Category: food and drink

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.

 

 

 

Can Life Ever Be Simple Again?

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I know that my absence from this blog since mid-October has probably been really tough on all six of you (I’m probably being a bit generous numbers wise here) that check this dumpster fire of a website in any sort of even semi frequent fashion, but, I’m back. If we’re being completely honest, I haven’t really been in the mood to write since the election, you know, the day that America decided that the (grossly unqualified) human equivalent of the result of me cleaning out my hairbrush with Cheeto dust covered fingers was better fit to be President than someone, who, though imperfect, had some grasp on what the job entails, (and the self control not to Tweet like I used to when I was drinking a lot in college).

In my humble, non political opinion (aka don’t give me shit for this on Facebook, I don’t have the energy to argue with anyone who wants me to give people like Stephen Bannon aka what a hangover would look like if it was a white supremacist, a “chance”), America hasn’t seen division like this since 2005, a division that caused a Von Dutch trucker hat shaped wound that, for some, like myself, hasn’t ever really healed. In case you were wondering, yes, I am in fact referring to the feud between Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton. To summarize, at the premiere of her movie “House of Wax” Paris said that she and Nicole weren’t friends anymore, they never would be, and she wouldn’t comment further. Of course she did, even going as far as to write a song about Nicole (“Jealousy”) and put it on her album. Essentially, Paris accused Nicole of being jealous of her being more famous, which subsequently lead to them feuding, which gave birth to one of my top three favorite Hollywood rumors of all time, which was that on the night Paris hosted Saturday Night Live, Nicole gathered friends at her home and instead of playing them Paris’s SNL episode, Nicole played Paris’s sex tape, “One Night in Paris.”

Eventually, the two girls “mended” their relationship, but never really were quite as close again. As the years passed, the differences between the two became even more blatant, and the reality television dream team that had once changed a Sonic Drive In sign to say “1/2 Price Anal Salty Weiner Burgers” was no more. The painful divide becomes even more apparent when you take a look at the stark differences between Paris and Nicole’s Instagram accounts these days (thanks for the tip Stuart). On one hand we have Paris, who is enjoying her current tour as a DJ in various nightclubs around the world, and on the other we have Nicole who looks more like a Brooklyn mom who makes her own soaps and doesn’t vaccinate her kids.

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Why does this sound familiar? A great divide between two famous former friends, one, a fan of all things gold plated, and the other, who it’s not very difficult to visualize wandering the wooded hiking trails near Chappaqua, presumably looking for a f&%$ to give. Obviously I’m not comparing a silly feud between two reality stars to the current political reality our country is facing, after all, reality television has no place within our political system, right? Oh, but wait, I’m forgetting this is 2016, a year that took Prince, Bowie, and one that possessed people to write in the name of a dead gorilla on their ballots during the Presidential election.

Is this the path our country is going to take? Will we continue to remain so starkly divided? With an overwhelming (if you’re getting your election figures from someone like walking, real life goblin, Ann Coulter) number of people seeming to have such a hard on for all things Midas themed and spray tanned that they’re all able to conveniently forget what the kids call “all the super shameful, shady, and racist shit” that has gone on, and the rest of us scratching our heads and wondering what the actual hell is happening, I can’t really say. I can only hope that one day, unlike Paris and Nicole, we’ll all be able to sit down together, and enjoy a bounty of 1/2 Price Salty Anal Weiner Burgers from Sonic together, just as our founding fathers (aka Lionel Richie and Richard Hiton) intended.

So, You Think You Speak J.Crew?

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It should come as a surprise to absolutely nobody that kitschy marketing campaigns really aren’t my thing, I have exactly zero patience for them, and quite honestly, I am only capable of showing actual, human emotion about things that involve animals. That being said, recently J.Crew launched a marketing campaign called “Do You Speak J.Crew?” in which they essentially have revealed that they have an in house library (because, of course they do) where they comb through books to come up with the names for colors such as “Casablanca” “Antique Navy” and “Blue Whale.” Honestly, while this type of thing would normally make me audibly groan (okay, so maybe it did) I wouldn’t be able to maintain the “middle aged suburban soccer mom” aesthetic that I’ve worked so hard to build over the years without J.Crew. I also really like Jenna Lyons, and given the rough past few years the brand has had, I worry about what would happen to Jenna should the House of Crew fold. Although, I personally think she could make a killing in Ruth Bader Ginsburg look alike contests, or maybe land a role as a young Notorious RBG in the inevitable upcoming bio pic about her life. Don’t believe me? Seriously, see the below picture. Anyway, moving on.

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I get what J.Crew is trying to do here, however, personally I think they could’ve come up with color names that are more “on brand” and show that they really do know their target audience, so I took the liberty of compiling a list of suggestions.

  • “Nullified Pre Nup Purple”
  • “Gin & Tonic Lime(s) Green”
  • “Adderall Blue”
  • “Temporary Restraining Order Tweed”
  • “Hospitalized for ‘Personal Issues’ Houndstooth”
  • “Trust Fund Teal”
  • “Privileged White”
  • “Worse Case Scenario Wisteria”
  • “Emergency Xanax Ecru”
  • “Second Husband Slate Grey”
  • “Functional Alcoholic Fuchsia”
  • “I Told Him I Was On Birth Control Indigo”
  • “Curated Instagram  Coral”
  • “Delusions of Grandeur Denim”
  • “New York Times Wedding Announcement Navy”

I’ll admit that I do feel like somewhat of a self deprecating hypocrite to be writing a post like this, mocking one of my wardrobe mainstays at this exact moment considering I’m currently wearing a Ralph Lauren button down, an Ann Taylor sweater that has rabbits all over it, grey J.Crew pixie pants, and a pair of Topsiders that desperately need replacing*, but, like I said, my personal brand aesthetic is very much centered around being the type of woman you see at a kid’s soccer game and say “Is there whiskey in that Dunkin Donuts coffee cup? There’s definitely probably whiskey in that Dunkin Donuts coffee cup” (don’t worry mom, there’s not). No shade intended (-ish). Call me Jenna!

*No, you’re not reading my birth date wrong, I am actually 26 years old. 

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.