All the way back in 1986, Newsweek magazine, in an article titled “Too Late for Prince Charming?” reported on a study that said single women over the age of 40 were more likely to be killed by a terrorist than get married. This video is the response to that statistic:
There are so many pieces of wonderfully terrible advice in this video that I really just have to let the video speak for itself (although, a small stuffed animal? Really?!). Even if you think you have gained enough information to make your head explode halfway through, please make sure to watch the video through to the end; the last piece of advice is undoubtedly the best.
Here’s the thing. I feel like I am drunk, but really, I have just been writing papers for too many hours and days and days and hours. I got so wacky that I almost wrote “peace is not a side dish” in my paper before realizing that it was not even a remotely academic thing to say. Now I’m done writing for tonight, but I have to wait for my friend Jill because I don’t want to walk home alone in the cold.
So how about I tell you some random shit?
First, this is a weird video that Kathleen nerded over from South America:
I find it both cute and really, really sad. I hate when the hamster is left on his back like that!
Junior year of college, my friends Katie and Annie got two gerbils, and named them Stella and Jager. We played fun games like Blackout Gerbil Out and Gerbilvision, but that got old after like two weeks. Now Katie’s little sister takes care of the herby gerbs.
Speaking of animals, did you hear about the woman who “hid a sedated monkey under her blouse on a flight from Thailand“? This crazy lady, whose name is obviously Gypsy, tried to hide the monkey under a loose-fitting blouse, and now she’s in big trouble for smuggling. Apparently it just looked like she was pregnant. I mean, I wear a lot of loose-fitting blouses, but usually it’s to hide a belly full of Smartfood and breakfast sandwiches, not a monkey.
Speaking of monkeys, I LOVE Pandora. Like a lot. It is so great. Another thing that I love is video chat. I love that video chat turns quasi-adults into four-year-olds making funny faces in the mirror. It’s hysterical. My friend Jill and I video-chatted our friend Tamar today, and we essentially spent the whole time seeing who could make the ugliest face. Mature? No. Entertaining? YES.
Aaand continuing with the stream-of-consciousness, have you guys tried the fancy new things on Gmail? There are SO many cool new things, which I obviously spent way too long playing with today. You can make task lists on your Gmail (hellooo, Type A); take “breaks” where your Gmail basically forces you to not be glued to your computer for 15 minutes (hellooo, lack of self control); and you can customize your label colors (hellooo, NERD). The best one, though, is the attachment reminder. If you write in your email that you are attaching something and then you forget to attach it, Gmail will REMIND YOU TO ATTACH IT.
This is all awesome, but it also freaks me out a little. I mean, Gmail has been around for a few years and it is already basically thinking for us. I can’t even fathom what they’ll come up with next. If it’s a feature that blow dries my hair and makes me breakfast while I check my morning email, though, I’ll be okay with it.
Final Bonus Confession: I get both Economist updates and Self Fit Move of the Week updates emailed to me, and I always delete them before I even open them. But I won’t unsubscribe, because that would prove that I’m un-intellectual and lazy. Logical, right?
It’s called “Want To Hear Something Embarrassing About Me?” and if you’re my friend, you get to play it with me every day (and sometimes witness said embarrassing moments). Today’s answer is…
I have eaten the same dish from the same Thai restaurant for dinner three days in a row.
Three cheers for variety!
(Although, in the grand scheme of my life, or even this semester, it’s just a blip. Just ask the two people I had dinner with tonight.)
Put a little boogie in it! Ha-that one will never get old. Unless, of course, you pick your nose so much that you bleed to death. Which is exactly what happened to Ian Bothwell who passed away in September at the age of 63 as a result of too much nose-picking. I imagine that booger jokes lose their appeal at that point–for a variety of reasons.
The Manchester, England coroner who examined Bothwell determined that, “”There is no explanation for this death other than he died from a nose-bleed, consistent with picking his nose. I do not think for a moment he knew what he was doing was going to cause his death.” According to the UK Telegraph, the death was recorded as a “misadventure.”
I have to lay off the snark a little here because it’s actually quite a sad story. Poor Ian Bothwell fell into a life of alcoholism after suffering a brain hemorrhagewhen he was 20. He couldn’t keep a job and had only one living relative, a sister who he had only seen once in 30 years. And then . . . he died from picking his nose. So let’s all do Ian Bothwell a favor. Let’s learn from his mistake and memorialize him by blowing more often than not. If you absolutely cannot fight the urge then please, pick with caution–it could be a matter of life and death.
The other day my friend told me he had an extra ticket to see a band called Vampire Weekend, and did I want to go. I realized that I knew some of their stuff, and after not very long I realized that I LOVE THESE GUYS. They’re the kind of band I feel like I should have already known, and it’s weird to me that a few days ago I hadn’t even heard of them. Let’s call this fate, or something. Here they are:
They are all little babies. They just formed the band in 2006, after they graduated from Columbia, and they’ve already received a ton of critical praise.
Apparently everyone else already knew about them. Wikipedia tells me that Christian Lander (of Stuff White People Like) named them the whitest band, so I guess I’ve been a pretty bad white person.
That dude is the lead singer, Ezra Koenig. I think he’s adorable. I love that the band calls their music “African Preppy,” or “Upper West Side Soweto.” Also, how could you not like a band that works the following lyrics into one of their songs: “First the window, then it’s to the wall/Lil’ Jon, he always tells the truth”?
The concert was baller fantastic, and I can’t wait to see them again. I love the whole album, but I think my favorite song is M79. I mean, hellooo Paul Simon:
Yum yum. Now early to bed, so that I can get up and be intellectual.
You end a sentence/phrase with a preposition, your AP English teacher has a heart attack. You arrange a sentence/phrase so that it doesn’t end in a preposition, you sound like an elitist douche. When given the choice, I’ll obviously go for the latter.
Anyway, seeing that Madeline (the “guest” slash obviously permanent blogger) has beat me to breaking our dry spell, I was overwhelmed with Catholic guilt. Friends, it’s not that I haven’t wanted to blog in the past few days. I really have. It’s just that I’ve been too overwhelmed with work, to the point that blogging would have caused me even more Catholic guilt. So I cut my losses.
Now that I’m home on break, I have a little more time on my hands. In light of the upcoming holiday o’ food, I’ve decided to share a random list of some things for which I am thankful. In no particular order…
1. Stovetop stuffing. And while we’re at it, the cranberry sauce that looks like the can in which it came (now I’m super paranoid about the preposition thing, dammit). We’re not exactly fancy in my family.
2. Michael Franti. I saw him for the first time back in July, and I fell further in love with him when I saw him at the 9:30 Club in DC last Wednesday. Even if you think you wouldn’t like his music, I’d encourage you to go to one of his concerts. He has an amazing ability to put on the BEST SHOW EVER. His energy is just unbelievable. It didn’t hurt that he made me laugh, made me cry, and made me chant “Barack Obama” all in the span of three hours. And perhaps most impressively, Mr. Franti makes me feel like I’m a good dancer, even when I’m sober (!!!). Take a look at my favorite song off of his newest album:
If you don’t like that song, you should probably just give up on life. You clearly don’t have a soul.
3. While we’re thinking about him, Barack Obama. And Michelle, Malia, and Sasha. Also Joe and Jill Biden.
4. That my finger didn’t entirely fall off today at the nail salon. The entire story would call for a blog post in itself, but I’ll just say that it involved a bloody electric buffer, a sadistic manicurist, and sanitation standards that would have made a cockroach shudder.
5. My ability to entertain myself. My friend Rachel thinks that I could have my own reality show because of the embarrassing shit I do in the privacy of my own space. I’m not sure I agree with her (although, hey, people do watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta), but I am grateful for this skill of mine. The other day, for instance, I caught myself singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” Out loud. In a British accent. Riiiight.
6. That I’m not pregnant.
7. That I’m not morbidly obese. (I honestly think about this on a daily basis.)
8. Goat cheese, breakfast sandwiches, salsa, bourbon, etc. etc.
14. The fact that I can make this ridiculous list, because it means that all of the important stuff (health of friends, family, etc.) are already there.
I know what you’re thinking: “Six words, you have failed me.” It’s true, we have. Not Kathleen though, she has an excuse. Personally, I blame it on the fact that Gossip Girl was a repeat this week. WHAT is up with that? I missed you all terribly, internets, and I promise that this will not happen again.
Yesterday, I was driving all around Monmouth County, NJ (relishing in the fact that it only cost me TWENTY TWO DOLLARS to fill up my gas tank) and I experienced one of those moments that will make me cringe with embarassment every time I recall it for the next 80 years (I’m optimistic. And healthy). Over the years, I’ve entertained many friends while driving. Whether it be through new and creative ways of using boring old curse words or defying the laws of physics/the road, I think I’ve showed them a good time. HOWEVER, none of them have had the opportunity to experience what I tend to do when I’m driving by myself immediately after drinking a lot of coffee.
It is my firm belief that in another life I was a great performer and because in this life I suffer from both stage fright and being tone deaf, the only time I perform is in the car, alone. I know you’ve all done it too. However, unlike me you’re probably smart and reserve such performances for long drives on empty roads when few people will see you and not for WHEN YOU’RE STUCK IN TRAFFIC. I couldn’t help it though, because a really fabulous song came on and, although I fought it, the rhythm got me (DAMN YOU, Gloria!). I could lie and tell you that it was some really catchy new pop tune like Britneys “Womanizer” or that “Just Dance” song but we’re all about integrity here at SWTCTW so I’m going to come right out and say it: I was listening to a light radio station. I was listening to Bonnie Raitt.
. . . and I was really getting into it. Singing into my coffee cup, doing a little hair flip, making a fool out of myself and of course, I was busted. Some dude in the car next to me totally caught me at a particularly croony moment and laughed and laughed and laughed. I can’t say that I blame him, I looked like an idiot-but that was for my amusement only! I had to spend the next ten miles driving twenty miles below the speed limit so that my car wouldn’t catch up to his again.
It was terrible but you know what? That song is awesome. I wouldn’t lie to you, internets. Enjoy.
I’m pretty proud of my New Jersey roots and most of the time I’ll defend the Garden State to whoever chooses to take issue with it on any given day. Really, what’s not to love? We have Bruce Springsteen, excellent driving skills, the beach, gardens, cranberry bogs, the Giants . . . I could go on. But I won’t because this weekend, Jersey betrayed me. I decided to make a rare venture out into the Jersey Shore Nightlife and I barely survived. But I’m a trooper (a Jersey Girl, really) and I’m going to turn my brush with death into a guide for all of you. Just because you might find yourself in a Jersey Shore bar some day; you might not know what you’re doing there but at least now you’ll know how to make it out alive.
I should start by saying that it’s my own fault, I should have known better. I’m a local (and a snob), after all. In the summers I would never think about going anywhere near the bars. But it’s November, I thought I would be safe. I thought I would be surrounded by other locals, and we would be a big happy family, happy to have the Bennys out of our normal-sized hair and back where they belong. Rule number one of NJ Bar Survival: Never let your guard down.
I’ve experienced culture-shock before but never within two miles of my childhood home. As soon as my friend, Aly, and I entered the bar we were surrounded by one giant stereotype. The stuff of Jersey Shore legend: enough hair product to re-pollute the Hudson River, enough scantily-clad-when-they-really-shouldn’t-have-been women to make me go to the gym, HUNGOVER, the next day. Worse, it was like everyone was speaking a different language. None of the words ended in “ing,” most had an extra “r,” quite a few just ended in a guttural “uh” sound. It seemed that all of the adjectives in the English language were replaced with “fuckin'” which is just impossible on so many levels.
We hadn’t been there long when, despite the fact that our chests were fully covered and neither of us were wearing pants that laced up the sides, an extremely muscular “gentleman” came over to “chat.” Despite evidence to the contrary, we’re nice people so we “chatted” in the made-up language of super-muscular dude. Apparently, he was out with his boyz ’cause turns out his wife is a (bunch of expletives that we don’t use on SWTCTW). Actually, she’s a stripper and last week he caught her “performing” for a complete stranger in their house . . . while their five-month-old son was sleeping in the next room. While this is terribly sad and I feel for the guy and more importantly the five-month-old baby caught in the middle of it, stories like that should NEVER be followed with “maybe we could meet up sometime, can I have your number?” Um, maybe when you figure this situation out and after you stop calling the mother of your child disgusting names. Not really, but maybe. I don’t really know what the rule is here. STAY ALERT. Which is basically the same as rule number one.
The next scenario is one that I’ve lived fairly often in my bar-going days. The bar is crowded, you get bumped by a passer-by and in turn bump into the person next to you, a stranger. You apologize, maybe flash a half-smile, they nod, and everybody moves on with their lives understanding that this is just something that happens in the world. Unless the part of the world you’re in happens to be a Jersey Shore Bar. So, I get bumped and I apologize, half-smile and all, to the girl that I bumped into as a result. She rolls her eyes and turns back to her friends. Okay, whatever. Until another passer-by bumps me and I bump the same scary eye-roll girl again. This time, I know that more than a half-smile is in order so I apologize and try and laugh it off but OH NO. We will be having none of that. The girl slams down her glass and storms off yelling “YOU KNOW WHAT?! YOU SAID THAT TWICE AND YOU BUMPED INTO ME TWICE!”
How exactly does one respond to that? “YEAH AND I MEANT IT BOTH TIMES!” No, don’t. Don’t respond. Just remember rule number three: Don’t touch anybody. Consider it a nearly-impossible challenge where failure brings terrible repercussions, like walking to school without stepping on the cracks in the sidewalks. Did you get kind of dizzy looking down the entire time? YES, but if you looked up and missed one of the cracks then your mother’s back would be broken and it would be ALL YOUR FAULT. This is practically the same. If you touch anybody, even if you apologize, you will end up covered in hair gel and pretty beat up. Just say no to touching strangers (and yes, that’s what she said).
So let’s recap. Never let your guard down, stay alert and don’t touch anybody. I can tell you that following these rules doesn’t make for a particularly enjoyable night so replace them all with: Take NJ Transit into the city. Sorry, NJ Economy, but it’s the only way.
Before I post the (yet again belated) Hump Day Cry Face, let’s all welcome our wonderful new bloggerette, Madeline! Hooray! It’s like we elected a new president, except that old president’s still around, and doesn’t suck.
It is raining a lot today which means I hate my life. Every time it rains my brain switches into “mmm let’s lie under the covers and watch lots of bad television and eat carbohydrates from a bag” mode. But instead, I had a “business meeting” and “lunch with a colleague.” Which mean I hung out with my friend and my boss looking at pictures of Cry Face and then had lunch with a family friend. Do you SEE how important my life is?
Anyway, as I was showing my friend and my boss some Cry Face photos, I stumbled across this gem:
Featured above are the father and youngest daughter of one the greatest, wackiest families in the universe. Doesn’t Frank, on the left, look as though he belongs in a nursing home?
six words to change the world. 
