Category: film

Valentine’s Day is Stupid

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There, I said it! Now, I know that for some people that statement will make you assume that I am a bitter, cynical wildebeest of a person who isn’t capable of feeling love or any other human emotions (You aren’t entirely off base. I’m somewhat emotionally hollow, and after a few carbohydrates can bear a striking resemblance to wildebeests, or really any other creature in the buffalo-ish family). The thing is, I don’t think love is stupid at all, I think it’s beautiful, wonderful, and am fortunate to have a lot of it in my life. I didn’t always feel this way about Valentine’s Day. I used to be pretty indifferent about it, but then Instagram influencers became a thing and suddenly I found myself loathing a whole lot of things I used to not care about at all.

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I’ve started doing something that’s probably not that great for me, and I call that thing “hate reading.” Meaning, I go to the social media accounts of those I loathe and look at all the absolutely terrible things they do and say (also, if you say you never do this, you’re probably, and by probably I mean, definitely a huge liar). This morning, I got up, got some work done, smiled at all the cute photos of significant others and babies people I actually like in real life were posting, reminisced about my favorite gifts of V-Days past (6th grade, my mom got me a t-shirt from Abercrombie and a bottle of what would become my signature scent until 10th grade, Tommy Girl), laughed at a few memes, and consumed way too much coffee, a good, pretty standard Wednesday morning for me, that is until Instagram’s algorithm decided that for, whatever reason, I deserved to suffer.

An “Influencer” I make a very express point of not following, for the sake of my own mental health, had posted a series of photos with her “lover” (Unless you’re Will Ferrel and/or Rachel Dratch, let’s never use this word again, thanks) where they were oh so candidly indulging in unhealthy food (which of course, was nowhere near her actual mouth), with an attached post so badly written (as the person who writes the posts on this blog, I think you can all agree that if I post what I do with some semblance of confidence, and call someone else’s writing terrible, it’s pretty bad). So, I get to the end of this millennial manifesto of a blog post (but not before rolling my eyes, audibly groaning, and saying “calm it down, Rupi Kaur” several times under my breath), and see that the whole thing is literally sponsored by a brand.  I promptly fight the urge to cloak myself in all black, and skulk around New York City informing everyone that love is dead.

Look, I’m not trying to burst anyone’s heart shaped bubble here, but if we’ve gotten to the point where a day that is (allegedly) supposed to be about celebrating the love in our life is just another day where I must suffer through your horribly written, incredibly staged #SponsoredContent and watch other people consume it like it’s some sort of aspirational thing, please, get Valentine’s Day as far away from me as possible. As far as my plans for tonight that you absolutely had no intention of asking about? I’m attending a Soul Cycle class, coming home to indulge in a ridiculously overpriced skincare regimen, and go to bed, as I always do, fervently praying that I never have to see someone use the hashtag #InstaGood ever again.

 

 

 

Flashback Friday: The Suspect Wore Louboutins

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If you’ve had even the most minimal of interactions with me, you are probably aware of my affinity and love for all things reality television. When I say reality television, I don’t mean “I enjoy Top Chef and The Amazing Race,” no, I mean “I can recite Teresa Giudice’s entire monologue from the iconic Danielle Staub provoked table flip scene from Real Housewives of New Jersey.” Unfortunately, when your love for trash runs as deeply as mine, you’re often faced with the devastating predicament of the shows you’re so fond of only lasting 1-2 seasons. It happened with MTV’s “Fat Camp,” and then again with Bravo’s “NYC Prep” and “Gallery Girls,” but none of these shows were, for me, gone too soon as E!’s “Pretty Wild.”

The show followed the Neiers sisters, Tess (who is actually adopted, her last name is Taylor), Alexis, Gabby, and their mother Andrea, who in my opinion, was the breakout star of this series’ one magical season. The two older girls are both “pursuing modeling careers” which back in 2010 I rolled my eyes at, but hey, Kendall Jenner is on the cover of the September Issue of VOGUE, so, anything is possible I guess. Gabby honestly wasn’t that memorable,  mostly because she didn’t get in trouble, and the biggest drama surrounding her was her decision to stop being homeschooled and start attending public high school. Yawn.

I feel like it’s important to note that the girl’s mother centered her homeschool curriculum (I use the words “school” and “curriculum” VERY loosely here) around the book, “The Secret.” If you’re unfamiliar, “The Secret” is a self help book (based on a movie, so, you know, completely credible) and the premise is basically that you get back whatever type of “energy” you put into the world. For context, let’s just say if I had to guess, Spencer Pratt was probably super into this book during his “crystals” phase. She also wakes the girls up by screeching “GIRLS! IT’S TIME FOR YOUR ADDERALL!” she’s literally Amy Poehler’s character in ‘Mean Girls’ brought to life.

The drama came to a peak (this is like episode 2-3 by the way) when the LAPD showed up at their house, demanded Andrea “contain her dogs” (aka like 4 unidentifiable toy dogs; this was mid 2000s Los Angeles after all) and asked that the cameras be shut off. We find out later that she was a part of the “Bling Ring” aka the group that stole from Orlando Bloom, Audrina Patridge, and most notably, Paris Hilton. Naturally, Andrea and the other girls act like Alexis has been unjustly detained and spend hours hysterically crying outside the LA County Jail. Eventually Nelson Mandela, I mean, Alexis, is released and they all weep, hug, and have one of their bullshit energy prayer circles or whatever.

Now, let’s get to the most iconic part of the entire series aka the Nancy Jo Sales phone call. Alexis is PUMPED because she’s approached by Nancy Jo about doing an interview about all the Bling Ring legal drama for Vanity Fair. She’s all giddy and excited because (allegedly) Nancy Jo gives off the impression that the article is going to paint Alexis in a positive light, redeem her, show that she was just a victim of falling in with bad friends, blah blah. Spoiler Alert! The article doesn’t even do that a little bit, like nowhere close, literally could not even be interpreted that way. Naturally, the whole fam gathers to confront NJ over the phone,  they get her voicemail, and proceed to make several attempts to leave her a scathing message, but between Alexis’s cry-talking/screaming and Andrea intermittently, randomly yelling “YOU LIED!” into the phone, I’m not sure if they ever succeeded to be honest.

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It wasn’t until Kimberly Noel Kardashian-West exposed Taylor Swift in July 2016 via Snapchat that I’ve been so invested in a piece of investigatory journalism as I was Nancy Jo’s Vanity Fair article. Honestly I don’t think I’ll ever be completely over the fact that the show that partially inspired “The Bling Ring” only got one season,  but, I suppose that when you strike reality television gold within the first season, it’s sometimes best to just cash out and go home (or, as the case may be, to Paris Hilton’s house). I’m not completely sure what the Neiers sisters and mother of the century Andre are up to these days, but I imagine that they’re probably in a West Hollywood bar somewhere, talking about how Alexis helped to launch Emma Watson’s career or something equally ridiculous.

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.