Month: August 2015

That Time I Planted Crops in My Ear..

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Sometimes I have to wonder if the combination of my parent’s DNA resulted in an actual, functioning human child, or something more akin to a genetic science experiment where *something* went a little bit wrong. Everyone makes questionable choices when they’re older, but I apparently decided, I being the tiny, mom jean wearing, drunk adult pictured above, to start making them early. Allow me to elaborate further.

Out at a movie one night (The Prince of Egypt) with my dad and brother, I got bored (I guess the animated story of Moses just wasn’t really grabbing me). After bored-eating an inhumane amount of popcorn (a practice I still keep up to this day #consistency) I decided that it would be fun to stick the kernels in my ears and then dig them back out. I know, but to answer your question, no, I hadn’t accidentally/intentionally ingested any Crystal Meth. After a few successful rounds of this weird ass game, the kernel didn’t come back out. Knowing that my parent’s reaction would be less than stellar, I chose to keep this to myself, figuring that nothing “bad” could really happen from me sticking corn into my ear.

Cut to me taking a bath post movie, completely submerging my head, and successfully watering the harvest I had just planted. Not long after, s#$& started to hurt, almost like something was trying to sprout and root itself to my ear drum. I know, weird, right? I finally had to confess to my parents, and they took me to urgent care where the only thing accomplished was the doctor making my eardrum bleed. This clown concluded that my bath had “softened” the miniature replica of the “Signs” movie set I had built in the side of my head, and that it would probably just dissolve on it’s own.

Fast forward three days later (aka Christmas, can’t imagine why my parents were pissed off at me about all this) and apparently it’s harvest time, because it feels like someone is driving a tractor down my ear canal. My mom takes me to the ER where, yet again, nothing gets accomplished because anytime someone looks in the general direction of my ear (just looking, not inspecting, touching, examining, literally ) I scream like I’m being savagely beaten. They send me home, and make an appointment for me to see an ear, nose, and throat doctor two days later.

December 27th, 1997 is the day I now like to lovingly refer to as my “Exorcism Day” because apparently, the doctor at urgent care was right, my bath did soften the kernel, but instead of “dissolving” it, it just broke into pieces that were now rattling around in my head. It took four nurses to pin me down while this sadistic SOB ENT doctor shoved a camera and a vacuum down my ear, finally freeing the tiny pieces of kernel from the bastille that was my head. To the nurse I scratched and bit during my exorcism, sorry girl.

So there you have it, another tale to file away in the “But, like, Grace is actually the weirdest person I’ve ever met..” evidence box I’m sure you all keep, at least mentally. I’d also like to think that this incident is the reason I can’t really do a whole lot of math past a second/third grade level, but I’m no scientist.

The Things We’d Actually #ShareADietCoke With..

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It might shock you to discover that I am not someone who is all that impacted by the feel good campaigns that brands tend to run in order to make our world a better place*. Obviously I’m kidding about that shocking you, anyone who has spent more than a few minutes with me knows that unless it deals with animals, I don’t care, and more often than not perky ad campaigns will just leave me feeling nauseous.

Case in point: Coca Cola’s #ShareACoke campaign, which encourages consumers to Share a Diet Coke with BFF, VIP, a couple hundred really random first names, Mom, Dad, the winky “DTF? slash U Up?” emoticon etc. Maybe it’s because I never found my name (#StillBitter), or just because I find the premise ridiculous, but I’ve taken the liberty to compile a list of things that most people are more likely to #ShareADietCoke with.

#ShareADietCoke with Delusions of Grandeur

#ShareADietCoke with Your Abandonment Issues

#ShareADietCoke with Self Loathing

#ShareADietCoke with that “I forgot to take my Birth Control” Panic Attack

#ShareADietCoke with that Plan B Pill

#ShareADietCoke with those Wine Induced Texts You Sent Last Night

#ShareADietCoke with Your Hangover

#ShareADietCoke with Commitment Issues

#ShareADietCoke with Your False Sense of Entitlement 

#ShareADietCoke with That Think Piece You Just Read

#ShareADietCoke with Curated Social Media Accounts 

#ShareADietCoke with That Super Informative Buzz Feed Quiz You Just Took

#ShareADietCoke with the “Still Watching?” Message on Netflix

#ShareADietCoke with Sallie Mae

#ShareADietCoke with the Downfall of JCrew

#ShareADietCoke with Your Seamless Delivery Guy

#ShareADietCoke with that Person from High School you’re stalking on Social Media

#ShareADietCoke with Your Fleeting Mortality

#ShareADietCoke with Your Tinder Matches

Just kidding about that last one, you’re never sober around those!

*sell their products

A Few Choice Words regarding Kitten Heels..

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Where do they get off? Look, I get it, the fifty-something, sad divorcee crowd needs a shoe to cram their cankles into when they’re heading to their local California Pizza Kitchen for yet another E-Harmony date, but they have absolutely no business on the feet of any individual under the age of 45.

Kitten Heels were developed (by Lucifer) in the 1950’s, and since most fashion trends from that time period are dead, it’s pretty disturbing that people are still trying to pass them off as legitimate footwear. Also, the name couldn’t be any worse, I mean, Kitten Heels? The phrase makes my skin crawl, almost as much as the words “moist” and “panties” (don’t worry, that chill that just crawled up your spine? I felt it too).

One of the biggest arguments for Kitten Heels is made by tall girls who don’t want to tower over everyone around them, but still want to wear a heel and s#$%. Here’s a newsflash, if you’re already really tall, a couple inches added by a pair of pumps isn’t going to be something I notice. What I am going to notice is the creepy baby heels you’re wearing look like the should come with a complimentary set of varicose veins.

The other argument for these atrocities is that they are more comfortable than their taller, more legitimate counterpart. Guess what? Those blisters will fade, and chances are you’ll be too intoxicated to realize that they’re there until you sober up the next day, but do you know what won’t fade? Wearing shoes that make you look like the type of girl that claps and says “Yay!” when her pancakes arrive at brunch. Either way I’m going to be judging you, because you’re in Kitten Heels, and because we both know you consumed plenty of calories in liquid form the night before.

Some might say that my anger and disgust for Kitten Heels is excessive and misplaced, after all, “they’re just shoes.” If you’re spending your time psychoanalyzing my hatred for a particular genre of footwear, you should probably find a hobby, and then remember we’re discussing shoes that get their name from an animal that takes it’s s%&*$ in a box.

It takes a lot to get me to commit to something, and there aren’t that many cases in which I choose to do so. Exceptions include, my job, ordering iced coffee even when it isn’t seasonally appropriate, refilling my Adderall prescription, and avoiding the bars in my hometown like a rampant case of herpes when I’m visiting my parents.

There’s another area of my life I choose to make definite commitments in, and that’s footwear. There are heels, and then there are flats, heels are generally always appropriate, unless I’m scraping myself off of my bed on a Saturday morning long enough to go out and get food, then I’ll throw on a pair of flats. What I’m not going to do is put on a pair of shoes that make it look like I’m being held up by two infant thumbs, and you shouldn’t either.

Why Black is the Supreme of the Color Coven

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Unless you’ve been living under a rock since 2013, chances are you’ve heard of American Horror Story: Coven, even if you’ve never actually watched it. Arguably, Coven is the best season of Ryan Murphy’s AHS franchise, but I may be slightly biased because it combines a few of my favorite things, which include, but aren’t limited to, Jessica Lange smoking cigarettes, Jessica Lange drinking, sassy one liners, Jessica Lange rolling her eyes, and the color black.

For those who haven’t seen the show (get on that), here’s a quick rundown. Basically, young witches come into a “Coven” in New Orleans where they are introduced to the concept of a Supreme (aka Queen Jessica Lange). A Supreme is basically the HBIC of the Coven, and each generation a new one surfaces. The Supreme is generally discovered by her ability to perform the “Seven Wonders” which are essentially seven hard as s#$% witch tasks.

Anyone who has known me for any extended period of time knows how deep my love and devotion for the color black runs. It compliments my icy stare perfectly, and the fact that it matches everything means when it comes to putting together an outfit, it requires minimal effort, which I am 110% here for. As I was re-watching Coven last year in preparation to join my own Coven (meaning, I was going to see Fleetwood Mac at Madison Square Garden) I realized that the color Black is the true Supreme, because it totally performs all Seven Wonders. So, because I’m a sucker for slightly dated Pop Culture references, I decided to break it down for you.

Telekinesis (AKA Moving things with Your Mind): In my experience, nothing parts a group of tourists moseying down Broadway on a Saturday faster than a sensible all black getup and a stare that says “Your existence is making it extremely hard to tolerate being alive right now, please move.”

Concilium (AKA Controlling Someone Else’s Mind): The “Little Black Dress” is a thing for a reason. As his holiness Karl Lagerfeld once said, “One is never over-dressed or underdressed with a Little Black Dress.”

Transmutation (AKA Taking Another Form): Personally, when I’m wearing black (as in, 98% of my life) I’m able to feel more like Posh Spice, instead of like the sixth Spice Girl I usually feel like, someone who I’ve named, “Eleven Secret Herbs and Spice.” (For the record, yes, that was a KFC reference, don’t look at me).

Pyrokinesis (AKA Controlling Fire with Your Mind): See 3:05 in Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood” music video.

Descensum (AKA Road Tripping to Your Personal Hell and Back): I perform this task every day when I take the 6 Train to and from work, but nothing makes me feel more protected from the woman across from me peeing her pants (yep, that happened) than being cloaked in licorice colored clothing.

Vitalum Vitalis (AKA Draining Your Life Force to Save Someone Else): Black keeps me honest, in the sense that while I’m wearing it, I find it easier to say things like “Put down that neon tote that says “Eat Cake for Breakfast” and walk away slowly” instead of “OMG that’s so totally you, you better buy it!”

Divination (AKA Seeing the Future): Anything worth buying is also worth buying in black, because no matter how many Pantone colors of the year come and go, black will always be in style.

Maybe these rambling comparisons only made sense to me, but black is near and dear to my heart, and no, not just because they’re the same color. To sum it all up, I’ll leave you with a quote that launched a thousand memes: “I’ll stop wearing black when they invent a darker color.”

TBT: RHOC Season One

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Close your eyes and take a journey with me, no, not some awful breakup induced spiritual journey, but one back to the year 2005. A lot went down in ’05; Brangelina was born, Dina and Michael Lohan finally got divorced, and Prince Harry went to a Halloween party casually dressed as a Nazi.

Perhaps the most monumental event of 2005 came when Bravo/Andy Cohen bestowed upon us perhaps the greatest blessing in reality television history, known to most plebeians as The Real Housewives franchise. As soon as the gates to Coto de Caza opened, I was hooked (and wondering when the f%$& Kirsten Cohen was going to show up). I don’t know why I was so enthralled with these women, after all, they were old as s@#^ and didn’t really “do” anything, but something about the fact that they fought like Middle Schoolers really grabbed me.

On a recent Saturday, when I was operating at what I like to refer as a “diminished capacity” and had no plans to move anytime soon, so I decided to watch RHOC from the beginning, please don’t ask me why. Not two seconds into the intro and I found myself saying “What the actual Hell?” Who had dressed these women? Someone had to pay for all the ill fitting tops and flare jeans I was seeing, justice had to be served. Not long after, I fell asleep face down in a Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme wrapper and forgot all about it, until now. So in honor of #ThrowbackThursday I’m going to dissect the outfits the women of S1 wore in their intro, because first impressions are everything (which means I’m screwed, but whatever).

Vicki: As much as I’d love to cut Vicki some slack for entertaining me with her bat shit crazy antics in later seasons, I just can’t. This is mostly due to the fact that I would feel less threatened by someone trying to rob me at knife point then I do by her impending camel toe. Also, I don’t understand her top, and I won’t respond to it.

Jo: There isn’t much I can say about Jo in this get up, it did however serve as a nice reminder that she wasn’t always a human Bratz Doll.

Lauri: Lauri is the type of woman who goes into Forever 21 with her teenage daughter, and ends up only buying things for herself. No explanation necessary.

Jeana: Clearly Jeana thought that some weird, dream catcher statement necklace would make us forget that she has the worst bangs in the history of bangdom (actually,wait, that might be me circa 1995-2003). Bangs and atrocious necklace aside, the cap sleeves on her top make me so nervous I feel like I might pee myself when I see them.

Kimberly: I know, who the hell is Kimberly? She only survived one season, probably because she was so boring/irrelevant, but judging from her leopard print top, it could be she just ran off to join The Cheetah Girls.

As much as the OC Housewives and I have grown apart over the years thanks to more interesting cast members from other places (ie: Kim Richards, Milania Giudice, and Kelly Bensimon) I will be forever in their debt for letting Bravo film them throwing wine on each other, thus paving the way for the Beverly Hills, Atlanta, New Jersey, and New York housewives, and though their outfits circa S1 may make me cringe, I’ll always think of them when I hear the line “I’m not like, a regular mom, I’m a cool mom!”

A Strongly Worded Letter to My Eyebrows..

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Dear Eyebrows,

I wasn’t always so aware of you, you furry little bastards. There was a blissful period of my life where I wasn’t clued in to the fact that there were two thick, wool socks permanently stuck to the area above my eyes. But, nothing good can ever really last, can it? The fact that Pretty Wild only lasted one season is definitive proof of that fact.

I’ll never forget riding in the car with my dad around age 12, when out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “We have to do something about those Fu Manchu eyebrows of yours.”  Per my default response to my parents for most of the early 2000’s, I rolled my eyes and muttered “whatever.” I got you waxed, and as with every other aspect of my appearance didn’t really give a s$%& about you again until high school.*

Recently I discovered that you both grow up, not out like you’re supposed to. Instead you choose to grow more in the direction that a box topiary does. I would imagine this is due to the fact that I shaved you off around age 6, but I honestly don’t thank that constitutes this level of betrayal.

Why can’t you behave more like my mother’s eyebrows? Due to a combination of her OCD over-plucking and scowling she was able to create a hostile forehead situation where no hair grows anymore. Prominent brows are in you say? Cool, but you two look more Sloth from The Goonies than Cara Delevingne. Take several seats.

I don’t even know why I bother with you anymore, honestly. Despite the waxing, and the constant plucking, you still insist on growing like an invasive plant species. I guess there really isn’t anything else left to say, except that I’m sure I’ll take about you in therapy someday.

Regrettably Yours,

Grace

*college, if we’re being honest

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I’ve known I wanted to start blogging for awhile, not about anything in particular, but I suppose if I was forced to describe my personal brand it would be a hybrid lifestyle blog full of cynicism, delusions of grandeur, an ever so light sprinkling of sarcasm, and more than likely an overabundance of reality television/pop culture references.

I feel like those elements make the above picture a perfect introduction. That dime piece holding the parasol? That’s me circa 1998, having just participated in a Parisian themed ballet recital. Anyone who’s ever seen Dance Moms will clearly be able to see that I’m more of an Abby Lee Miller than a Maddie Ziegler, and anyone with eyes, Dance Moms savant or not, can see that ballet probably wasn’t my “thing.”

Yet despite the fact that my dancing showed about as much promise as your aunt’s drunken performance to FloRida’s “Low” at your Bat Mitzvah, I took it until I was 17, because I’m convinced my parents had children so they would have free, albeit terrible entertainment.

Honestly, Twitter is my usual platform for spewing my nonsensical ramblings about the Real Housewives franchise, avocados, my short lived (yet somehow way too long) career as a ballerina, other people’s fashion choices, and a whole bunch of other random absurdities. Twitter cages me in though, at 140 characters I can’t really say everything I want to say about these very important topics, and like Miley Cyrus, I can’t be tamed.

I’d close this out with something like “So come on this journey with me..” but the word “journey” is way too “Eat, Pray, Love” and Julia Roberts is the worst, so instead I’ll leave you with some immortal words from the one and only NeNe Leakes.. “Bye Wig!”