Au Revoir, Bitches

I'm off to France for a week. Try not to miss me as much as I'll miss you -- I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone.

You May Be Getting Too Close To The Fictional Character You Created For Cosmo if ...

... you plot out her life for the next two months and find yourself getting stressed out by how much stuff she has going on.

That is all.

This Post is About Menstruation

(A little warning for the guys)

So I've been taking a break from reading some blogs that upset me for various reasons. I've been on this whole confronting personal demons kick, which has been going really well, but it probably wouldn't be going as swimmingly if I was wasting energy getting upset about how Brooke Hogan is NOT fat, or how last I knew, 10 year olds weren't required to pluck their eyebrows and so maybe everyone should lay off Madonna's spawn and not give her a complex before she's even a teenager, or for God's sake TMZ, let Britney park her fucking car in peace. You know, that stuff.

I've also been taking a break from Feministing, because I was getting depressed and outraged all the time, and at least Jezebel mixes in wacky celebrity outfits with stories about violence against women. Then today, I decided to pop in and I read this post about DIY Feminine Hygiene Products.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I'm kind of a hippie. I buy raw milk on the black market, for Pete's sake. I buy energy-efficient light bulbs. I daydream about buying a self-sustaining farm somewhere lit with solar panels, growing all my own produce and grass-feeding all of my livestock. But I do draw the line at hippie period shit.

I took issue with one comment over at Feministing, and it went a little something like this:

The only people that don't want to try a cup or cloth pads, from what I've noticed, are the people who think that their bodies are yucky and shameful.

Let me just say that I love my vagina. It's rad. We're BFFs. But for someone who is challenged in the safety arena, I'm pretty sure I could not navigate taking a cup full of menstrual blood out of my vagina and rinsing it without spilling it all over myself, my cats, or those unfortunate enough to be stuck in a public bathroom with me. And on that note, am I really supposed to come out of a stall, sidle up to the woman washing her hands next to me and wash out my little blood cup? What?

Same problem with a sea sponge. I'm sure no one wants to watch me squeeze that baby out in a public place. And I am frequently in a public place. It's a convenience issue.

As far as the cloth pads go, well, I tried them once. I got a couple free at my last job and was going to write a review of them but then I got fired instead. So here's my review. It was comfy, it was fine, and then when I was done with it, I had a bloody scrap of fabric that I had no desire to wash so I threw it away, which I'm pretty sure was not it's intended purpose.

Back to the comment, though, because I'm still annoyed but don't feel like picking a fight over there when I can bitch on my own soapbox. I love the tampon. Vive le tampon! How is sticking a plastic cup in my vagina indicative of feminine pride but sticking a cotton stick in isn't? And for the record, I buy organic cotton tampons which aren't bleached and don't have an applicator. If I thought my body was yucky and shameful, wouldn't I not want to stick things in it at all?

Look, I get that some people love their periods. They find them empowering, and feel all at one with the cycles of the moon and whatnot. I am not one of those people. I get bloated. I have cramps. I get migraines. I cry a lot and pick fights with TYM. I just want to plug that shit up, pop some Excedrin, put on my pajamas and watch a chick flick while downing an entire chocolate cake. And I don't think that makes me any less of a feminist.

Oh, and one chick posted a comment about how she got all of her tampon-loving friends the Diva Cup for Christmas, and was so disappointed that no one converted. In case anyone was thinking about it, do not buy me a fucking Diva Cup for Christmas. If you do, we will no longer be friends.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Is He Cheating? Riskay Teaches You How To Find Out

I'm going to present this without comment, because seriously, there are no words. I will say this, though: Don't listen at work unless you have headphones or your own office with a door that can be closed.



Via Jezebel

UPDATE: Sean Conrad and I were just discussing how there needs to be a word which means both horrifying and awesome. So let's come up with one! Take the poll! Leave comments! Let me know if the Germans already have one!

more at twiigs.com...

Wish Fulfillment With Facebook

So I'm part of a Facebook group devoted to a place I very unhappily worked for two years. My old boss, she who was born of Satan, is also part of that group. Curly and I were just discussing how much fun it would be to be her Facebook friend, because you could do mean things to her via Superpoke! Here's what I'd do to my ex-boss if she were my Facebook friend, one per day, until she started to get nervous and wonder if I would be showing up at her apartment in a ski mask:

Dropkick
B!*$% slap
Karate chop
Slap
Shank
Defenestrate
Congratulate (just to give her a false sense of security going into her second week of daily Superpoke!s)
Hadouken
Jab
Roundhouse kick
Suckerpunch
Headbutt
Throw mashed potatoes at

Actually, scratch that last one. I'd just eat those.

Resolution

Me: Did you watch Gossip Girl yet?

Curly: Yes!

Me: BLAIRE HAD SEX WITH CHUCK!

Curly: OMG, I know. Ew.

Me: That's all I wanted to say.

Why Hast Mario Batali Forsaken Me?

Last night, I had dinner with a friend at Otto, Mario Batali's casual dining (read: cheaper than his others) establishment. It was quite tasty. There was bread, and prosciutto, and olives, and cauliflower, and lentils, and an anchovy pizza, because I love anchovies. I left stuffed and happy.

Now, I can't for sure blame this on Mario Batali, but about an hour ago I became suddenly, violently ill. I will say that I had the same nachos for lunch that I've had the past two days, and that's all I've had since shoving all of that wonderful Italian food in my mouth. But it could have been anything, I suppose. Bacteria in my coffee maker, for instance. Or a flu. If it was Red Beard's fault, the anchovies are the culprit, because my friend and I shared everything else and he's fine. All I know for sure is that I just spent a good 15 minutes dry heaving, and it would appear that the contents of my stomach are itching to come out one way or another.

Tonight's the Bolt bash, which makes my illness bad for two reasons:

1) I really want to go, and it's one long-ass subway ride to get there.

2) I haven't seen my ex-coworkers in years, and if I do make it, I really don't want people to be all, "Have you seen Jess? She looks like crap!" It's bad enough they'll probably be all, "Wow, Jess gained a lot of weight."

Oh well. Time for more tea, saltines and Pepto. Wish me luck.

Best. News. Ever.

Oh, Eric, you just made my motherfucking day. Week. Month. Life.

Joss Whedon, creator of greatest show ever on television, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, right up there Firefly and the very good Angel, is returning to television with a new series called Dollhouse, starring Eliza Dushku! Who played Faith on Buffy! And also on Angel! And is awesome! Here's the premise:

Echo (Eliza Dushku) [is] a young woman who is literally everybody's fantasy. She is one of a group of men and women who can be imprinted with personality packages, including memories, skills, language—even muscle memory—for different assignments. The assignments can be romantic, adventurous, outlandish, uplifting, sexual and/or very illegal. When not imprinted with a personality package, Echo and the others are basically mind-wiped, living like children in a futuristic dorm/lab dubbed the Dollhouse, with no memory of their assignments—or of much else. The show revolves around the childlike Echo's burgeoning self-awareness, and her desire to know who she was before, a desire that begins to seep into her various imprinted personalities and puts her in danger both in the field and in the closely monitored confines of the Dollhouse.

You can read more here. FOX already picked it up for seven episodes. So let's get that strike straightened out so Joss can get writing, eh?

TV Talk With Jess and Curly

Me: Oh. My. God.

Curly: What?

Me: I just read the Gossip Girl recap.

Curly: Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhh!

Curly: I didn't see it yet.

Curly: Silencio!

Me: Me either.

Me: I couldn't wait.

Me: I had to know what happened.

Me: And now I have to carry this secret around with me! Dammit!

Curly: Don't ruin it for me, Impatient McImpatienceson. Uh yeah, that naming convention doesn't quite work here...

Me: Well, I don't want to spill the beans, but apparently we get copious amounts of shirtless Dan Humphrey, which I am all over

Me: Because I would so do Dan Humphrey, even if he is in high school

Curly: I don't like his teeth

Curly: And I hate that he reads stuff like Sartre... you know, for his own benefit. Nerd.

Me: Just looked him up on IMDB. He's 21 in real life, so I'm not a child molester

Curly: You're not a criminal. You're just inappropriate. Ain't no crime.

Me: I'd also gladly get in the middle of this. HOT.

Me: These guys all have Richie Rich names in real life

Me: Penn Badgely

Me: Chace Crawford

Me: Edward Westwick

Curly: Where were they born? Pine Valley?

Curly: Chace Crawford was born in General Hopspital in Port Charles, NY

Me: I once spent an evening in college puking in a frat house bathroom with Ramsay Whitworth III

Curly: His name sounds like the noise you make when you vomit

Curly: So it's fitting

Why I Love My Boss

Two reasons:

1) She is super chill, unlike that high-strung, batty chick I reported to at my last job.

2) She has a very dry sense of humor, which is my favorite kind. (Background: We work for a site focused on astrology, tarot, numerology, etc.) Behold:

Me: The images aren't showing up in preview. Should I let design know, or will they be propped onto the right server prior to going live?

Boss: We are having propping issues.

Me: We're having all kinds of tech issues today.

Boss: Totally. We need to consult the I-Ching.

Cooking, Just Like Chess (Sort of)

I play chess fairly well. I'm good at strategy. Piece by piece, I pick off my opponent's knights, rooks and bishops, only giving up the occasional pawn. A lot of swearing is often heard across the board from me for the first two-thirds of the game.

Then, I get too focused on the end goal. I spend too much time on the other end of the board, trying to intimidate my opponent's king. I become so focused on offense that my defense suffers. It's at this point, invariably, that I'll lose my queen, usually in a move I could have anticipated had I been paying even the slightest bit of attention.

The funny thing is, I don't use my queen all that much. She's just kind of a security blanket for me. But once she's gone, it's like I'm Samson and someone just went at me with a Flowbee. I'm rendered completely impotent as a chess player at that point. My defeat is swift and pathetic. I may play chess fairly well, but I don't win many games.

[Are you wondering how I'm going to make this analogy work? Yeah, me too. It might not. We'll see.]

Likewise, I cook fairly well. Especially since starting culinary school. I've gone from being someone who pores over recipes and makes elaborate shopping lists to one who goes to the grocery store, see what looks good, and then makes a pretty kick-ass meal around it. I'm usually confident about my cooking skills, both at the institute and in my own kitchen.

A month or so ago, I had a test on my knife skills and basic cooking techniques. Last night, I had my mid-term exam, which included a 10-page written test and a practical test, where I had to make a carrot cream soup, a salad with a vinaigrette, and a poached pear with an apple juice reduction sauce.

My test a month ago was a bit of a disaster. I owned the knife skills test, but when it came time to cook, my beans were unevenly cooked, my rice was undercooked, and my crudite was not properly seasoned. I could cook all of those things in my sleep.

Last night, I did a great job on the written part, because I'm a big nerd and made myself a 7-page study guide beforehand. But the cooking part was dismal. My pears were the exception -- perfectly cooked, arranged on the plate like a yin-yang, a sprig of fresh mint sprouting from the middle and a sauce of apple juice, lemon juice and maple syrup, reduced down to just the right consistency. My carrot-ginger soup, though, was basically inedible. It looked pretty -- a lovely orange color with a parsley leaf floating on top, and it was the right consistency -- just like heavy cream, but it tasted, if you'll pardon my French, like absolute shit. And my salad was a big ugly mess, and I didn't even taste the vinaigrette.

The thing is, I made all three of those things at home on Monday to practice, and they all came out wonderful. And when I was cooking for my exam, I was feeling confident and in great shape. I had my pears on before everyone else did, my mis en place for my other two dishes was ready fairly quickly, and all I had to do was the exact same thing I'd done at my apartment two nights before.

Here's where my queen got snatched, on both tests [Brought it back around!]. I started to run out of time. In both cases, I'd thought I was working totally efficiently, and ended up being faced with the very serious possibility that my food just wasn't going to be ready before my time was up. So I panicked. And choked. And made stupid mistakes that I wouldn't have time to fix later. Which is a bummer, because if there's one thing you learn how to do at culinary school, it's fix a cooking disaster.

Hopefully I did well enough on the written test to ensure an overall grade that isn't too embarrassing. But I really wanted to prove myself on this test, especially after botching the last one so hard. Oh well, maybe I'll score a check-mate on my final exam.

In hindsight? Not my best analogy.

(Relatively) Fine Dining

Last night, I discovered an unfortunate consequence of being a culinary student.

As soon as I finished work, I had to haul ass into Manhattan to pick up some stuff I ordered from an Amish farmer in Pennsylvania. I got my milk, yogurt and beef with just five minutes to spare, and then had to hoof it over to Penn Station to see about a ticket refund.

By the time I rolled back into Brooklyn, I was starving. The kind of starving where you want to gnaw your own arm off. I needed something to shove in my mouth, fast. I couldn't wait for delivery, and I couldn't cook. As I pondered, a lightbulb went off over my head -- nachos. I could buy chips, cheese, salsa, and refried beans, shove a plate in the microwave and be happily stuffing my face in 15 minutes flat.

Only I got to the store and then remembered that I had a ripe avocado in the fridge. Guacamole! Naturally I had to pick up an onion, tomato, lime and garlic. I looked at the cans of refried beans, and decided I wanted to actually cook beans. I dismissed the shredded cheese selection and opted for some aged cheddar that would have to be grated by hand. Also dismissed? The microwave, because the cheese melsts much more evenly in the oven.

About an hour later, stomach growling, eyes wild, cats in danger of being chewed on, I sat down with a delicious plate of nachos. And then because they took so long to make, I ended up staying up past midnight to study for tonight's midterm. (Wish me luck!) Granted, they were far superior to my quickie nachos pre-culinary school, but I do think I'm going to miss the days when I could whip up a dinner completely devoid of nutrition in a mere five minutes.

Election 2008

I took ABC News' Match-o-Matic to see which presidential candidate is most in line with my beliefs. My top three are:

1. Dennis Kuchinich
2. Joe Biden
3. Mike Gravel

I knew I was liberal, but I'm apparently much more liberal than I thought. Or maybe it's just because of the little man's fondness for redheads with body piercings.

Road Trip, Part Uno

"You know why I love road tripping with you girls?" My Sharona asked.

"Why?" Summer or I said, I can't remember which.

"Because we just had ten minutes of total silence. No singing, no talking, no humming. Just silence."

"I was thinking about the animal sanctuary," Summer said.

"I was thinking about nothing," My Sharona said.

"I was wondering why Carlos never wrote to me after that week at summer camp," I said, to laughter.

We were driving through Accord, New York, the town where I went camping with the Lashers when I was 13. It was where I met Carlos, who inspired me to begin writing bad poetry. We fell deeply in love. How I'd wished I hadn't French-kissed Claude Sawyer during Spin the Bottle at my pool party earlier that month, because then Carlos would have been my first. Alas, I never heard from him again after that week, despite his declarations of love. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, though. He was probably in a juvenile detention center, and probably had to finish out his term in prison when he was 18, and surely would have lost my number by then. Plus, Mom would have been pissed about all of the collect calls.

To celebrate a bit of backseat nostalgia (From the road trip with the girls -- Carlos and I were far too young to have ever done anything involving a back seat), here's a look back at the first awful poem I ever wrote, entitled Summer Love.

Road Trip Woo Hoo!

That's the subject line from the emails that have been going around. It's a little road trip, just upstate and not one of my, Sharona's and Summer's weekends of debauchery. We're getting boring in our old age. Now we're in the all-important planning phase. Behold:

Me: Should I download Britney's new CD and burn it on a disc for the road trip?

Summer: Yes, please. Are you excited to see the World's Largest Lawn Gnome? Because it's on the agenda.

Me: Yes I am. Are we going to visit your chicken?

Summer: They're closed for the winter, but I'm going to call and see if they'll let us come by. Since I'm a mom and all.

I'll be back Monday with pictures of a chicken, the World's Largest Lawn Gnome and three girls grooving to Britney Spears in an SUV.

Whatever You Do, Don't Organize a Bender

Golly, I had no idea that keeping My Lil Lohan out of trouble was going to be so time-consuming! Especially with Curly trying to corrupt her. She's a bad influence, that Curly. Here's the evidence:

- Curly McDimple disabled the DUI detector anklet for your Lil Lohan 4:36pm
- Curly McDimple split a 40 ounce with your Lil Lohan 4:34pm
- Curly McDimple emptied a packet of white powder into your Lil Lohan 's drink. 4:33pm
- Curly McDimple gave your Lil Lohan a few assorted pills. 4:32pm

As soon as I've saved Linds from the damaging effects of Curly's "friendship," (and bought her a pony) I'll be back to entertain y'all.