Picture this.
No, wait. You don't have to picture it.
Thanks to the glory that is YouTube, you too can share my pain:
Ninja maxipads. I have no words.
09 March 2007
shame is for pussies
A few years ago, I went to visit my friend Gina at her home in DC. A former Lit Major, feminist, and self-proclaimed lover of all things Dickensian, Gina's bookcases were filled with what you might expect. Atwood, Friedan, Dickens (of course), Davies, Robbins...all the best lined up neatly on shelves.
The bookcase in the guest room, though...that was another story. In here, I found numerous travel guides, some trade fiction and--to my horror--at least three romance novels. When confronted, Gina ducked her head and said "Yes, those are my shameful books."
I don't have any shameful books (though there are, at this point, three shelves of travel guides in my study). Instead, I present you with a list of my five most shameful songs.
All are on my ipod. All get played on repeat when the mood strikes.
5. "My Humps"- Black Eyed Peas
This song has extremely stupid and insulting lyrics. It's a black mark on the feminist cause. And yet...and yet I cannot help but rock out to it (on headphones, of course).
4. "Spice Up Your Life" -The Spice Girls
Insipid. The entire first verse is nothing but "La la la la la la la la la", for god's sake. But it's got a samba thing going on in the percussion and, again, I cannot help but shake my booty.
3. "Independent Women, Pt. 1"- Destiny's Child
All the honeys who makin' money
Throw your hands up at me
'nuff said.
2. "Temperature" -Sean Paul
Insipid AND insulting. Sexist. And written in, what...some sort of cobbed together English that might be rastafarian or might just demonstrate that my man Sean never made it past the second grade.
Again with the booty shaking.
1. You Should Hear How She Talks" -Melissa Manchester
I. I. I have no words.
But I do have a headband and some spankin leg warmers.
The bookcase in the guest room, though...that was another story. In here, I found numerous travel guides, some trade fiction and--to my horror--at least three romance novels. When confronted, Gina ducked her head and said "Yes, those are my shameful books."
I don't have any shameful books (though there are, at this point, three shelves of travel guides in my study). Instead, I present you with a list of my five most shameful songs.
All are on my ipod. All get played on repeat when the mood strikes.
5. "My Humps"- Black Eyed Peas
This song has extremely stupid and insulting lyrics. It's a black mark on the feminist cause. And yet...and yet I cannot help but rock out to it (on headphones, of course).
4. "Spice Up Your Life" -The Spice Girls
Insipid. The entire first verse is nothing but "La la la la la la la la la", for god's sake. But it's got a samba thing going on in the percussion and, again, I cannot help but shake my booty.
3. "Independent Women, Pt. 1"- Destiny's Child
All the honeys who makin' money
Throw your hands up at me
'nuff said.
2. "Temperature" -Sean Paul
Insipid AND insulting. Sexist. And written in, what...some sort of cobbed together English that might be rastafarian or might just demonstrate that my man Sean never made it past the second grade.
Again with the booty shaking.
1. You Should Hear How She Talks" -Melissa Manchester
I. I. I have no words.
But I do have a headband and some spankin leg warmers.
19 February 2007
Sure. But does he get an immunity idol?
Have you seen Man Vs. Wild?
This guy? Bear Grylls? He's INSANE.
And it's kind of addictive.
From their website, linked above:
In each episode of Man vs. Wild Bear strands himself in popular wilderness destinations where tourists often find themselves lost or in danger. As he finds his way back to civilization, he demonstrates local survival techniques, including escaping quicksand in the Moab Desert, navigating dangerous jungle rivers in Costa Rica, crossing ravines in the Alps and surviving sharks off Hawaii.
What they don't tell you is that he goes into these crazy situations with only the clothes on his back, a big ass knife, and a flint. Sometimes. Sometimes he doesn't even have the flint. And he did get mostly naked in an episode about the Alaskan glaciers (which he charmingly pronounces "glass-yurs")(oh, how I love the Brits).
Discovery was running a marathon last night and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I watched four hours of Bear working his way out of danger. He's kind of like MacGyver. Only he eats raw fish and doesn't carry duct tape. (Mac, as we all know, would use the flint to start a fire, over which he would cook the salmon in a sauce pan made from bark and lined with that omnipresent tape.)(In this respect, I find MacGyver to be a much saner individual.)(I was right with Bear until he bit into that still squirming salmon.)(EW. With a capital EW.)
Right. So the point of the show is allegedly to help wayward tourists like you and me survive being trapped in the wilderness and, along the way, Mr. Grylls gives hints and tips. Things like "Don't grab at branches in the jungle. They might be snakes." and "Test the snow on the mountain side with your ski pole so you know when you're about to die in an avalanche." And some more specific things--like the name of a tree in the Costa Rican jungle whose sap will allegedly cure an upset stomach. (Unfortunately, I forgot said name and now I will be forced to carry Rolaids when I parachute out of a helicopter into the wilds of South America.)
What shocked me most about the show was how very cavalier he is about getting wet. Even on an Alaskan glacier, the intrepid Bear had no compunctions about dousing himself by jumping into waterfalls or sliding down ice tunnels. Me? I get hypothermia if I spend too much time reading in the bathtub. And in Costa Rica? Same thing. He's wading through tributaries and splashing about in mangroves and I'm on my couch shouting OMG. CARNIVOROUS SNAKES. AND CROCS. AND PIRANHA. Not to mention the leeches. The jungle rot. Or those wee little fishies that like to swim up into your private parts.
After four episodes, my husband put his foot down and forced me to change the channel. I think he got tired of listening to me saying "Oh my god! This man is CRAZY!" But, secretly, I am so going to find out the regular air time of this show and record it. Crack like this is best held for Sunday afternoon binges.
This guy? Bear Grylls? He's INSANE.
And it's kind of addictive.
From their website, linked above:
In each episode of Man vs. Wild Bear strands himself in popular wilderness destinations where tourists often find themselves lost or in danger. As he finds his way back to civilization, he demonstrates local survival techniques, including escaping quicksand in the Moab Desert, navigating dangerous jungle rivers in Costa Rica, crossing ravines in the Alps and surviving sharks off Hawaii.
What they don't tell you is that he goes into these crazy situations with only the clothes on his back, a big ass knife, and a flint. Sometimes. Sometimes he doesn't even have the flint. And he did get mostly naked in an episode about the Alaskan glaciers (which he charmingly pronounces "glass-yurs")(oh, how I love the Brits).
Discovery was running a marathon last night and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I watched four hours of Bear working his way out of danger. He's kind of like MacGyver. Only he eats raw fish and doesn't carry duct tape. (Mac, as we all know, would use the flint to start a fire, over which he would cook the salmon in a sauce pan made from bark and lined with that omnipresent tape.)(In this respect, I find MacGyver to be a much saner individual.)(I was right with Bear until he bit into that still squirming salmon.)(EW. With a capital EW.)
Right. So the point of the show is allegedly to help wayward tourists like you and me survive being trapped in the wilderness and, along the way, Mr. Grylls gives hints and tips. Things like "Don't grab at branches in the jungle. They might be snakes." and "Test the snow on the mountain side with your ski pole so you know when you're about to die in an avalanche." And some more specific things--like the name of a tree in the Costa Rican jungle whose sap will allegedly cure an upset stomach. (Unfortunately, I forgot said name and now I will be forced to carry Rolaids when I parachute out of a helicopter into the wilds of South America.)
What shocked me most about the show was how very cavalier he is about getting wet. Even on an Alaskan glacier, the intrepid Bear had no compunctions about dousing himself by jumping into waterfalls or sliding down ice tunnels. Me? I get hypothermia if I spend too much time reading in the bathtub. And in Costa Rica? Same thing. He's wading through tributaries and splashing about in mangroves and I'm on my couch shouting OMG. CARNIVOROUS SNAKES. AND CROCS. AND PIRANHA. Not to mention the leeches. The jungle rot. Or those wee little fishies that like to swim up into your private parts.
After four episodes, my husband put his foot down and forced me to change the channel. I think he got tired of listening to me saying "Oh my god! This man is CRAZY!" But, secretly, I am so going to find out the regular air time of this show and record it. Crack like this is best held for Sunday afternoon binges.
15 February 2007
file under S for "SHHHHHHH"
For reasons having to do with the weather and meetings being cancelled, I find myself up on campus with a lot of time on my hands. Too cold to wander around aimlessly, so I plunked myself down in the ILR Library and set up shop. I feel so...cosmopolitan. All wirelessly enabled and stuff.
But here's the thing. Kids these days? They have no library manners. None. Nada. Zip.
When I was in school, you were QUIET in the library. And if you weren't, the librarian came and fed you to the herds of dinosaurs that were roaming freely on the quad. Uphill. In the snow. Both ways.
Now? Well...let's just say that I have been here for close to two hours and someone's cell phone rings on average of twice every 15 minutes. Full scale rings. Like...the first six bars to Beyonce's latest hit at high volume. And, between these little forays into the glory of mp3 enabled personal communication devices, we have a chorus of beeps, chirps, and chimes to announce the arrival of text messages.
I have a cell phone. It's sitting by my elbow. It's even turned on. But, you know what? It's set to vibrate so that I won't disturb anyone else if my husband texts to say that his flight is delayed.
These kids? These ivy-leaguers who can probably make a super computer out of some duct tape, an ipod, and three rubber bands? Can the concept of changing the ringer on their phone REALLY be beyond them?
And the talking! I now know the complete social calendars of three young women, as well as where all of the good parties are going to be this weekend. Also, someone named Sophie thinks that the 210 homework was "way hard", while her friend Zach disagrees and would gladly trade her for his Econ quiz tomorrow.
Where, I ask you, are the librarians? I think I am the only person in this room who is over the age of 25. Shouldn't there be thick-ankled, bespectacled women strolling around the place with yard sticks at the ready? What ever happened to the dulcet tones of QUIET PLEASE being blasted through the library when you sneeze or drop a book?
Somewhere, Mrs. Sipser is quaking in anger. Either that, or my beloved elementary school librarian has had a stroke as a direct result of her inability to insure that this particular library is a quiet, ponderous place that is conducive to learning and the worship of books.
But here's the thing. Kids these days? They have no library manners. None. Nada. Zip.
When I was in school, you were QUIET in the library. And if you weren't, the librarian came and fed you to the herds of dinosaurs that were roaming freely on the quad. Uphill. In the snow. Both ways.
Now? Well...let's just say that I have been here for close to two hours and someone's cell phone rings on average of twice every 15 minutes. Full scale rings. Like...the first six bars to Beyonce's latest hit at high volume. And, between these little forays into the glory of mp3 enabled personal communication devices, we have a chorus of beeps, chirps, and chimes to announce the arrival of text messages.
I have a cell phone. It's sitting by my elbow. It's even turned on. But, you know what? It's set to vibrate so that I won't disturb anyone else if my husband texts to say that his flight is delayed.
These kids? These ivy-leaguers who can probably make a super computer out of some duct tape, an ipod, and three rubber bands? Can the concept of changing the ringer on their phone REALLY be beyond them?
And the talking! I now know the complete social calendars of three young women, as well as where all of the good parties are going to be this weekend. Also, someone named Sophie thinks that the 210 homework was "way hard", while her friend Zach disagrees and would gladly trade her for his Econ quiz tomorrow.
Where, I ask you, are the librarians? I think I am the only person in this room who is over the age of 25. Shouldn't there be thick-ankled, bespectacled women strolling around the place with yard sticks at the ready? What ever happened to the dulcet tones of QUIET PLEASE being blasted through the library when you sneeze or drop a book?
Somewhere, Mrs. Sipser is quaking in anger. Either that, or my beloved elementary school librarian has had a stroke as a direct result of her inability to insure that this particular library is a quiet, ponderous place that is conducive to learning and the worship of books.
10 January 2007
and i will always have gum!
On Christmas, my brother-in-law approached me asking if my husband and I would be one of the sets of godparents for his son (aged 2). I said yes. (Because, really, what else can you say, right?)(But also because I am fond of the little germ factory, too.)
Just now, I googled "god parent duties" and came across a host of sites that claim to tell me how to be the best gosh darn godparent ever.
eGodparent.com, tells me that the following items should be on my to-do list post Christening:
1. Pray for your godchild regularly
2. Set an example of Christian living
3. Help him/her to grow in the faith of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, in which he was baptized
4. Give every encouragement to follow Christ and fight against evil
5. Help your godchild to look forward to confirmation.
Here, I feel the need to pause and apologize to both deb (who foolishly named me godmother to her firstborn) and to Matt (said first born), because I can quite honestly say that I have never once prayed for either of you.
Also. Me and Christian Living? Um. Not so much.
So, it seems that I will fail miserably at all five tasks above.
Instead, I do solemnly swear to provide BOTH of my god children with the following:
1. A ride home, whenever they need it and from wherever they might be--no questions asked. (This might prove tricky for Matt, but we'll work on it.)
2. As many amusing/embarassing stories about their parents as they would like to hear.
3. Support in all endeavors that are both legal and not stupid. (And maybe some of the stupid ones, providing they are not dangerously stupid)
4. Up to $100 in cash [one time use or accrued] when needed and denied by parental units. (Unless they plan to use it to buy drugs or alcohol, in which case I will lock them in my basement with the cat box and the Sleestaks.)
5. A chance to be taken seriously by someone who knew them while in diapers.
That's it, boys. That's the best I can do without actually hiring someone who is, you know, a churchgoer and stuff.
PS. I am totally down with the fighting evil bit. But only if we can wear capes.
Just now, I googled "god parent duties" and came across a host of sites that claim to tell me how to be the best gosh darn godparent ever.
eGodparent.com, tells me that the following items should be on my to-do list post Christening:
1. Pray for your godchild regularly
2. Set an example of Christian living
3. Help him/her to grow in the faith of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, in which he was baptized
4. Give every encouragement to follow Christ and fight against evil
5. Help your godchild to look forward to confirmation.
Here, I feel the need to pause and apologize to both deb (who foolishly named me godmother to her firstborn) and to Matt (said first born), because I can quite honestly say that I have never once prayed for either of you.
Also. Me and Christian Living? Um. Not so much.
So, it seems that I will fail miserably at all five tasks above.
Instead, I do solemnly swear to provide BOTH of my god children with the following:
1. A ride home, whenever they need it and from wherever they might be--no questions asked. (This might prove tricky for Matt, but we'll work on it.)
2. As many amusing/embarassing stories about their parents as they would like to hear.
3. Support in all endeavors that are both legal and not stupid. (And maybe some of the stupid ones, providing they are not dangerously stupid)
4. Up to $100 in cash [one time use or accrued] when needed and denied by parental units. (Unless they plan to use it to buy drugs or alcohol, in which case I will lock them in my basement with the cat box and the Sleestaks.)
5. A chance to be taken seriously by someone who knew them while in diapers.
That's it, boys. That's the best I can do without actually hiring someone who is, you know, a churchgoer and stuff.
PS. I am totally down with the fighting evil bit. But only if we can wear capes.
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