New Feature: Daily Snark!

Sometimes IM conversations are just too good to keep to yourself, so I decided to share! It might not be daily and it might not always be snark but I promise you'll love it anyway. Enjoy!

In today's installment, thoughts on sneaker culture, whatever that is.

me: i think matt just got porn in the mail or something

it's this magazine and there's all these half naked chicks on the cover surrounding this really hip-ugly dude

russel brand?

Kris: it's proly a jc penny catalogue

me: the magazine is called Complex

it looks pretty useless

Kris: Complex is a metropolitan men's style/lifestyle magazine founded by Marc Ecko in 2002. The publication offers mainstream readers insight into the latest trends in urban America's niche cultures, such as streetwear, sneaker culture, hip hop, and graphic art. Complex targets men that are college-aged to early 30s in urban areas.

The "magazine" is essentially a compilation of advertisements aimed at a target market of 20-35 year old males. It can arrive without solicitation in one's mailbox, but the company is quite understanding about the environmental impact and will cancel a "subscription" if requested.

me: sneaker culture?

Kris: oh yeah that's actually really big right now

me: i weep for the future

Kris: well sneaker culture has been big since like hip hop started

me: was it called "sneaker culture" though

cause that's sadness

Kris: haha, no but they did were oversized shoes, kinda like how anime characters are now, to accentuate the "larger-than-life" visage of hiphop

i learned that in my pop culture class

me: very impressive

Kris: now the sneaker culture is just an echo though, like all other fashions right now, rip off of 80s high tops, vinyl, and neon

gag

me: yeah wtf is up with neon

i told matt it is just a matter of time until those safety pin bracelets come back

Kris: it's hideous and really needs to go away already. it's been around for like 5 years

me: vomit

Kris: i admit, I have a shirt I bought like 4 years ago that's totally neon red/orange

but it has a dot design of a woman in s&M gear with her nipple showing blowing the smoke off a gun

me: well nipple never goes out of style

Kris: thank you!!

Kris's new status message - nipple never goes out of style 11:23 AM

Old Navy, my frenemy

There are a set of things that females experience in life that are pretty common threads -- in my generation eating disorders and body image issues were second only to mean girls and catty, passive aggressive competition disguised as friendship on the scale of things that fucked us up. (Ok, maybe these come after divorce, alcoholic parents, and unrealistic expectations thanks to romantic comedies...but whatever, they're up near the top).

Somehow, though, I managed to make it through life without having these problems. I was always fairly happy with my body (or rather I didn't really think about it too much) and pretty much always felt free to eat whatever I wanted. I never really put too much thought into it. Until now...

I have now experienced another common experience -- I've reached the age where I can no longer just do whatever I want and be "thin" and "beautiful". As such I've put on about 20 lbs. over the last 3 years or so. Still, this didn't bother me that much until last weekend, when I went to the Old Navy to try on bathing suits.

This was a mistake for many reasons.

1. Old Navy DOES NOT make bathing suits for people approaching 30. They just don't. What they DO is make bathing suits for 14 year olds in bigger sizes as though doing so somehow magically makes these monstrosities age-appropriate and/or figure flattering in some way.

2. The lighting in the fitting rooms...this is not unique to Old Navy, it's everywhere. But something about the combination of glaring fluorescent overhead lighting and a pop-punk remake of You're Just Too Good To Be True made my back fat look even lumpier.

3. A woman shouting into a bullhorn about $10 bathing suits. Nuff said.

To make matters worse, I asked Matt to come back to the fitting room so I could show him the bathing suits. Now, right off the bat let me say that I never set foot out of that fitting room in a bathing suit. Because for some reason I was not willing to allow the person who regularly sees me naked to see me in one of these uber-flammable, ill-fitting sausage casings. I guess maybe this is because when I'm naked we're either about to or just have had sex and things like lumpy thighs and belly fat matter less.

Sidebar here, Matt is training for a marathon. He's not in spectacular shape (yet) but he's burning something insane like 800 calories a day doing all this running, so I figure it's only a matter of time until he's like, super man.

Given these factors, I decided it's about time I get my increasingly fat ass in gear and at least make an effort. So I started dabbling in some Comcast On-Demand workout videos. My favorite was Goddess Cardio Bellydance, in which the woman running the video would say ridiculous things such as the following:

"Just think of all the boring things people around the world are doing right now. And you decided to spend your time doing this."

and

"The next time you have an argument, like over a parking space, try doing the shimmy and see how the conversation goes."

But this and yoga was not cutting it, so I stepped it up and started the "10 Pound Slimdown" plan. Basically, this woman has created a calendar and 5 20 minute workouts. She's mapped out which workouts you should do on which day and promises that I will lose 10 pounds in 8 weeks if I do this.

I actually really like the workouts because they are hard but not so hard that I have to look at the television and say, "Bitch, you have got to be kidding me." or shout "No I fucking can't!" when she says "You can do it!"

I also like the structure of the calendar. I need some accountability in this project. Which made me think...surely there's some kind of fancy internet tool that will help me manage my food intake vs. my exercise and tell me if I'm basically in the right area.

Sure as shit, there are many such tools! I've latched on to one known as The Daily Plate, and I will say that it is very handy. Basically, you put everything that you eat into it, and all the physical activity that you do, and it helps you balance this all out and see how you're doing -- not just on calories but other things like sugars, cholesterol, all that shit.

Super cool, right? Shya! Except for...I've already spent the first two hours of my day entering food and exercise and calculating calories and basically geeking out over the chart and spreadsheet options. I am comforted by the neat and orderly nature my eating and exercise has taken, and the level of control this allows me to have over it all. And if you think that sounds dangerously close to an eating disorder, don't think that thought hasn't crossed my mind.

But wait, there's more! This particular website has a social networking component (how novel!) in which you can become "friends" with other users and do things like Share your food and exercise log on Facebook and Like other people's food and exercise logs. For a generation of people who grew up on Alicia Silverstone's Cher ("I had 5 peanut butter M&M's and I feel like such a heifer") how can this be good? I see the honorable intent of this (supportive environment, encouragement, etc.) but I can't imagine the "helpful" and "encouraging" comments that must come from the "friends" that one makes on this site.

Friend-making is another minefield of the female experience (evidence: the creation of the term "frienemy") to say nothing of the actual level of "friend-ness" that is even possible with social networking friends. So, thanks a lot, Daily Plate, but I'll take my computer or my Nintendo Wii judging me over strangers online any day.

Great Depression is the new black

So today I conquered many things. I put together a storage cabinet with a lock and faulty instructions while my supposed partner in crime sat and watched, claiming that he is "useless" (which I frankly don't doubt to be true) at putting things together. After many hours and about 4-5 tears, I made Mail Merge my bitch and printed not only labels but fancy personalized letters on Progressive Future letter head. And I found out, to my surprise, that the proposal for my big, ginormous final masters project was required to be 7 pages, not the 2-3 that I thought it would be. I finished that proposal before I finished this bottle of fabulous Pinot Noir (I've become a real wino these days).

None of this, however, compares to the utter triumph I experienced last Friday. I took the day off from work, you see, to recover from the minor nervous breakdown I was experiencing on account of everyone's needs that I have to meet in addition to a final Human Resources and Volunteer Management paper due the night before. I thought this was a good opportunity to take care of some things around the house, such as the vaccum cleaner (sidebar...I have trouble spelling vaccum. I am going to experiment with some spellings here and see which one suits me.)

So my vacum (see how I spelled it differently that time?) had been exhibiting some very strange behavior. In fact, it seemed to be doing the opposite of what I wanted it to be doing. Usually, you want a vaccuum (oh shit, is that the correct spelling?) to suck; however, mine seemed to be actually dispelling dust onto the carpet rather than sucking it up.

Some background on my vaccum (or is that correct? neither one is showing up with the squiggly red "you spelled this wrong, asshole" line). I purchased it at the local Wal-Mart for $28, which I felt was a steal for a vacuum, and a pink one at that. It wasn't even one of those gay "We're pink because we support breast cancer" products. This vaccuum is just pink because it wants to be pink.

So anyway, my $28 pink Wal-Mart vacum was malfunctioning. I took off all the filters and washed them to no avail. I was really feeling like I was going to have to make a repeat visit to the Wal-Mart to replace my pink vaccumm. I mean, I'd only paid $28 for it. I wasn't going to take it in to have it repaired, and even if I wanted to, like there are any vaccum repairmen anymore. (Or repair women for that matter.) And it wasn't like I was about to take the time to...wait a minute! I can repair this vacum myself!

I wish I would have photograhically documented the stuff that came out of my vaccumm when I took it apart. It was pretty intense. There was a lot of confetti (circa New Years Eve, courtesy of Wes Morgan.) Dog hair was abundant. I had to stick a broom handle down the hose to get a big clog out of there. Disgusting.

But it got me thinking about consumerism. I mean, I took like 15 whole minutes to do that. I could have been doing many other thing with that time -- baking brownies, walking my dog, looking at my vagina in a mirror. But I spent 15 valuable minutes of my vacation cleaning out my vacum cleaner. Instead of throwing it away and buying a new one, I took the time to google the users manual for this vacum (thank god for the internets!) and taking this vacum apart. I feel superior to most people in that I don't think they would bother to do that.

So good for me, I fixed my own vacuum. Women's lib, all that. But what about the poor vacum cleaner repair man? Now that I'm all empowered to fix my own pink vacuum that I only paid $28 for, what happens to him? He fucks right off, I guess. Because $28 is a small price to pay to feel powerful and accomplished enough to have fixed my own vacuum.

I didn't throw out my vacuum, and I'm so happy. Because $28 feels like a million bucks to me now that I have invested in this bonding experience with my vacuum. We're tight.

BTW, I like the looks of two u's together, as in vacuum. So I've decided to spell vacuum that way. Yay.

Mini pizzas make me simultaneously happy and depressed

Today I asked my friend to drive me to the bookstore because I'm having the panic about the 25 source bibliography I have to have turned in on Thursday for my final Masters paper. I figured that Barnes and Noble surely had the answers to all my problems. Sidebar -- I walked out of the B&N with one book pertinent to my paper topic and one called "The Cultural History of the Penis." How's a girl supposed to pass that up?

Anyway, after we left I said, "Oh, oh! Can we go to the 7-11? I need a frozen pizza for dinner."

She looked at me in this way that actually indicated pity. My friend who, let's be clear, I've bailed out of some tragic situations is pitying me because I buy my frozen pizzas at 7-11. She says, "Uh...do you want to go to an actual grocery store for frozen pizza?"

Now, before I go any further, allow me to say that I pretty much love my life. I couldn't ask for a much better set up than what I have now. But there are a set of things that, no matter how great my life is, always make me feel like I am bordering on Stuart-Smalley-I'm-going-to-die-homeless-and-penniless-and-nobody-will-ever-love-me status. One is grocery shopping alone. The other is eating frozen pizza.

So we get to the King Sooper and I get unreasonably excited about a fabulous product called Digorno for One. It's just like what it sounds like -- a Digorno pepperoni pizza for one person. But just when I thought it couldn't get any better...4 for $10. I went ahead and got 4 because, you know, they're nice to have around the house.

It reminded me of an idea that's been rolling around in my head ever since I discovered my wages are being garnished by the State of Colorado (that's an unrelated story, though). I really think it's about time that we started an advocacy organization for single people. Think about it...how much food have you wasted because all food comes in portions for a family of 4? Or at a minimum 2. And...where the hell is my "Hey, thanks for not popping out a kid and contributing to global warming and overpopulation and global food shortages, not to mention just generally fucking the kid up and adding to this world's dysfunction" tax credit? Am I right?

What we need are fair tax policies. Protection for single workers so that they're personal lives and time are valued just as much as married people with kids. FMLA to apply to sick pets. I feel like we could get the cat lady demographic with that plank of the platform alone.

So are you with me on the issue? If so, the best way to get involved is to make a donation of $25 today...

Coming soon to a blog near you, posts on the political acuity of 18 year old stoners and the cultural implications of vacum repair.

Ah, the good old days...

Coming to you live from Chicago, it's the newest installment of If You Want to Know What I Think, Just Ask Me. The first in a long string of visits to a city that has pretty much become like a second home to me and will only become more so over the summer as I use intern supervision as a front for going to concerts and music festivals and gaying out with America's Next Top Model and vegan cupcakes that will take over the world.

I've had a few firsts in Chicago...my first short haircut was here, the first time I ever cheated on a boyfriend was here. Yep, proud moments those were. Having come from tiny Weeping Water, where there's as many people in the entire town as in three blocks in Chicago, it's sometimes stunning how much my life has changed.

I've been visiting Chicago regularly for two years now, and somewhere in those two years I entered my late twenties. I can tell because my itineraries have changed quite a bit. Usually, I fly in on Friday night and we hit Berlin as soon as I can drop off my bag. We'd leave just in time to get to Clarke's or the Pick Me Up Cafe just before the bar crowds and barely make it through some cheese fries or organic pancakes before we stumble home at 5 AM and get to bed. But lately...well, as Kris says, "I just can't wait to get into my jammas and get under a blanket and watch television. It's going to be even better than when we did the same thing last night."

And I expect to feel some nostalgia for the "good old days"...the days when I got shit canned drunk and tried to hit on gay guys, when we went to bars in Wicker Park and I hooked up with some stranger with a girlfriend and tragic Brittany friends who thought they were going to nail Kris, or when I rode on the float in the gay pride parade and was blatantly propositioned by a very cute lesbian. But I don't feel nostalgia for those days...because as much as the gays love me, they'd rather go home with Kris, and that stranger from the Wicker Park bar had weird balls and only had Gatorade to drink, and that lesbian may have been cute but she only propositioned me because I was on a moving truck and there was no way I'd actually jump down and go home with her.

So yeah, I'd rather sit in an apartment in Boystown and watch The Real World New Orleans and other late 90s flash backs and make vegan cupcakes and watch youtube videos of SNL skits mocking Project Runway. I really don't miss anything if I pass out on the couch at 10:30 PM. And if that makes me old, so be it.

Wait...I have a blog?

Oh hey, yeah, I have a blog. It's been uber long since I posted anything on my poor, neglected blog. I'm sorry, blog...it's just that I've been busy with work and school and...well, I'm sorry that you feel we never talk anymore but someone has to work to put food on the table! I'll take you somewhere really special this weekend, baby, I promise.

Ok, now that my blog and I have kissed and made up, I think I'll give everyone a nice little update on how everything is going for me, cause I know you are all so interested. Let's revisit the new years campaign plan, shall we?

Goal #1: Do not gain weight in the new year.
Well as far as I can tell I haven't but who the hell knows. It's not like I own a scale or anything. But as for my strategies...well, let's just say I've fallen off the wagon a little bit. And I don't care. I got a new bike though, and it's 7 miles round trip from my house to the office so if I want to have a block of cheddar cheese dipped in milkshakes, I think I'm entitled.

Goal #2: Stop being twitchy about being alone.
Ok, so this is an easy one because I don't spend that much time alone now. I have a roommate and a new "special friend" so I don't really have to be twitchy about it. But let's revisit the strategies...
I successfully did not pursue a man for all of January. Of course, as we all know I started dating Will in the first week of February but I wouldn't say there was a lot of pursuing there...it just sort of happened. And as for starting new activities...I have definitely been rocking out more with Will and Dan and our songs totally kick fucking ass but other than that I haven't really had time to start new activities and I don't know if rocking out with the new "special friend" counts as an activity that will enhance my confidence in being alone.

Goal #3: Do not be a stress freak about work.
Yeah...ship's pretty much sailed on that one. I am going to go ahead and take this nautical theme to a ridiculous extreme and say that if I were to look at the positive side of it, I could say we are in all-hands-on-deck mode...but what I really want to say is that we are in ship sinking mode. But I can only do what I can do, and that's what I am going to do. (That's a trademarked philosophical phrase, ok so hands off.)

Other random goals:
Finish school: Yeah, so I just failed a class. Pretty sure that whole finishing school thing won't be happening this year.
Move out of my shitty apartment: Done and done. Great new house, super new roommate, complete with enough hot water to do dishes and shower in the same night and sans the homeless crackheads.

Stay tuned for more in-depth postings on my thoughts on failing graduate school and why I no longer have a "type".

Is that a business card...or are you just happy to see me?

So as I've gotten older, a few things have changed about the way I see the world, especially men. For example, as a younger woman, I always found guys who were really helpless and could basically not dress themselves without me really attractive...ok ok, so I sort of still have that. But I've learned as I approach my late 20s that being needed is overrated. I also find the help much less attractive as I get older. I used to love me a bartender or server -- now I look at them and think, sure you're attractive but don't you want to do something with your life?

Another interesting phenomenon that I've experienced really only in the last couple of months is the business card. It seems that handing out a business card is the new version of writing your number on a napkin...I think. I actually can't really tell, and I don't think it's fair.

Up until very recently, I would typically meet guys through friends or work, although I took my share home from the bars too. Here's how it would go: I would see guy, get him to pay attention to me, we'd chat in the obligatory way, and he'd either type my number into his cell phone -- usually to never use it again -- or or say something that meant, "Hey let's go have sex."

But let's say it doesn't go like that. Let's say that one evening a girl is walking home from work because the goddamn light rail was a minute early and she missed it. Let's say that as she's crossing the street she notices first a semi-attractive man about to intersect her path, then a fox that is just chillin in the street like 6 feet away. Let's say semi-attractive man comments on the fox and then starts walking next to the girl as though they'd known each other forever and were on their way somewhere for a drink. Let's say that girl and semi-attractive guy chat for about 10 blocks when girl says, "I have to turn here to go home." That's when it happens...semi-attractive guy says, "Here, have my business card in case you want to buy an electric bike or know someone who does. My name's Addison, it's on the card." Girl isn't sure what to think, as she'd clearly expressed her desire to purchase a bike of the human powered variety, so she takes the card and they go their separate ways.

You may have guessed that the girl in that story was me. And this is not the first time this has happened, not even the first time in the last week. To be sure, what with the fox and all it was a strange situation all around, but now what's a girl to do? Does he want me to call him? Or does he just want me to buy an electric bike?