Girls – Horror or Comedy? February 19, 2013

my sister convinced me to use my “on demand” powers for good to begin a sick obsession with hbo’s girls. i have now watched eight episodes of season 1 in a little over four hours, and i have some things i’ve thunked along the way:

1. hannah has a really awesome way of shaking her head whenever she’s talking about something that excites her. it’s like a quick shake to the left and right, and then her hair moves about like long, floppy dog ears. i wish my hair did this. all my hair does is turn into a tangle of weeds if i don’t shock it straight with a flat iron. i also wish i got excited when i talked about topics such as date rape during job interviews. oh hannah! put a muzzle on it!

2. i kind of want the characters to morph into samantha, charlotte, miranda and carrie. i realize the appeal of this show is that the girls are a modern-day, younger, more realistic version of the SATC crew. the thing is, this version makes me realize that sometimes the point of TV is to give girls false hope that they too can become columnists who spend their entire salaries on jimmy choos and can still afford an apartment in manhattan. i don’t want to be reminded that there are other struggling writers out there who have weight issues and worry about paying for panty hose at the hometown drug store. c’mon TV magic. show me some size 0, chain-smoking, STD-free sexaholics! also, wouldn’t it be so wild if these girls really DID morph into samantha, charlotte, miranda and carrie, like the power rangers? and then kicked the asses of the guys from mad men? and then ryan gosling showed up with his dog and turned to the TV and went, “i wanna get wich you, lindsey.”

3. i can’t decide if someone is going to get horribly murdered as i watch each episode. each guy on here looks like someone i’ve seen on the first 48 hours… which my husband has told me makes him uncomfortable to see me watching with such concentration. i’m not going to kill you, shaun. who else will do the dishes.

but seriously, each episode is like 70% creepy. this adam fella… what is going on with his facial hair? he reminds me of a muskrat. he’s always showing up in weird places and hannah always seems a little unsure if he’s going to have violent sex with her or cut her into a million little tattooed pieces. if i was showering and turned around to see a guy in there with me, i would pink razor shave his face. actually, if adam showed up in there, he could use a razor to the face…maybe trim that pre-pubescent science project he’s got goin’ on on that chin of his.

 

and i always feel like something weird is going to happen. in almost every episode, something sexually strange goes down…on hannah. right now, two girls are kissing. did this happen in sex and the city? on that show, wasn’t it more like magical sexy time vs. maybe-someone-is-going-to-be-approached-by-their-older-brother sexy time? i just feel like this show portrays the single NYC life as one where you’re probably going to: do drugs, hook up with a dude that looks like he might have a knife for a penis, or forget to wear a bra.

so if you laugh at braless, awkward, struggling writers with a  naive take on life, then you might call this a comedy. if you’re afraid of muskrats, it’s horror… and if you like hannah naked and wearing yellow short-a-ralls, then by god, it just might be romance.

 

Divorce is a seven letter word for SHUT UP November 13, 2012

i don’t want to be dramatic, but i’m contemplating divorcing my husband. this is less harsh than my earlier word choice, which was “murder.”

he won’t stop snoring.

he is literally snoring into my left ear. it’s like chinese water torture with a touch of salt water washing up onto your newly shaven legs.

in the past thirty minutes, before i contemplated murder and then the less illegal route of divorce, i mulled over the following ideas:

sticking a dirty sock up his nose

sticking a tampon up his nose

slapping him as hard as i can across the cheek

getting so close to his face that the tips of our noses are touching, and then screaming as loud as i can

pouring gasoline over him and lighting a match… no, wait, that came later.

putting on real housewives until the sounds of six women talking about botox and louise vuitton gave him so many satanic nightmares that he woke up in a cold sweat and refused to sleep for days

finding the stray cat that sometimes sits outside our apartment and placing it on his face

moving out

nudging him to the right of the bed every couple of minutes until he falls to his death

but the thing is, prison is no good for me. if i don’t have access to tools so that i can pluck my face on a daily basis, i’ll end up looking like harry from harry and the hendersons. how will i ever find a girlfriend looking like that?

actually, i probably won’t divorce him either. i like him when he’s awake. but right now, he sounds like chewbacca. is this love? is this what i’ve waited for? there’s a love song in there, somewhere.

Epic End Song November 2, 2012

right now my husband is in the other room watching an epic adventure movie for the four hundredth time this week.  hurricane sandy has divided this marriage in-half: those of us who enjoy endless hours of man-on-man sword action, and those of us who would rather eat donuts dipped in wine while reading the history of saturday night live and snuggling underneath the dutch oven-fumed covers. 

 

there’s nothing wrong with action adventure movies.  if ryan gosling wants to run around in a thong fighting off aliens that look like reincarnated patrick swayzees, then go right ahead. i’d green-light that badass motha of a movie. but after a while, i began to say to myself, “well, these movies are certainly useless. they won’t do the dishes for me. they won’t make me a grilled cheese sandwich. and they certainly won’t encourage hubs to shower.”  and shower he has not, for three days.

 

but tonight, as i lie on my bed clipping my garish sparkle toenails, i hear it: the end of the movie.  i know it’s the end because the music is overly dramatic with just a hint of “ohhh yeah” built into it. it makes me feel inspired, and i know just by hearing it that the story’s protagonist has either saved the world, humanity, or his sexuality with a fantastic leading-lady kiss. no matter what it means, it certainly does make me feel like i can punch an ox in the face without any consequences.

 

i believe that these songs should be what ends our lives. when i die, i want james horner to orchestrate a song so freaking fantastic that everyone can be assured that i floated to heaven on wings of grammy gold. i mean trombones, tubas, french horns, and cymbals playing loudly, proudly, ending my life the same way i was born into it – with sweet sounds of screaming nonsense.  wouldn’t it be lovely if this was what happened for every person’s demise? or, instead of an epic end song, they were awarded a song that symbolizes that person’s type of life? maybe one person’s song is the looney tunes music that plays right before porky pig goes “tha tha that’s all folks.” i mean yes, that IS all, is it not?

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxXS1CHjt-c

 

when i die, let them play something that sounds like an ending to a movie about a girl who spent her twenties drunk, confused, poor, in-love, slightly over-weight, passionate about writing, and always with a slight wedgie.  

 

perhaps play this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIduOvEoVeQ

You’re Obviously Covering Up a Murder When… October 22, 2012

you’re caught scrubbing the top of your SUV with the same elbow grease you put into washing your jeans when you get aunt flow all over them in the seventh grade.

that’s right, new neighbor.  maybe it was the ladder you used to mount your car, or your repetition of the words “NO NO NO NO NO,” but i know it’s more than bird poo sticking to the top of your car. and, if twenty episodes of Friday the 13th has taught me anything, it’s that murder is everywhere. even in outter space.

i’m watching you. i’m sorry for the bastard whose innards are now splattered all over your honda. i like hondas. i don’t like cold blooded killers. i especially don’t like cold blooded killers with a case of OCD. let that spot go. your biggest worry should not be a stain, but your soul burning in hell.

 

also, you might have just been washing off bird poo. what do i really know.

War… What is it Good For? August 30, 2012

probably nothing but therapy. but more importantly… hair.  what is THAT good for?

today i was getting my hair cut by a very serious hairman.  he didn’t just wash my hair in the sink… he made violent love to it with the tips of his manicured, abnormally small hands.  he smelled like cigarettes and coughed little baby coughs into my face. i didn’t complain, because i knew i walked in there with a head full of dandruff, and snow it did.

this man was a haircutting machine…from 1805. he was so damn slow i think i ovulated twice while sitting there.

he would take a  chunk of my hair,  lift it in the air with his comb while grabbing it tightly between his pointy and middle finger, walk around my head with the piece of hair in-between his fingers, examine it from all sides, study it and whisper to it, while at times forgetting what he was paid to do with it, and then finally snipped off a smidgen of it.  he repeated this for 9853 hours until i had one inch less of hair and side-bangs that, not shockingly, only look good on zooey deschanel.

before hour three into this haircut, right before i blacked-out, i started to stare for way too long at my hair, and i thought to myself…. you are hair.  what the fuck is hair? you are dead, no? why are you on my body? hair is CRAZY.

we let this stuff grow out of us and then we shape it and put gel in it and cover it with bows… and we have so much of it.  at least i do.  i have it on places that i don’t think hair should be, and i have it IN places, too…nooks and crannies.  i’m a hairy thomas’s english muffin.  but what is the point of having hair? does it protect our heads from sunburn? then why is it on my toes? are my toes susceptible to the tantrums, to the havoc of the sun? am i a man for having hair on my toes? and do you think that eva mendes has hair on her toes? i’m really friggin’ pissed that ryan gosling’s dating her.  she has a really excellent jaw line.

why do we spend so much money on hair? are we the only species that gives a fuck? if a bear walked through the woods wearing a red bow on its head, would YOU give a fuck? i’d think that bear was a lunatic. i’d judge the hell out of him, but i’d also snap a picture of him on instagram and then see how it looked on the “brannan” setting, because that one is always so nice.

do people with awful hair have harder lives? i’ve never met a grease-ball that i actually wanted to meet…and i think anyone that uncle jesse has ever “have mercy-ed” can attest that it was his hair that helped seal the bang bang deal, and not his homosexual relationship with joey, the one who pal-ed around with “mr. wood”chuck.

 “first we’re gonna bang, and then i’m gonna sing you a diddy by the ‘beach boys'”

a bear ate this guy:

http://animal.discovery.com/tv/grizzly-man-diaries/timothy-treadwell/timothy-treadwell.html

his hair sucked.  in conclusion, never get bangs.

The Yellow Brick Road… to Hell August 13, 2012

You know how the Yellow Brick Road might be a metaphor for destiny?  Or your gut instinct?  Or GPS?  Well sometimes it’s a combination of all 3.  Today I realized that there is a way to get from my house to Starbucks without taking any main roads, and so I used my instinct to weave through back roads to get to Coffee Heaven.  On my way back, I got lost.  Did I take a right on my way there, and therefore need to take a left on my way back?  Was it this street I turned on, or the one I already passed?  And is that dog taking a shit so close to my car because he doesn’t like me?  I then got home by process of “oh shit, this isn’t the right street” elimination.  Then, later today, my husband and I were coming home from a friend’s house, and I was like, “Hey friend, let’s take this shortcut again and see if I can remember how to get home from my adventures earlier today,” which only proved that no, I did not remember the shortcut from earlier today.  So Hubby Bubby forced me to use the GPS on my phone.  Even later tonight, I came home from dinner with my best friend and thought to myself “Now is my moment.”  So I took the shortcut for the third time.  I did it. I got home within seven minutes, and I didn’t make any mistakes.

But the real thing is this:  Tonight was the first time in a long time that I wanted to try something new, something that was a tiny bit risky, and I kept at it until I got it right.  I said “I’m going to try this, and I’m going to succeed,” and then I did.  Sure, it was a safe neighborhood of middle class families with roads that aren’t that long or windy.  Yes, I was listening to a podcast featuring Angela Kinsey to keep my spirits high.  But it’s the first time in a year that I did something that I wanted to try, for no one other than myself, just because I wanted to, even though it was slightly stupid.

That is all.

Spin-Offs and Flip-Offs April 9, 2012

sometimes i just want to give the finger to a spin-off.  joey? screw you.  you’re nothing without chandler.  baywatch nights?  HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO SAVE PEOPLE WHO ARE DROWNING IN THE OCEAN IF YOU CAN’T SEE THEM?! eff.  you.  mothereffer.  the partridge family turned into getting together?? with what, your TV mom?  oh, sorry, that’s the brady bunch, with another unsuccessful spinoff that i can’t even find the name of because anyone who tried to post it probably felt deep shame for knowing something like that.  the only good spin-off which has come into my life… hell, america’s… nay, mankind’s life… has been saved by the bell.  thank you, miss bliss, you glorious scallywag.  but then they went there- to that dark, spin-offy place where the laughter is forced and the storylines are awkwardly unfamiliar when you want so badly for there to be some sort of remnant of the original –   the new class?   does anyone even care that they tried to replace zack morris with a boy who has a lazy eye? (sorry, richard lee jackson.  give your  hotass soap opera acting, Jesus loving brother my regards.)

spin-offs are as disappointing as every present your grandparents will ever send to you.  they always have potential – you think they could be shiny and new as the as you wait with baited breath for them to arrive – but when you open them, you pull out these itchy, brown, chunky “wtf is this” sweaters,  and they smell like mothballs.  spin-offs are the entertainment world’s mothball sweaters! and they’re WOOL.

sometimes life seems like a spin-off.  i look back on my high school days, or my early 20s, and i think yeah… i had it goin’ on.  i had the friends, the adventures, the hopes for an exciting future in writing, and perhaps a rebellious boyfriend who would keep me wondering if he would commit or give me a rebellious boyfriend disease.  but somewhere on this journey, between the query letters and pricing out my potential need for abreva,  i saw my life unfold into this spin-off that even i don’t want to watch.  nothing awful is going on.  i’m happily engaged, i have a good job, great family, and a bundle of awesome and okay friends.  but the fiance’s family is utterly insane, the job is in a field i couldn’t care less about, a field that forces me to do work until 10 or 11 o’clock at night, surrounded by the same great family and bundle of awesome and okay friends, except i think that they’re pretty over hearing about the insane in-laws and the passionless job.  who wouldn’t be sick of hearing about it?  or of telling me it’s going to be okay?  change the channel, people i love.  move on to an actual sitcom.  maybe if i spoke like sofia vergara they’d tolerate it more… but i digress.

life just seems silly like that.  it’s full of “can you believe that happened?” and laughter and “oh no!”s and “whoopsiedaisies” and small, precious moments of appreciation… but i like my life before better.  how do we make this spin-off as great, if not better, than the original?  i’m not sure.  maybe bitching less and eating more fruit would help.  people like fat-girl-gone-skinny stories.  they also like a good comeback story.  maybe i’m about to enter the “two and a half men” stage of my life.  platoon was great… spin city was okay… but this… this is the hot ticket to a fresh start.  but the second i start “winning,” someone please put me in time-out.

oh, and frasier was pretty good.  go frasier.

beetles give me irrational thoughts of bugicide June 24, 2011

there is a beetle in my life.  he is unwelcome.  he flutters against my blinds and stands in my light fixture so that his wings are shadows the size of skyscrapers dancing on my wall.  he zooms past me when i’m entranced during a showing of glee and tries to drown out the magnificence of show choir with buzzing in my ear.  he is an attention whore, an unwanted pregnancy, a hangnail on my toe that keeps snagging on my bed covers while i’m trying to sleep.

last night i turned the lights off and laid myself down to sleep.  “goodnight moon,” i whispered.  “goodnight dust bunnies” i said as i looked under my bed and inhaled the soft grey collecting on top of an old sock i abandoned below the bed.  “goodnight bug” i said as i opened my laptop for one last facebook stalking.

and then it whizzed passed me.  with such an attitude, with his armidillo shell inches from my nose.

“ENOUGH, BEETLEJUICE” i said.  i shone the light of the laptop onto my bedside table and looked for a weapon.  birth control? no, that was for killing semen.  i think.  my hairbush? no, that was for my hair.  and for scratching itches on my back.  ah, hello eyeglass cleaning spray.  if this can wipe my eyes of smears, this can certainly wipe OUT the dammed insect.

i sprayed.

the beetle fluttered its wings on my bedspread in a slow, dramatic show of death.  “don’t fight it” i whispered.  “it was your time.”

but it didn’t die.  it grew stronger.  eager.  more determined.  it took flight once again.  i hid in the shadows, afraid for it to seek vengence through the opening of my nostrils.  while watching the beetle watching me, i grabbed at the next object i could feel with my quivering hand.

a dust buster.

“YOU SUCK” i said to the beetle as i plaegerized a line from the movie casper and simultaneously rid this world of one more terrorist.

i slept that night with my mouth open, free of beetles, free of fear.

let’s play a game May 5, 2011

called “why are you dead, and why is this person not?”

ever feel like your world is about to end whenever diane sawyer breaks into your 3 PM general hospital program to announce that some celebrity has died?  ever expect it to be beverly d’angelo or norm from cheers, only to have it be some skanky tween from the disney channel or someone awesome, like ken jeong?  if ken jeong dies, then so do i with him.  c’mon hollywood… let’s start making some celebrity death sense.  enough with the young perishing… enough with the shocking goodbyes… if you’re old, and you’ve been to the academy awards at least twice, and you’ve fathered a couple of babies or have been involved in some sort of scandal involving the gardener and his hose, then it’s your time. 

why are you dead, heath ledger?

and why are you alive, zsa zsa gabor?

  (well, according to google news’s latest headline, not for long.  awwww-kwaaard.)

why are you dead, michael jackson?

  AH

and why are you not, courtney love?

nice lipstick.  does it taste as infectious as it looks?

WHY ARE YOU DEAD, PHIL HARTMAN?!

and why are you NOT, pervert from family guy?

now you try it!  or, for added excitement, play it with some estranged family members around a table while doing shots of tequila and playing with grandma’s antique knife set.

people i would like to drink with April 30, 2011

and, of course, we shant forsake: