rarely notice, except when pointed out by comments like this.
What irks me about that statement is what it entails. Would anyone ever say, “Oh, you’re female friendly?” or “You’re Asian friendly?” No, because it sounds misogynistic and racist, respectively. So how is calling someone “gay friendly” ok? As if gay people are somehow harder to be friends with? Quite the contrary. My gay friends are some of the most loving, accepting, and non-judgmental people I know. Yes, I’m “gay friendly” because I am human friendly. I am “gay friendly” because some of the most intelligent, funny, and kind people I know, happen to also be gay.
A friend of mine posted this great article on Facebook today. In short, the article written by a gay man says “I want friends who value me, who see my worth as a human being, and who fully support my equal protections under the law. So, if you’re voting for Romney, whether you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, please defriend me. You won’t hurt my feelings. I won’t cause a big stink. In fact, you’ll be creating space in my life for others to come in who do feel that my being here on the planet matters.”
While I respect this man for doing so, I am not one to delete any friends who may be voting for Romney. I believe everyone is entitled to their personal opinions (albeit, somewhat idiotic.) But I know everyone has their own problems and challenges in this world, and need to choose a candidate they feel will help them best. I cannot know every detail of my friends’ personal lives, and thus I cannot judge people for their political choices.
But what this article says, resonates with me. It’s how I have felt for much of this election. As a woman, I cannot vote for a man who wants to strip my personal rights. As a friend, I cannot vote for a man who is unwilling to give some of my best friends equal rights merely for who they choose to sleep with at night. As a community member, I cannot vote for a candidate who would rather cut the annual spending of PBS, a vital source of public education, for the same price as 6 (yes, 6) hours of a war. And as a human, I cannot vote for a man who feels helping the rich and screwing the poor will somehow help this nation.
Government is Government. They are going do what they want, regardless of what politician is in power. Our tax dollars are always going to be wasted. Lobbyists and money will always have the control. We, as common American citizens, will not. But what I do have is my personal freedom. And I am TOTALLY and COMPLETELY unwilling to give that up. I don’t make a lot of money. But with nobody else to support but my dog, I live a comfortable life. I like nice things. I like fancy dinners and pretty clothes. But if it meant giving up a few extra sushi dinners a year to help others, I am totally willing. Call me a socialist, I don’t care. Because I recognize that if our nation is healthier from the bottom on up, we will begin to strive once again.
The election should be solely focusing on issues to better help our economy, our education system, and ensuring our national security… not focusing on stripping and controlling our personal and human rights. These debates are NOT going to help this nation thrive. Let people be in control of their own personal happiness. Happy people are willing to work harder. Happy people have a better sense of community and are willing to help others. Happy people who feel their government has their best interests at heart will work harder to get this nation out of this horrible slump. A girl can dream, right?
Oh, I guess I’m also “black friendly.”
So I’ve become THAT girl. THAT person. THAT crazy dog person. I obsessively share pictures of my dog. I talk in baby talk to him. I talk about the cute little things he does all day whether people wanna hear or not (most likely not.) I am everything I hate in this world, and yet I couldn’t be happier.
Just over a month ago, my life changed when I adopted the most delicious, adorable, amazing 3 year old dog, Sir Arthur Von Trapp. I have never owned a dog before. I never even really grew up with pets. My family had a Miniature Schnauzer when I was about 7 years old, but my parents decided to give her away (to an incredibly loving neighbor in a wheelchair with whom she lived with until her death. RIP Ginger) We also had a rabbit for a while… wait. OMG. WE HAD A RABBIT. WTF happened to that rabbit? Crap. I need to ask my mom.
About 12 years ago, I was bit by a dog. At The Coffee Bean. It was a hot summer day and all I wanted was my Ice Blended half vanilla/half mocha and somehow I ended up at the hospital instead. Some ratty looking thing attacked me as I went to sit down. My sudden movement apparently scared him and he tore through my khaki capri pants (it was like the year 2000, ok?) and bit my leg. The doctor gave me shots and I was left with a scar. While it was small, my emotional scar from the whole ‘Cujo’ experience was far larger.
For several years after that, I pretty much lived in fear of dogs. I would cross the street to avoid walking by them. My heart would race when I would see a dog. A dog off leash? Forget it. I would practically curl into the fetal position and not move an inch. I’m not sure when things turned around… but they did. In a big way.
While most women my age are having baby fever, I was having a dog fever. As I’ve gotten older, the idea of having children has become less and less appealing. I lead a selfish life. I’m single. I live alone. I have an active social life. And while I ADORE my friends’ kids (truly) and cherish my two nieces more than anything, I don’t envy my friends’ or my sister’s lives. I’m not saying I won’t ever have children (but with me turning 35 in a few weeks, my race against nature is certainly on…) But I’m pretty sure my biological clock stopped ticking many years ago. I’m not sure I even had one of those clocks to begin with?! If it wasn’t for my all-consuming desire for a dog over the last few years, I would have been convinced I was truly dead inside.
I started actively searching for a dog to adopt. And then I met Arthur. He wasn’t exactly what I was looking for. But one look at that smile, I melted. I adopted him the day I met him and once I made the decision, I nearly had a panic attack. You can actually see my fear in the handwriting on my check. But my scribbles were enough to call him mine, and off he went with me. I got him home and I nearly had a second panic attack. Shit. He was mine. Like forever. Like, OMG what have I done?! I mean, I can’t be that asshole who takes the dog back to the shelter. “Man up” I told myself. MAN UP YOU IRRESPONSIBLE SELFISH TWAT (seriously, I think that was my internal dialog, verbatim.) Thankfully my friends came over that afternoon with their dog. They fell in love with Arthur. So did their dog. My fears soon melted and from that afternoon forward, we have been inseparable. Seriously, he watches me pee.
My life is forever better having him in my life. I’m even OK with being THAT girl. But I promise to chill on the baby talk. ‘Cause I’m sure it irritates me, more than it does you. Ok, maybe it irritates you more. Yeah, probably.
Buuuut woooook at that wittle adorwable face! (ok, stopping. now. swear.)
Some months back I bought one of those Living Social “10 bucks for 20 bucks” deals for Overstock.com. Seeing as the deal is about to expire, I went on the site last night to do some online shopping. Since I’ve never ordered anything from Overstock, I started registering my personal information. As I’m setting up my account, a notification appeared that my email address was already in their system. Figuring I must have ordered something at some point years ago and forgot (Hey, I’m rapidly losing brain cells in my old age/smoking weed) I started entering in the slew of passwords I’ve used over the years to try to access “my” account. Nada. So I click the “forgot your password” link and instantly get an email to my yahoo allowing me to access my account.
I change my Overstock account password and successfully log in. And there, on my screen is an entire profile for my personal yahoo account. Except its not me! It’s a woman named Annette Kasmer who lives in Reno, NV. Confused, I scroll down more. There’s MY email address, HER shipping address, HER billing address, AND HER CREDIT CARD INFORMATION! Woohoo! Jackpot! Reno! Weeeeee! Though as quickly as I started planning my future life living off someone else’s line of credit, the thought of Feds showing up at my door was definitely not worth the 80 dollar purse I was eyeing.
But then I started freaking out. How can this woman have my email address in her account? Maybe it was a typing error? Maybe she had an overstock account, but never used? So I look at her order history… She bought one thing, almost 4 years ago. A Mickey Mouse chipboard cover album (seriously WTF is that, and why does someone who shares my last name have to embarrass our namesake?!) Now if she made a purchase under my email address, wouldn’t I have received the notifications- order processed, shipped, etc?! But I saw nothing. I mean if I got an email from Overstock telling me I had a Mickey Mouse “something I didn’t know what the fuck it was” cover, I would have noticed and reported the error right away. I checked her communication preferences- and sure enough my yahoo email was the top preferred communication option. I’m boggled. Not only by Annette Kasmer’s choice in home decor- but how can she have my same email?!? I’ve had this email address since 1998 when a super cute boy from one of my college classes set up my very first email account, taught me how to use yahoo, and gosh, he was so cute… But I digress…
Does this woman have access to my emails? OMG. BETTER YET… Did I just catch the world watching me a la the ‘Truman Show?’ A-HA! I caught you suckers! No? That’s not it? I’m just a narcissistic asshole who wishes the world revolved around me? Gotcha. Well seriously if someone can explain how someone is using my email address but “intercepting” emails only meant for her, please advise.
I considered trying to call India- I mean, Overstock.com customer service- but the thought of trying to explain this story seemed more a hassle than it was worth. I promptly changed my yahoo email password and am giving this round to Annette Kasmer *shaking fist in air*
I guess I’m just gonna have to use my work email, and just *hope* that no one is using THAT email address buying Donald Duck talking slippers.
(actual picture of what was ordered)
I’ve always wanted a hero to look up to. I have one now.
With all my powers I couldn’t caption this one if you paid me….
I want whatever they’re on.
I have an irrational fear of hiccups. Every time I get them, I am convinced they will never go away and I will live the rest of my life, hiccuping. I get so upset that I will do anything to make them go away. And without fail, I practically give myself a panic attack. Which of course, makes them worse. My irrational fear became a rational fear, when the “hiccup girl” became famous some years back for hiccuping for several months straight.
My once irrational fear, was now a rational fear. And I feared I could be next.
A few years after the Hiccup Girl became a national sensation, she was back in the news… for allegedly murdering someone during a botched robbery attempt. Her mother blamed the “curse” of her hiccups for turning her sweet daughter into a horrible monster.
Nothing good comes from hiccups.
I got the hiccups today. They only lasted for about 10 minutes. It felt like an eternity. I wrote out my will.
Fuck that movie. Fuck you Rachel McAdams. Fuck you Ryan Gosling. Fuck you too, James Garner and Gena Rowlands. Yeah, I said it. Fuck you for ruining my perfectly enjoyable evening out with friends. I came home to find your stupid movie on. It had just started. I fuckin’ got sucked in. Oh, I knew what I was in for. “Only 20 minutes more” I kept telling myself at each commercial break. I’ve seen this fuckin’ movie enough times to know what will happen when I get to the end. Yet fuck me, 2 hours later, I’m crying. Crying like a stupid baby. Fuck you ABC Family for ruining my evening by laying in a pool of my own tears wishing love like that could truly exist. Fuck you Nicholas Sparks for ruining every girl’s sensible dream of meeting a guy who is just fine enough, and settling. We’re supposed to be finding our soul mates? The one who for years we can’t stop thinking about and then magically come back into our lives and live happily ever after? Shit, we even die together holding hands in bed? Fuck you.
This movie should be rated NC-17. Girls should not be able to watch this movie without an adult present. No young woman should go into her formidable years believing any of this will happen to them. And to those idiotic women who choose to watch this fuckin’ movie over and over again, and cry like a fool cause its just so god damn beautiful to watch because OMG they love each other sooo much and cannot live without each other and OMG soul mates DO exist and OMG I fuckin’ love this movie and want to watch it again, right now… gotta go! bye!
P.S. Ryan Gosling… CALL ME!
Mankini made it, but Moobs hasn’t?! Blasphemy. Until ‘Moobs’ is officially added to the dictionary, I will not be satisfied…
6 Ridiculous New Words Added To The Oxford English Dictionary | Buzzfeed
Stop whatever you are doing and LOOK AT THIS FUCKIN' DOG -
Boo and I are now friends on Facebook. You should be too. https://www.facebook.com/Boo
Recently, I was dating a guy for a while. Nearly 6 months to be exact. Things were going well. I wasn’t sure if he was the ONE but I knew I was really happy and enjoying the time we spent together.
Close to the 6 month mark, I started feeling distance from him. I approached him. My women’s intuition was dead on; something had changed for him. Basically, he sat me down and told me that he never believed in true love. That he had always dated girls that were great, he enjoyed being with, but never believed in the whole true love bs. Until now. He found his “soulmate.”
*Disclaimer: that person was NOT me. (Tricked ya, huh?!)
After nearly 6 months of dating, my (non) boyfriend (we never had a title. Sigh…) had met his “soulmate.” And while he was unsure what the outcome would be with this other girl, he was willing to take that chance to find out. Heartbroken, embarrassed, sad… I left that night in tears, and spent several more after that in a haze.
I began to move forward… I even started dating again. I KNOW! Go me!
And then it happened… recently I came to discover he and his “soulmate” were now together. While not 100% confirmed, my 90% assurance and my women’s intuition knocked it well over 100%. (I mean c’mon, they’re pretty much engaged… in my head.)
The emotions came rushing back again. In a huge way. I didn’t know where to turn. My normal go–to tivo full of mind numbing (brilliant!) reality television wasn’t even helping. I couldn’t focus. The thought of talking on the phone to any of my friends about it, was too much. And then I spied across the table, a new issue of an US Weekly.
There, a cover story on Jennifer Aniston’s newest man. A man she in fact may have stolen from another woman after a 12 year long relationship. And like in every article about Jennifer’s love life, there was mention of Angelina & Brad. And I immediately started to feel better. Can you imagine having your heart broken and then having it plastered on every magazine and news show without any way to escape? Brangelina (yeah, they even had a nickname… salt in the wound much?) is now perhaps the most famous celebrity couple in the world. My ex isn’t gracing the covers of magazines each week with the constant reminder that he chose his “soulmate” over me. A huge grin came across my face, knowing I was way better off than one of the biggest celebrities of our time. And while sure, Jennifer is gorgeous, a bazillionaire and all around more fortunate than I am, heartbreak is heartbreak. And I knew Jennifer Aniston had felt it. And probably 1000x worse.
I smiled, realizing my own good fortune. And fell asleep holding my copy of ‘US weekly’ tightly.
Jennifer Aniston saved me that night.
(Ahem, remind me to renew my subscription to ‘US Weekly’)
NEXT UP: What LeAnn Rimes taught me about landing a man (hint: it involves not eating a morsel of food!)
When I moved my blog from Wordpress to Tumblr some time ago (I can’t remember when, and I’m far too lazy to scroll through my posts) I thought, “Oh… Tumblr seems much more simple. It’ll be a good way for me to feel more comfortable posting more blogs, more often.” Which, of course I didn’t. But it’s only cause my hands were mauled in a terrible dinosaur accident. No, no that’s not true. I’m just a lazy fuck (Do you see a pattern forming here?)
What I didn’t realize is that I would be entering a new world. Or rather a cult. I feel like I have this second life on here. There are jokes, phrases, memes (a term I learned here on Tumblr) that only Tumblr’ers know. I am addicted to scrolling through my dashboard day and night, sharing inside jokes with my fellow Tumblr’ers, knowing no one else, outside the confines of those pages will “get it.”
I always thought of myself as a strong person. I know now that I am not. I’m a follower. And I kinda dig it. Just don’t tell any of my regular friends. I have a reputation to uphold (albeit one of a borderline personality disorder…)