Rave #14: Microwaves

I don't mind cooking, but I also don't like it. I share my mother's mentality towards cooking: I cook to make edible food. And as chores go, it's preferable to ironing.

That said, I love microwaves. I think they're the most brilliant invention ever. My first year at boarding school, I became remarkably adept at making anything and almost everything in the microwaves. (My specialty then was a simple baked potato with broccoli and melted cheese. Now, one of my staples is a snazzy pea-and-chicken teriyaki dish. You have to actually grill the chicken beforehand, though. I don't recommend cooking meat in the microwave. There are limits, I am forced to admit.)

Microwaves are great. Ya'll know of my love for lists; let's make one.

A List of Why I Love Microwaves, by Emma:

• Vegetables are actually better when cooked in the microwave. It's faster, so they retain their flavor better, and you don't add salt and butter and stuff to them since they're fine on their own. Just a little smidgen of pepper and I'm good to go.
• It's so dang fast.
• I don't need to risk my life with a stove. I am not good with hot surfaces. Even with microwaves, I've had my share of incidents. (Let's just say that no matter what the Internet tells you, you can't make fried eggs in the microwave. Scrambled eggs, on the other hand, are totally doable.) I'm definitely not responsible enough to handle a real stove or oven. 
• It's actually not dangerous. 

So there, "Marsha".  

Rant #15: Hovering Academic Parents

I don't have anything against neurotic parents. My one mother is on the neurotic side. When I was growing up, she made lists every morning on the white board detailing who's going where, when, and with whom. Color-coded, naturally. All our au pairs were terrified of her. But you see, she was never hovering. Neurotic? Definitely. Over-protective? Probably. Did she show up to my school conferences with a thick notebook, a list of points to cover, and sometimes drag me along? Yup. But she never pushed me, and never bragged about me. I give her credit for that.

Recently, I was speaking to a young man applying to college and his mother. "What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Oh, we're looking for a strong law program," his mother replied chipperly. "We're visiting Yale tomorrow."

"Oh." I replied. "So, Liad, what about you?" His mother looked confused. I smirked.

Parents: you are not applying to college. (Shout out to SAM, who hates bolding and italicizing.) I know that you have no fulfillment in your own life, forcing you to spend your days having brunch with the girls, and living vicariously through your 18-year-old son. I know. I get it. But it's still not okay.

So stop telling me where your kids are applying to college. Frankly, I couldn't care less. I don't ask you; don't offer it up. And for God's sake, stop telling me your kid's score on the SAT. Even if he almost got a perfect score on the math section, I don't care. Likewise, I don't care about how impressed the crew coach at Duke was with her. Even if she got into Harvard, I don't want to hear about it from you.

As a general rule of thumb, actually, I don't want to hear about your kid's academics from you. Ever. If he's failing in Spanish? If he tells me, fine. (Not that any teenage boy would share that with me. I'm not exactly an open, comforting person. But that's his choice. It's okay if I don't know. It's better that I don't know that if you tell me.) But why should you bring it up while we're out for dinner?

If I want to know how your kid is doing in school, I'm going to ask him. Not you. I'm not interested in gossiping about your kid with you.

Rave #13: Family Fun magazine

As you know from my last post, (rant: Tacky Christmas Decorations), I adore Family Fun magazine. 

I don't have children, and I'm not married. I'm not looking to start a family any time soon, either. And yet I spend hours upon hours pouring over Family Fun, fantasizing about making little paperclip-and-eraser farm animals. Actually, though, I'm not fantasizing about making little paperclip-and-eraser farm animals with little adoring children. I want to make little farm animals by myself. I want to sit down at my kitchen table with Family Fun and unlimited craft supplies, and make miniature menorahs out of popsicle sticks until I get tired and have to take a break and eat my whole-wheat sandwiches with the crusts cut off but with little carrot shavings added in the shape of a tail, giving the whole sandwich the appearance of a turkey. (See my last post for the explanation behind why, exactly, I'm so infatuated with arts-and-crafts. It's my mother's fault, and her lack of artsy-crafsty-ness.)

I don't want kids any time soon. Trust me. If you knew me, you'd agree. (Hehe...) Not that I'm immature; I'm just, ah, not ready for kids. And please don't suggest that I become a camp counselor or anything along those lines. I tried that once. Never again. (Though let's clear the record once and for all: it was not my fault that that child cried. He should not have been coming anywhere near me with that coal. And I was totally in the right to call that other girl a drama queen. You should have seen how clingy she was.) No. I want to do my Family Fun stuff all by myself. 

But I just can't bring myself to sit down at my kitchen table and go through all the Family Fun arts-and-crafts. Just call me self-conscious. And so, I will spend countless more hours staring longingly at pictures of candle-shaped cookies:

And, with that, I say good night.

Rant #14: Tacky Christmas Decorations

As I was driving home from a lovely Thanksgiving, I realized that It had started. Oh yes, It had started. As I drove along, I first saw some Christmas wreaths. I smiled to myself, thinking, "how lovely! I do love a nice wreath". I then saw a tree with those little white lights. I thought to myself, "how pretty! how nice that this season of joy and delight has started!" (I had had a lot of pie, and was feeling pretty lovey-dovey towards the world at this point). And then I saw It. The house. Not my It, but a different town's It: the one house that goes totally over the top, with the bright neon Christmas decorations and the total, absolute, unquestionable tackiness.

You know what I'm talking about. Every town has that one house, the one house that goes totally over the top for Christmas (and sometimes for other major holidays, but especially for Christmas). I'm not talking colored lights; although they're not my favorite, my own Nana dresses her tree in colored lights every year. I get colored lights; they're fun, bright, and attention-grabbing. No. I'm talking life size blow-up Santas and reindeer, and giant blow-up snow-globes. Just Say No to the giant blow-up snow-globes.

When I was growing up, there were 2 houses in my town that really decorated for Christmas. They ended up representing the two ends of the spectrum for me: the first house, owned by a family with small children, was decorated, but fun and classy; the second house, owned by God-knows-whom, was decorated with 12 glow-in the dark life-size reindeer perched gaily on their pond.

You see, I'm not a grinch. I love good decorations. The first house decorated well. They had obviously home-made candy canes on their lawn, made with hangers and pipe-cleaners. They had miniature wreaths on each fence-post, and hand-strung ropes of cranberries and popcorn decorating their porch. I was deeply envious. (Partially because when I was seven my mother refused to do those artsy-craft things I thought all real mothers did, leading to my pouring over Family Fun magazines longingly. Whenever I went on play-dates, little Becky's mother would suggest elaborate arts-and-crafts involving toothpicks and paper-towel rolls, and serve us dainty pretzel-sticks-and-marshmallow concoctions that looked like reindeer that I had seen in Family Fun. When Becky came to my house, my mother would shoo us up to the attic, and say generously that we could help ourselves to whatever was in the fruit bowl. But yet again, I digress.)

And then there was the other house. The house on the lake. The house itself was ostentatious, I thought in my seven-year-old wisdom, but it was infinitely worse during Christmas. For, as I mentioned, they had 12 glow-in-the-dark, sparkly, life-size reindeer perched merrily on their pond. They had a blow-up giant Santa, and a giant snow-globe. And so, so much more. It was (is) disgusting.

What's The House like in your town? To the comments you go.

A Brief Interlude: Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving, you guys! I hope you ingested obscene amounts of carbs, kept the familial bickering down to a minimum, and drove home safely. I did. And while Nana did decide that this was a good year to experiment with a mincemeat pie, I also won both team Hearts and Spades, so all in all I had an excellent Thanksgiving. 

Some of you may have been aghast that I did not blog yesterday, I know. You were sitting down for your Thanksgiving meal, but frantically checking your CrackBerry under the table to see if I posted anything new. I didn't. I've made an executive decision that I don't post on major holidays.

So now, as we enter the holiday shopping craze, I invite you to take a deep breath, and consider these four questions: do I need it? or is it just on sale? where will I put it? what will my wife say if I come back from CostCo with a ball of mozzarella cheese the size of my ample belly? And if you consider these four questions and then deem the 45-pound ball of mozzarella cheese necessary, I invite you to go for it. You can always put some in salad, eh?

Rave #12: FarmVille

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: FarmVille is the best virtual farming game on Facebook today.

For those of you who don't know, FarmVille is an application on Facebook (and if you don't know what that is I really can't help you). It involves virtually "farming"; you can plow land, plant seeds, and then, depending on what you plant, wait 2 hours - 3 days before you can harvest your plants. If your reaction is along the lines of "that sounds like such a waste of my time, Emma, go make some pies for Thanksgiving", you are oh so wrong.

You see, FarmVille is incredible. Something about it is so addicting. Is it the way you can arrange your peonies and rice and soybeans in neat rows without dirtying your hands? Perhaps. Is it the way my poor heart jumps with joy when I find one of my neighbors has fertilized my eggplant? (Thanks Eva!) Maybe. Is it the way I can dress myself in these adorable little overalls and pigtails (sounds twee, but my farm girl rocks those pigtails. Trust me). Maybe. All I know is that it is incredible.

Now, I get really into FarmVille. Some people just buy whatever seeds "look pretty". You know who you are. Not I. For I carefully look over each plant's information: the cost, the time it takes to harvest, how much you get per plot, and what the return rate is. I am not swayed by silly things like "it takes too long to harvest", or "I really like the way the rice looks with the water". NO. You need to plant whatever has the best return rate, but that's not the only thing to take into consideration. For you also have to determine how much money you're making in a certain amount of time and how quickly you can turn over the land. It's confusing, I know, but someone has to overanalyze it.

For maximum profit, I recommend a mixture of soybeans (15 coins for a return of 60! by far the best return rate out there), strawberries (10 coins for a return of 30, which is still relatively good, and they're ready to be harvested in 4 hours), and daffodils (not an especially good return rate or harvest time, but they're a good way to get closer to the "flower power" prize, which gives you 1000 coins!). 

And if you're in the FarmVille area anytime soon, I could use an elephant. That or a cow.

Rant #13: Certain Types of Snobbery

I am a pie snob.

I will be the first to admit that I and my mother's entire side of the family are total pie snobs. We know that strawberry rhubarb and peach melba are the way to go, and we mock cherry and key-lime pie eaters. With the exception of Thanksgiving and Christmas, we do not make our own pies; no, our taste is far too discerning for that. (Also, it would be awkward if someone spent 5 hours slaving over a pie, only to have it dismissed as subpar. It's less personal to buy them. Though during family reunions, with shrieks and accusations of poor taste and broken taste buds flying, even store-bought pies are far from impersonal.) I like pie snobs. I respect pie snobs. I will get into a screaming match with someone who claims key-lime is real pie, but I will respect my opponent.

Because, you see, some things you can be snobby about. Pies, for example. Or -- I have a good idea -- let's compile a list of things it's okay to be snobby about:

• Pie.
• Coffee. I'm not a coffee snob myself, but I don't mind coffee snobs. And when I say I'm not a "coffee snob", that's not to say that I don't enjoy good coffee, or I drink instant. No no. I love coffee. (See my rave re: Starbucks). I freshly grind my coffee in the morning. It's just that I don't hold a strong opinion on Columbian vs. Venezuelan vs. Argentinean, or wherever coffee's grown, and I don't mock people who add milk and sugar. (Except one certain family member; let's call her Aunt Mellon. Aunt Mellon puts the milk in first, and then adds a little, teensy smidge of coffee.)
• Cheese. While I'm not a cheese snob in the way some other people are, and can't really carry on a conversation using all the cheese connoisseur  lingo, I do love a good cheese.
• Literature. If you've read War and Peace, I give you full leeway to be self-righteous and obnoxious about it. That's a good 120 hours of your life you're never getting back; you might as well get to feel superior about it.
• Tea. 

And then, the things you can't be snobby about:

• Wine. Ugh. I can't stand wine snobs.
• Movies. Please don't prattle on and on to me about the brilliant usage of lighting in Where the Wild Things Are. Please eradicate the phrase "cinematic genius" from your vocabulary, or we can't be friends.
• Designer clothing. If you ask me "who are you wearing?" any chance of a friendship is gone. Likewise, if you inform me chipperly without prompt "who" you're wearing, you're an elitist social-climber, and we're not going to be friends. Sorry. (But not really).
• Music snobs. Now, that doesn't mean I can't stand people who appreciate good music; I can and do. It's just the phrase "well, I used to like X, but then they got popular and became all mainstream" that I can't stand. Just because it's obscure doesn't mean it's good. You don't get brownie points for educating me on a band I haven't heard of. Stop burning CDs (or burning onto my iPod [except for you, Martha, I asked you to, LOVE YOU!]) of obscure indie French rap "artists" for me. I'm not interested. And stop being so smug that you "discovered" some new obscure indie French rap "artist". Nobody cares.

What do you guys think? What are you snobby about? What types of snobbery do you find obnoxious? Take it up in the comments.

Rant #12: Tanning

Ahem. I have to be somewhat diplomatic about this one, as I have a certain family member who's in the tanning booth business. So, dear family members, I leave this up to you: Uncle ***'s not reading my blog right now, and let's keep it that way, okay? No need to bring this post up on Thursday while munching on carbs and feeling all familial.

Some people claim I'm just bitter about tanning because I turn red as a lobster myself in the sun. Meh, I say. Meh. That's really not it. I'm not bitter towards thru-hikers because I'm not athletic myself; I'm not angry at Beethoven because he's a better composer than I; I'm not annoyed at Holden Caufield for being angstier than I am. Some people think so little of me. No, my annoyance with tanning is far more complex than bitterness because of my own pallor. 

Now, I like lying out on the beach in the sun as much as the next girl, don't get me wrong. But I do it with sunscreen. Because I am afraid of this. (Don't worry, it's safe. I considered putting in a gory picture of skin damage caused by sun, but decided against it. Trust me. Click on the link.) 

There are only 2 reasons people don't wear sunscreen: 1) because they're lazy, and 2) because they want to tan. The first, actually, annoys me less. Laziness I get. However, this is just a case of making your priorities. Do you want your skin to wrinkle and shrivel, and develop huge ugly moles all over your body? And what about all those health-related effects of skin cancer? (I'm way too lazy right now to go do Internet research on what exactly they are.) Forgo making your bed in the morning; applying sunscreen is one thing you just have to do.

Now, purposely setting out to bronze in the sun's harmful rays is totally different from mere laziness. It's stupid. It's goofy. It's risking your life (and risking your attractiveness 15 years from now) for the sake of being a few skin tones darker. Nobody but you cares. No Prince Charming is saying to himself, "ho hum, I was going to ask that woman out, but now I see that she is pale and not the golden bronze I in my infinite wisdom and good taste prefer in women. Guess it's time to move on to her stepsister, Tiffany, she of the golden bronze hue." 

Self-tanning is a little different. Is it goofy? Yes. Is it a total waste of money? Yes. Is artificially changing your skin tone to something you feel is more attractive contributing to the shallowness and eventual demise of our society? Yes. However, it's not dangerous in the way real tanning is. And so while you do look like Lindsay Lohan, circa now, (see below)

and you do look like this:

at least you won't get skin cancer.

Rave #11: Sunscreen

It sounds weird, I get it. But I love sunscreen (shout out to OLIVIA, my sunscreen buddy).

Now, obviously there's the whole health aspect to sunscreen (keeps you from getting sun spots, keeps you from getting skin cancer and dying a gory death, etc). That's important, yeah. That's certainly why my parents (mother) always put sunscreen on me as a kid. However, since then my love for sunscreen has surpassed the normal health paranoia.

I think first there's the whole childhood memories thing. Whenever my mom put sunscreen on me, she'd accompany it with a song: "Goop goop goop goop goop goop goop goop goop! Goooooop!" (She'd be happy to sing it for you. Ask her the next time you see her. Shout out to MOMMY!) Now, every morning when I apply sunscreen, I hear my mother's voice in my mind. (Awwww).

Secondly, there's that sunscreen smell. I love it. (Shout out to CAROLINE MCCANCE. God. Evidently I have a lot of sunscreen buddies). It's like the smell of the ocean and tacky beachside tchotchke shops and family games of Spades all in one. 

And then, obviously, there's the whole health thing. I don't want to get skin cancer and die. Or get skin cancer and get unsightly spots on my skin. 

So next time ya'll (shout out to LOLA, EMILY, and MARTHA) mock me mercilessly for my love of sunscreen, and for wearing sun screen in the middle of November, I shall refer you back to this post and you'll feel guilty for bashing my treasured childhood memories.

Rave #10: Passive-Aggressive, if You Do it Well

I've been called passive-aggressive more times than I can count. Normally I take it as a matter of pride.

You see, some people do passive-aggressive well. And then some people do it cattily and immaturely. Keying someone's car because he parked diagonally across two spots? That's catty. Sprinkling your ice cream with salt because your roommate keeps stealing it? Totally legitimate and totally admirable. It's a fine line, but I think I walk it well. 

The key to passive-aggressive is not to rely too heavily on it. See, I know when to be direct, and when to be passive aggressive. Let me give you some scenarios of when to be passive aggressive, and when to not:

My roommate: Do you mind me practicing piano at 6:30 in the morning?

Me: Yes.

(shout out to MARTHA, who always wore headphones, and never woke me up in the mornings. Except for those few times she fell off her piano stool because she never was able to set it up correctly. But that was hilarious, so I was okay with it.)

If something is truly bothering you, you can't be passive-aggressive about it. Anybody I have the slightest interest in being friends with can ignore passive-aggression in a scenario like that. Leading to a conversation like:

My roommate: Do you mind me practicing piano at 6:30 in the morning?

Me: Oh, no no, not at all. I mean, I know you have a lot of work and are really busy, and sometimes don't have time to practice piano until the morning of your lesson. I'm really busy too; sometimes I barely have time to sleep! So no, it doesn't bother me.

My roommate: Great! I'm thinking of taking drum lessons, by the way.

Sometimes you just have to be direct.

Here are my basic rules for passive-aggression:

1. Know whom you're dealing with. Know what your relationship is like. I have one friend who's absolutely brilliant at passive-aggressive (you know who you are, bunny), but I won't take passive-aggressive from most other friends. 
2. Don't lay it on too thick, or people will roll their eyes.
3. Don't do it all the time. Save it for the moments when you're going for a real guilt-trip.
4. Don't always expect it to work, meaning don't always expect to get your desired outcome (a companion to the 5-hour-long Hemingway reading, someone to sample your new homemade tofu, etc). Often, your victim will be wracked with guilt for days to come having denied you. This sometimes is way more fun than whatever your initial desired outcome was.
5. Don't put on a pitiful puppy dog face while being passive-aggressive. That's just too much.

If you have any doubts on whether or not you're pulling off passive-aggressive, you're not. If you're not sure you're doing it well, don't do it. 

And please, stop denying your passive-aggressive tendencies. Rock it. When someone calls you out, look at them innocently and say, "I know not of what you speak". Then smirk. Don't instinctively go to passive-aggressive when you don't get your way. It's a tool. Don't overuse it.

Thoughts? Opinions on passive-aggression? Stories of your mother's infamous guilt trips? To the comments you go.

Shout out to EVA, my MUSE and INSPIRATION.

Interlude: Smiley Emoticon

Words cannot express my delight. And thus, I am forced to resort to the classic sign of extreme joy: the smiley emoticon.

:)

Why, you ask, do I use the smiley emoticon? Because, my dear friends, today I have hit 100 profile views. (And I'm relatively sure that no more than about 50 are mine).

I'm speechless with delight.

:)

Oh so speechless.

:)

Have a nice day. Because I LOVE YOU, DEAR READERS.

Rant #11: Poor Driving Etiquette

There are so many things drivers do that drive me crazy. Here are a few the worst.

1) Taking two parking spots. It is beyond obnoxious, especially when They do it in a crowded parking lot, in two good parking spots. If you're so maniacally protective of your lump of metal, go double-park it far, far away. And don't argue that it's some spiffy vintage car with some jungle animal in the cat family name. Nobody cares. Whenever I see a car taking up 2 spots, it takes all my maturity and self-control to resist the urge to leave an angry note and key it. (I do resist the urge, but is is dang hard. [I try not to swear on this blog. Both because it's stupid to swear on the Internet where everyone has access to your blog, including your boss and possible employers, and because my mother is a follower and I don't want to disappoint her after my grades freshman year in high school.]) At Stop & Shop I always drag a shopping cart really, really close to the car. Just to worry 'em a bit. 

2) Texting while driving. It is beyond stupid. Put the damn phone down. There is literally no excuse for texting while driving, or for checking your email on your Crackberry (shout out to MY FATHER). If you truly think that it's a life-or-death situation that can only be resolved by your quick wit and tapping fingers, pull over to the side of the road and text to your heart's content.

3) Tailgating. I don't get it. Is it supposed to encourage me to drive faster? Because frankly, I want to slow down (or tell whoever is driving and complaining about the obnoxious tailgater to slow down) to a snail's pace. Ugh.

4) Speeding. I'm not talking about going 65 when there's a 55 speed limit. I'm talking about going 70 with a 35 speed limit. Slow down. Wherever you're going, and however late you are, it's not so important that you have to risk my life. Especially teenage boys. So many speeders are teenage boys who think they're cool or daring or whatever, zooming around in the minivans they borrowed from their moms. I personally think that people under the age of 25 who speed should have their licenses taken away for 6 months.

5) Kids sitting in the front seat. My mother didn't let me sit in the front seat until I was 5 feet tall, 100 pounds, and 12 years old. I hit 5 feet well before I turned 12, so that wasn't really a problem. Before I turned 12, however, I had to make a concerted effort to gain the extra 7 or 8 pounds I needed to hit 100. (I did in time, don't worry. Hi Mommy! That's another adolescent story you missed until now.) So while I suppose I may carry some residual bitterness when I see some 11-and-a-half year old in the front seat, it's still unsafe. No, really, it is. They NEED to be 5 feet tall, 100 pounds, and 12 years old.

What do my loyal readers think? What are your worse driving pet peeves? You know the drill -- the little comment button right under this post.

Rave #9: Thru-Hikers

As I've said before, I'm not athletic. I'd like to be. But I'm so not athletic. However, I respect athletic people. Some non-athletic people complain that athletic people are all smug in their athletic-ness. That may be true, but I get it. I emphathize. If I were athletic, I would be totally smug too. (Whenever I begrudgingly decide I'll walk up stairs, and then at the top see someone emerge from the elevator I get all excited and self-righteous and then go have three gingersnaps. You can imagine how insufferable I'd be if I ran a marathon. Actually, that's why I don't exercise. I don't want to subject people to my self-righteousness). 

That's why I love thru-hikers.

If you don't know, a thru-hiker is someone who hikes the Appalachian trail in one season. The Appalachian trail is 2175 miles, from Georgia to Maine, and so takes a good 6 months to hike. (You have to leave in March or something obscenely early, since, you know, you don't want to hit the snow in Maine. Which will happen if you're too late).

I met a thru-hiker. His name was HellBender. I met him at a little station on the top of a mountain in New Hampshire. (A mountain, obviously, that I had driven to the bottom of with my family, and had spent about an hour and a half hiking up. HellBender was not impressed). I met Hellbender when I arrived at the little hut at the summit of the mountain at about 11:30, panting and sweating, and saw him sitting at the table, shoveling pancakes into his mouth. Having heard myths of thru-hikers (have you read the book A Walk in the Woods? I haven't, but everyone else in New Hampshire has), I decided to strike up a conversation.

As I sidled up next to HellBender (who, I must say, was remarkably attractive for someone who hadn't bathed in several weeks -- 19 days, I later found out), the first thing I noticed was the smell. He smiled apologetically, and said, "You're definitely not a thru-hiker. I like your shampoo." I smiled at him. "Sit down, sit down." I sat down. We chatted for a while about his thru-hikin' experiences. When Smoose joined us, with his pitiful, hungry look I knew it was time to break out the snacks.

Apples, oranges, grapes, and peaches -- I gave them all my fruit. HellBender and Smoose were quite appreciative. (Evidently what thru-hikers crave most while hikin' is fresh fruit). Once I had 'em all buttered up and full of red grapes, I asked to see their packs. (HellBender's was 32 pounds. Smoose's was over 45, which is heavy.) I learned more about their lives, which I won't share here, both because it's creepy and to respect HellBender and Smoose's privacy. (Though you guys, if you made it out alive and have Internet access and for some inexplicable reason are reading my blog, shout out to YOU! You guys are AWESOME! Congratulations on FINISHING!)

Anybody who can be bribed with fruit to share his life story is a friend of mine.

Thru-hikin' in insanely intense. They cut the ends of their toothbrushes off, because, you know, that's an extra .3 grams they just don't need to carry. It's hardcore. You need to be somewhat crazy to want to do it. It's not something that college students do because they don't want a job. I think it really does change you as a person. And while I, to quote my mother, would literally rather go to jail than thru-hike the Appalachian trail, I love the people who do.

Rant #10: Not Having a Sense of Humor About a Pet

When I went away to school, my parents got a dog on Craigslist. My mother named it Marley. And before you ask, yes. This was after the book/movie came out, and Marley was the tritest dog name around. Now, to give my mother some credit, when we got the dog his name was Charlie; however, that's my grandfather's name, and for some reason my mother didn't want the dog to have the same name as her father, so we had to change it. However, we didn't want to change it too much, so we wanted the new name to end in "-arly". But really, Marley? What about Farly, Mommy? Harley? Snarly?

To make matters worse, Marley's a cockapoo. A cockapoo. God. If I were a dog, I'd be so embarrassed by that. "Aww, what a cutie!" people say when I'm walking him. "What kind of dog is she?" 

"A mutt." I reply, matter-of-fact. "And actually, he's a boy."

"What's his name?" they ask, rubbing his floppy ears.

"Harley," I reply with a polite smile, and Marley and I walk away together, his eyes thankful, entreating me to persuade my mother for him to legally change his name.

Now, for all my kvetching about Marley, and for all of my jealousy issues centered around his and my mother's relationship, I do like him. He's kinda cute, in a doggy sort of way. And I think that animals are hilarious by themselves.

I hate it when people think their animals are little people. You should not be calling your cat "my darling", people. It is not a baby. It is a cat. Don't be dressing up your dog in little sweaters now. He's not cold. He has fur. You know why he's not cold? Because he's a dog. Not a person. A dog. 

And for the love of God, stop putting pictures on Facebook of your cat lying on your bed next to the remote, with the caption "i haz da POWA!". It's not funny. It's not clever. It's stupid. The cat does not have the power. The cat is just trying to take a nap, and you keep on putting the remote next to him and trying to orchestrate a "funny" picture to put on Facebook. Stop that.

Please stop talking about your animals so often. One story about how your dog knocked over the garbage can and made a huge mess and then you found him looking contrite at the foot of your bed with his tail between his legs? Fine. You can tell that story once, if it's under 60 seconds. A daily update on your hamster's caloric intake? A ten-minute story about how you had to take your cat to the vet because you weren't sure if his matted fur was just matted fur or something more serious, and then the vet told you how happy he seemed, and how good of a job you were doing reading Greek poetry to him every night and that's why he's such a well-adjusted young cat? I'm so not interested.

Rant #9: Restaurant Problems

Let me tell you a story about Lil Granny, for Lil Granny emerges once again, poking her wispy grey-haired head out of the door of her condo in Florida, and clucking in disapproval at the state the world is in nowadays. Specifically, Lil Granny is clucking in disapproval at the state restaurants are in nowadays.

For whenever Lil Granny goes out to eat with the grandkids, she finds it to be a dreadfully unpleasant, nerve-wracking experience. The moment Lil Granny shuffles into the restaurant, leaning heavily on her cane, the bubbly maitre' d' shows them to their table. If it's a booth, Lil Granny will have to ask to switch tables, for she doesn't like booths. (She finds them too constrictive; they hurt her back; there's no spot to stash her cane). When she politely thanks the girl for showing them to her table, the girl chirps "no problem!". Lil Granny rolls her eyes. No problem was mentioned. Why did the girl have to assume that Lil Granny thought that it was a problem? What happened to just saying "you're welcome"?

As Lil Granny opens her menu, Lil Bobby is distracted by the football game on the television by the bar. "Bobby!" she chides. "What do you want?"

"I dunno", he says, staring blankly at the television. Lil Granny sighs. "Oh, wait, yeah, I know. I want a hotdog." Lil Bobby always orders a hot dog. Lil Granny scans the menu, hoping that there are no hotdogs. It would be good for that child to try something new. But there are hot dogs. There are always hot dogs. Lil Granny is forced to concede this time.

She turns to Lil Sarah, and asks how school is going. Lil Sarah mumbles something that Lil Granny doesn't quite catch. "Speak up, darling", she admonishes. 

"IT'S OKAY", Lil Sarah screams in her ear. Lil Granny nods. The music is loud here. Very loud. How are they meant to carry on a conversation? The group of boisterous teenagers at the booth over screech with laughter. A man barks into his cell phone. And all Lil Granny wants to do is turn on her orthopedic shoes and bolt out of there.

Though in a previous post I've complained about poor cell-phone etiquette, that's not all the unpleasantness I experience in restaurants. So many restaurants themselves contribute to the rowdy, crass atmosphere with loud music, blaring televisions, and general noise. Why? I truly don't understand restaurants' motivation in playing loud rock music. It doesn't make it a more enjoyable experience for anyone. Even "mood music" can be played too loudly; I've been to one restaurant that played whale noises so loudly I could barely carry on a conversation. Whale noises.

And the louder the music is, the louder people have to talk to make themselves heard; the louder people talk, the louder other people have to talk. It's all a vicious cycle. 

Televisions? Please. It's totally unnecessary to have televisions in restaurants. All they do is detract from the conversation. Nobody would say that it's acceptable to whip out a book and start reading in a restaurant you're at with family or friends (shout out to EVA!); why, then, do people find it okay to stare at the television? I find it unbelievably rude on so many levels. Restaurants just don't need to have televisions in the first place. 

Lil Granny does not approve. 

Rave #8: Dinosaur Bob, and Other Children's Books

When I was little, my parents read to me every night (and by "my parents", I mean "my mother". My father sometimes read to me -- shout out to DADDY! -- but I greatly preferred my mother's reading. Because a) she had better voices, b) would get really into it and keep on reading aloud way past I fell asleep, and c) she was the one who made me food and I liked her more. JUST KIDDING DADDY). I had a lot of favorite books; and, sort of like what I do now, I'd go through stages where all I was obsessed with a certain book and only wanted to hear that. 

I love children's books, and I love being read aloud to. (I hate books on tape. I can't follow the plot. Though I suppose I don't really follow the plot when books are read aloud, either. I just like making people read to me. It makes me feel loved). As we enter the holiday season, and you have free time on your hands (HA, jokes, but skip folding the laundry and do what I say instead), I recommend you take a few moments to share some fine literature with your family.

Dinosaur Bob, by William Joyce, is my personal favorite. It chronicles Bob's adventures with the family Lazardo. (Bob plays a mean saxophone [that was one of my favorite lines as a child. I always had a mental image of this giant green dinosaur grasping tightly to a scowling, flailing saxophone]). I'd put a video of me singing the The Ballad of Dinosaur Bob here; however, I'm afraid of creepy Internet stalkers and I wouldn't know how to attach a video anyway, so that's not happening. Ask me and I'll do it for you though.

Dr. Suess is always a good bet. You need to get the rhythm right, though. When I was nine or ten, I would listen to my au pairs read to my younger siblings, and they always messed up Dr. Suess. There's a real beat and rhythm to his books. Green Eggs and Ham is definitely a classic; I love Oh! The Places You'll Go too (shout out to AJAYI, who lent me her copy when I was having a bad day. You're adorable Ajayi). 

The original Grimm's fairy tales are wonderful. Some are a bit gory, too, so they're excellent for the growling teenage boy at the Thanksgiving table (that slight twitch at the corner of his pierced lip? that is a smile you see).

What do you guys think? What are your favorite children's books?

Rant #8: PDA

This is many directed at teenagers (shout out to KAT CHMIELESKI!), though I suppose it applies to people of all ages to a lesser degree: please, for the love of God, stop it with the PDA.

Let's compile a list of the do's and don'ts of PDA. Of course, we need to specify the age group we're talking about here, so that'll go into consideration too:

Teenagers (and people under the age of 40): you may not:

• kiss on the lips in public. Ever. Not even a peck. Totally not okay.
• grope under the table, please. You have your whole lives ahead of you. No need to go at it like hot little rabbits right now.
• hold hands while walking around. When sitting at a table, fine. No need to clutch at each other while walking around the mall.
• prolonged hugs. Nothing more than 5 seconds.
• anything more than:

teenagers (and people under the age of 40) may:

• kiss each other on the cheeks upon greeting each other.
• hug briefly. Under 5 seconds. You can say "Mississippi" between counts.
• hug their parents/grandparents/other family members in public. Don't go home and be like "I can't hug you! Emma said not to!"

People between the ages of 40 and 65 may not do any of the things teenagers may not. However, they may kiss on the lips (BRIEFLY) at airports, if they are going to be apart for more than a month. 5-second-hug rule still applies.

People over the age of 65 can: do whatever they want (shout out to CHARLOTTE GROVE!). If they've gotten this far, they don't have much time left to go anyway. Let them enjoy it. They can have three slices of pie, too, and I won't even mock them.

Rave #7: Tube-Flops

Have you ever gone through the dreadful experience where your toes were sweltering, and yet your calves were absolutely freezing? That was rhetorical, because I know we all have. And day after day, I have yearned for a solution for this predicament. But now, my life is complete, for tube-flops are here (shout out to CAROLINE DILLINGHAM and someone who may choose to remain anonymous so let's call her MANDREA LOTHENBERG):

**author's note: this is my first ever picture posted directly to my blog. I do hope it worked. If not, here it is: http://www.tosh.ca/media/entries/SanukAd_TeenVogue_TubeFlops.jpg** 

You saw that right. They're flip-flops, with knee high socks attached. And just when you thought life couldn't get any better, shaBANG! and they come out with tube-flops.

I'm personally partial to the tan-and-white streaked tube flops, which have the additional benefit of making it appear as if you got into a gory shaving accident whilst wearing your tube flops:

Oh yes. Now if only Lady Gaga will wear them onstage with a giant sparkly red cape (shout out to BRIDGET!) on Gossip Girl, my life will be complete.

Remember, guys, my birthday's coming up... I'm a size 8.

Rave #6: Starbucks

Firstly, shout out to CLARE, who kinda sorta gave me the idea for this one (she wanted me to rant on Starbucks). LOVE YOU GIRL.

Now. I have complicated feelings about Starbucks. Some aspects are great; some are mediocre; some make me cringe inside; some make me want to scream and blog. My feelings are really very complicated. So I'll make a pros and con list.

Pros About Starbucks:

• Their little stuffed moose. Absolutely adorable.
• Their gingerbread lattes.
• the way they have extra cinnamon and nutmeg for me to add to my gingerbread latte.
• the background music.
• the mirrors are always very flattering in Starbucks bathrooms. They're angled downwards, so you look really skinny.
• the comfy chairs.
• at the Starbucks nearest to me, they have loads of board games and card games and stuff. So I can go, sit on a comfy chair, sip my gingerbread latte, and play (aka cheat at -- shout out to ANNIE!) Uno. 

Cons about Starbucks:

• Everything's absurdly overpriced.
• The pretentious drink orders. I can't go to Starbucks with my family because they mock me mercilessly. A certain friend who shall remain nameless (but whom I referred to earlier as "Marsha") always orders a "grande mocha frappachino with extra whip". I used to (when I was a young, naive, and un-self-conscious) order a "tall extra-hot skinny vanilla latte". God. In retrospect, I should have been slapped. Anyway, now I either get a plain coffee, a decaf coffee, or my gingerbread latte.
• The way everything's over 175 calories. Which seems like a lot for a small drink.
• The food is terrible. Absolutely terrible.
• This Via stuff they've come out with recently. Instant coffee? Please. I'm not a coffee snob (LIES, I totally am. Thanks, Mommy. That and the funny hairline. I really hit the genetic jackpot with you), but instant coffee? It's baaaaaaad.
• In general, it's a little overpriced and pretentious.

And yet, I go to Starbucks. Several times a week. (My birthday's coming up. A gift card would be a nice idea too. If you're still looking for ideas, even having browsed SkyMall online). And there we have it.

Thoughts? Opinions? Snarky remarks? Take it up in the comments.

Rant #7: Harry Potter vs. LOTR vs. Twilight

People should not be asking me, "Twilight or Harry Potter?" They are totally different. Twilight is awesomely terrible. Harry Potter is just regular awesome. The real question is "Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings?"

Now, my opinion here is pretty clear: Harry Potter all the way. I love Harry Potter. One of my many email addresses is "hermionewannabe". I spent the entirety of 7th grade writing Harry Potter fanfiction (don't judge. And shout out to CAYLIN, my fanfiction buddy). Harry Potter is genuinely well-written. Fabulous writing? Probably not. But absolutely above adequate. And the plot is great. Loads of hidden syntax and stuff to analyze. I love analyzing. And theorizing. My mother and I had loads of brilliant theories before the 7th book came out. We had an especially good one about how Voldemort was really Harry's grandfather. And we knew Snape was in love with Lily. And R.A.B? Please. Within 6 hours of finishing the 6th book, we knew he was Regulus.

However, my mother also adores Lord of the Rings. And while I never got further than The Hobbit, and could never really get into it, I appreciate that LOTR is good. (I think I'm forced to concede the the writing might even be better than Harry Potter). There's lots to analyze in there, too, which my mother and brother do with great frequency and amplitude.

So I won't growl at you if you ask me "Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter?", and will give you my answer. "Harry Potter or Twilight?" I might just come up with an elaborate plan to destroy your life, starting with stealing your cookies and blogging about you.

Comments? Thoughts? Opinions? Take it up in the comments.

Rave #5: Twilight

It may surprise some of you that I'm raving about Twilight. That's understandable. Because it is terribly written, totally over the top, cheesy, cliche, and generally abysmal. However, you're just going into it with the wrong mindset.

Twilight transcends normal bad writing. It's so bad, it's good. It's crazy awesome. The phrase "his smoldering eyes" is used with remarkable frequency. One time, you roll your eyes. 75? It's HILARIOUS. You have to read it; if you have read Twilight, and couldn't stomach the bad writing/over dramatics/Bella's simpering, you have to give it another chance. Twilight is the Paris Hilton's My New BFF Season 3 of writing: so bad, and yet so, so good.

Here's an example of some Twilight writing: "As the clock began to toll out the hours, vibrating under the soles of my sluggish feet, I knew I was too late, and I was glad something bloodthirsty waited in the wings. For in failing at this, I forfeited any desire to live." Intriguing? Maybe not. Hilarious? Most definitely.

So go for it. Read Twilight. Don't think that just because it's terrible writing you have to hate it. You don't. Love it. I won't judge you for it. I promise.

*author's note* Unless you start writing Twilight fanfiction and putting up posters in your room. Ironic posters are great. Don't be serious about it. Please. Then I will judge you.

Rant #6: Poor Cell-Phone Etiquette

Now, I have a couple of nicknames, but my favorite by far is "Lil Granny". I think the person who gave it to me (shout out to VERONIKKA!) meant it to be somewhat mocking, but you know what? I like it. I think it's kinda catchy. A good name for a rapper. I briefly considered telling people to call me Lil Granny, but then realized that I already have a blog and wear Santa hats, and don't want to go over the top with the tweeness of it all. Twee is good in small quantities. Anyway, I'm sure Lil Granny will catch on quickly without my help. I've always wanted a rapper name, though.

This is a lengthy introduction to a granny-esque rant: poor cell-phone etiquette.

There is nothing I find ruder than people on their cell-phones in restaurants. Especially teenagers. If you're nine months pregnant and your water breaks while you're at Starbucks, fine. You can call your husband. Keep it brief, but I won't begrudge you a 30-second phone call to your mother asking her to drive you to the hospital. Teenagers are a different story altogether.

Let's talk about texting first. I don't text. My parents never got me texting. (I'm not saying how old I am out here on the world wide web, what with all those creepy stalkers out there. But I will say that a friend told me that my blog read like I was a 35-year-old mother, and my immediate reaction was "YES! That's EXACTLY what I was going for!"). So many people don't understand when to put the phone down. Let's make a list. I love lists.

A List of Why You Need to Break Your Texting Habit (shout out to LOLA!)

• The inanity of so many of your conversations is astounding. It's totally unnecessary to have a conversation that goes "wats up" "nm, hbu?" "nm".
• I find it pathetic when people have a conversation about feelings/emotions through texting. A break-up should never be done through texting. Just pick up the phone and call. (Shout out to JOE JONAS!)
• It's incredibly rude to be texting when you're with someone else. It's essentially saying "thanks for coming to Starbucks with me, Emma, but I find this lump of metal more interesting than your conversation".
• It makes you look like Heidi on The Hills (shout out to YMANI MONET).
  
• Texting is for people who can't be witty in person, and need the extra time to think up some clever, flirtatious banter. 
• It's an addiction. 
  

So please, please, just stop.

Phone calls, too, are rude. Just wait until you're home. Nobody wants to listen to you schedule a gynecologist appointment in Starbucks. (Trust me. I've seen someone do this). Nobody wants to hear you kvetch to your best friend about your nanny, either. And if you say, "it's not a big deal, I talk quietly, it's just like a conversation with someone who's there", you're wrong. It's not like a conversation with someone who's there, because it's just you. Would you discuss your gynecologist appointment face-to-face with someone in Starbucks? (That was rhetorical. For God's sake, don't say yes. I'm already emotionally unstable right now, having accidentally spread butter on my bagel this morning instead of cream cheese.) 

Put the phone away, and enjoy your life. Thank you.

**Author's note** EMILY CARR, in fact, was the one who came up with the clever nickname "Lil Granny". Not Veronikka. Please congratulate Emily if you see her. She's incredibly witty.

Rave #4: SkyMall Magazine

First of all, let me give a shoutout to my SkyMall buddies, KAT CHMIELESKI and someone else who may not be so thrilled to have her name in my blog, so in the spirit of anonymity let's call her Nona Leathers.

Secondly, I wanted to thank all my loyal readers (KAT! NONA!) for being so dang fabulous. You've really made this blogging thing great for me. Feel free to comment, and give me suggestions on what to talk about. (Not that I'm running out of ideas. No, sirree. But if you really, really want to know my opinion on cinnamon vs. peppermint Altoids, I suppose I could take that into consideration). 

And now, let's talk SkyMall.

I hate flying. During take-off, I get this lurchy feeling in my stomach when we go up; I grip the edge of my seat and rock back and forth furiously; I scan the pamphlet with the safety procedures frantically, and I mutter obscenities under my breath. I am not happy.

But then, once we're up, I'm a little more at ease. And then, I crack open SkyMall magazine, and my world is at rest once again. 

SkyMall is magnificent. Let me give you a brief sampling of the wonders I find in SkyMall:

• King Arthur Round Table Sculpture. An essential for any living room.
• An authentic voice recognition grocery list. My favorite thing about this is how many buttons there are. It takes innovation to a new level. I also like how you can "customize the sequence in which the products print to correspond with the layout of your grocery store".
• A selection of automatic paper-towel dispensers. Because, you know, different people have different automatic paper-towel dispensing needs. God forbid my grey sleek paper-towel dispenser doesn't match my automatic cereal dispenser.
• A wine glass chip remover. To "smooth chipped edges of fine crystal, china, ceramics or glassware with a few easy strokes". (SkyMall is practically writing this blog for me. Sometimes there's just no need to editorialize, when a wine glass chip remover is staring you in the face).
• A $75 Philly Cheesesteak Kit. Includes enough beef, cheese sauce, and rolls for 6 Philly cheesesteaks.

And so much more.

What's not to love?

Bee tee dubs, my birthday's in less than a month. Just throwing that out there. Something to think about. Topic of conversation. Something to mull over. You know.

Rave #3: Online Quiddler

I think it's pretty clear to my devoted fans (shout out to CAYLIN and JAMES!) at this point that I tend to become obsessed with various things at different times. (Don't worry. Blogging is no such passing phase. I shall be here on the virtual world forever). I can listen to one song 40 times in a row, and I can go for 3 days eating only jellybeans without getting bored. It's a gift -- what can I say?

So I think this is the perfect forum to discuss my latest addiction: online Quiddler.

Quiddler is a word game, where each card has a letter with a point value and you have to make words. Additional bonuses are awarded for longer words. The rules go more in depth than that, but that's a working summary for now. 

I play real Quiddler with my family, and it's a big deal. We get competitive. Growling is sometimes involved. You think I'd be insufferable when playing a word game? My mother is worse. Many, many times worse. It's fabulous.

So, when someone recommended I check out online Quiddler, I was doubtful. What's the point of a game without competitors, I thought? But being the open-minded person I am, I checked it out. And let me tell you, it is great. 

Every day, the top 10 scored world-wide are put up, and you try to break them. Yesterday, the words "cloze", "zin", and "ei" were used. A little infuriating, yes, but marvelous nonetheless. Was I peeved that my paltry "crazier" wasn't accepted? A little. Am I going to try to work the word "zin" into casual conversation? Absolutely.

So if you're an avid online gamer, a word snob, a game person, or simply someone who takes my advice (shout out to ANNIE HILL!), go to this website. Play the Quiddler puzzle of the day. 

And if you see an Emma Dubin in the top 10 scores of the day, that's me.

Rant #5: Raisins

I hate raisins. Detest, loathe, absolutely abhor raisins. And for the life of me, I can't understand why anyone would ruin a good dessert with raisins.

Let's start with talking about the raisin itself. It's wrinkled, and dry, and tastes almost exactly like prunes. Look at a grape. Then look at a raisin. That raisin was once a grape. Does it look healthy to you? Does it look like a plump, innocuous grape? No. It doesn't. Think about that poor grape lying out in the sun, having all its moisture sucked out of it and leaving its shell. Its shell, which is then called a "raisin", and claimed to be edible.

I love dessert. I love pastry, and pudding, and cake and pie. I'll eat almost any good dessert. (I'm not one to waste 400 calories on a slice of dry cake, but good dessert I will and do eat. Almost any dessert, too. I'm not picky. Except quality-wise). Except for desserts with raisins. Which, I'll have you know, makes me immeasurably sad inside.

I love carrot cake. I really do. A good carrot cake is magnificent. But I can't eat it, because it has raisins. Same goes for bread pudding. And lots of cinnamon rolls. Rugalach. Even rice pudding. Far too many good desserts have been ruined by raisins, and it needs to stop.

Why, you ask, can I not simply eat around the raisin? Leave a pile of raisins on the side of my plate? Several reasons. Firstly, because I am over the age of 6, and don't like to pick my food apart. Secondly, because it's not fun for me. I'm too worked up over the possibility of a nasty encounter with a raisin to be able to enjoy me dessert. And so, I don't eat it.

Call me immature; say that I'm ranting about something tiny in the scheme of things. But I say that I'm a blogger, and this is what I do.

Rant #4: Blogging

I have in the past 20 hours become a blogging fiend. I have been shamelessly self-promoting, and several times today I have scrunched up my face, groaned, and muttered under my breath, "I feel... I feel... I feel a blog comin' on". And proceeded to write.

Now, during the past 20 hours, several of my friends have been so inspired by my blogging that they have made blogs themselves. Or at least have been tempted to write blogs. Or at least thought vaguely that a blog sounds like fun but it's a smidge nerdy and so are longingly reading my blog and bemoaning their inhibitions keeping them from a'bloggin'. (You know who you are. I'm not giving you a shout-out, but you know who you are).

This is all well and good. I fully support blogging. In the past 20 hours, I have become a blogging expert. In fact, I have become an expert on anything and everything, for I am a blogger. We bloggers have a lot to say about anything and everything. We blog about anything and everything, and we have opinions on anything and everything.

To be a blogger, you must have an opinion. You cannot be wishy-washy about it. You must care passionately. You must believe in the depths of your soul that you are right, and, as importantly, you must believe in the depths of your soul that people care. (They probably don't. Self-delusion is the first step to becoming a blogger). However, you also need an edge of self-deprecation. You need to both care, and you need to know that nobody else cares. You need to realize that blogging is the platform of navel-gazing, and you have to stand up on that platform and tell us everything. If we don't know any juicy secrets about you, don't expect us to care about you.

But don't be tacky. Good bloggers aren't tacky. Blogs aren't for targeting one person or for ranting about ex-boyfriends. Know your audience; blogs are read while procrastinating when you should be doing your homework or mowing the lawn or whatnot. So be pithy and short and interesting. Blogs are not the forum for existential contemplation on the brevity of life. Throw a dinner party if you want to existentially contemplate the brevity of life.

What other wisdom can I, a self-declared blogging expert, impart to you? Invest in a dictionary. Don't misuse words. Use capitalization and punctuation, please. Keep your paragraphs relatively short; there's nothing worse than a huge block of text. Lists. Lists are fun. And easy to read. When in doubt, make a list.

Don't be afraid of sounding goofy. It's a blog. Go big or go home. I'm not interesting in reading about how you sort-of-dislike-cats-but-don't-want-to-offend-anybody-so-some-can-be-cute-and-I'm-sure-your-cat-is-adorable. NO. Just say "I loathe cats. They rub against your legs and are all needy and whiny and are essentially overgrown rats". That goes for the positives, too; don't say, "I had a cookie today. :) It made me happy". Go BIG. Say, "I had the most delicious, warm, chocolate-chip cookie today. It made me appreciate everything my mother does for me and realize that God loves me." Think BIG.

Some people just aren't made for blogging, and that's okay. Some people are really more of the let's-not-dwell-on-my-mundane-life type. Not my personal style, obviously, but okay nonetheless. And then some other people just can't blog. For whatever reason (a complete inability to use a semi-colon, nothing to write about, take themselves too seriously, etc. -- the list goes on), they just can't blog. And yet try. Oh they try.

So consider carefully whether or not you want to start a blog. Don't do it just because I make it look so easy. You must look in the depths of your soul, and ask yourself, "do I really have things to write about? Am I really a competent writer? Do I really have a strong opinion on Lindsay Lohan? Or do I just want a blog because Emma has one, and I try to be like Emma in every aspect of my life?"

If you truly believe you could be a blogger, go for it. We bloggers welcome you with open arms.

And if you choose to join our ranks, we will blog about you.

(Yes. That last line WAS subtle foreshadowing for the next post. You'll see where I go with that).

Rant #3: Leggings

This is how much I admire people who exercise: I let them wear leggings.

I hate exercise. I hate physical exertion. I don't get that natural high thing people go on about. I wish I did. It does not release the endorphins or whatever for me. Now, I would love to be one of those people you see jogging along merrily in their athletic-person sneakers and their bright shorts. I truly admire these people. So much so that I forgive them almost any fashion mishap. Baggy lime-green t-shirt with florescent teal shorts and mid-calf navy socks? At least you're burning calories. Hot pink short shorts? Whatever you want. Go for it. I don't mock people for what they wear exercising. Even leggings.

However, exercise is the only time people can wear leggings. Leggings are not for class. They are not for going to Starbucks. They are not for anything other than sweating and panting (ha -- see what I did there? like breathing heavily, but not, you know, pants? it's a bit of a stretch, but give me credit for trying) -- aka, exercise.  Leggings should not be seen out of the dance barn or the gym. Or I suppose skiing. Or whatever other sport requires mobility and skin-tight pants and toasty warm knees. I wouldn't know.

I love lists. Here are my top three reasons not to wear leggings:

1. They're not flattering. You think leggings make your butt look perky and your legs look skinny? Nope. Even if you have a perky butt and you have skinny legs, leggings are not doing anything for them. Jeans. Jeans are flattering. Skirts are flattering. Yoga pants, even, can be flattering. Leggings? Never. They make your legs look short. They cut your legs off at the ankle in a way tights don't. If you want to create a stream-lined look or whatever, just wear nice black tights. (AND A SKIRT. For the love of God, don't take that to mean that tights are pants. Tights are less of pants than leggings. YOU NEED A SKIRT TOO).
   
2. They're not pants, no matter what Lindsay Lohan insists. (And I love that girl. A blog post for another time). As I've said before, leggings are to pants as OctoMom is to celebrity. Lame. Pathetic. Unflattering. A manifestation of everything that is wrong with our society.
   
3. Your mother probably wore them in the '80s. Just think about that one.
   

So please, my friends, (SHOUT OUT TO KATERINA LOPEZ!), end this craze once in for all. Throw out your leggings. Be brave. I'll give you a cookie.

A Brief Interlude

Today at breakfast, I was sitting with friends. One friend in particular. Let's call her Kelly in the spirit of anonymity.

Now, Kelly has a blog herself. She doesn't let me read her blog. She claims that she rants about different people, and so doesn't like to have people she knows read her blog. (Now me. I am the queen of subtlety. I bet "Kelly" will never even know who she is. That's how discreet I am). And thus, Kelly took it upon herself to share with me some words of wisdom re: blogging.

"Now, you'll be really into it for the first couple of weeks, and then you'll start to forget you even have a blog", she said. I scoffed at her. "Then, a year later, you'll go 'hey! I have a blog! I haven't posted on that in 6 months! I should probably get on that." I clutched my coffee mug in horror.

Another friend -- let's call her "Marsha" -- chimed in. "Yeah. Don't start out thinking that you'll post every day, because you definitely won't". Marsha and Kelly nodded knowingly.

Now. It's not that I'm competitive. It's not that my jaw is clenched and my eyebrows are raised and I'm thinking "bring it, Kelly. We'll just see whose blog is better". And I suppose I won't be posting every day. I do have things to do, people to see, a social life to attend to, etc. (Lies. But I definitely do have homework and facebook to check and chai tea to drink). But I've had this blog for over 12 hours now, and I haven't lost interest yet, so I think we're doing well.

So you know what?

Bring it, Kelsey.

Rave #2: Holiday Season

So, you guys, (SHOUT OUT TO MY FAITHFUL READER CAROLINE DILLINGHAM!), it's getting to be that time of year. The time of year I start humming Christmas carols to myself as I gleefully stomp on crunchy snow. The time of year I break out the Santa hat (and a new surprise addition this year, so stay on the lookout!) and the time of year when I start grinning at fat babies I pass on the street.

Because I love the holiday season. From Thanksgiving to New Years, I love everything about it. A short list of some of my favorite aspects of the holidays:

• The sales. Oh, God, the sales. Black Friday is one of my favorite days of the year. I love to shop. And I hate spending money. As most of my friends know, I am a sucker for a giant red sale sign. Add a festive wreath to the front of your store, and I'm sold.
• The holiday drinks at Starbucks. Gingerbread latte, anyone? Starbucks in general in the holiday season is just great. The atmosphere is just sort of amplified, and with the addition of the holiday music I somehow end up going to Starbucks almost every day between Thanksgiving and New Years.
• The food. Eggnog. Latkes. (Did I forget to mention that I'm Jewish? Yup.) Apple pie, stuffing, gravy, the little onion balls Nana makes, gingerbread cookies, apple cider, etc.
• The greater likelihood that I'll see someone wearing a Santa hat.
• Or reindeer ears.
• Or snowmen earrings. 
• Christmas carols. A lot of Jews say they get sick of Christmas carols. I don't see it. I LOVE Christmas carols. Let the Christians have their chance to be the musical ones, I say. (Joke. That was a joke. Don't get all offended on me). I'll take any song about reindeers and jolly red-nosed, fat-bellied old men any time, vaguely Jesus-themed or no.

So as we enter the holiday season, don't be a grinch. Don't glare at me when you see me in Starbucks, merrily humming Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and wearing my Santa hat. If you run a store, have a sale. Be nice to your family. Don't eat too many cookies. Be good.

Rave #1: Bad Television

As many of my good friends (slash polite acquaintances slash distant relatives slash random strangers I happen to strike up conversations with) know, I have an irrational adoration of pop culture.

Now, that's not to say that I'm very good at it. It took me three days to find out when Michael Jackson died. I have no idea who half the people in People are. However, there's nothing I love more than a nice article on Levi Johnston's downward spiral. Call it schadenfreude. Call it living vicariously through the questionably moral antics of questionably moral people. But I love it.

Because of this, I adore reality tv. That's not to say I'm indiscriminate in what I watch. I don't do True Life. I definitely don't watch Jon and Kate Plus Eight. Because I like the juicy stuff. If it doesn't involve obscenely rich people, insanely rude, offensive behavior, and questionable legality, I'm just not interested. Keeping up with the Kardashians? Meh. We can do better. Tool Academy? Oh yes.  Paris Hilton's My New BFF Season 3? Bring it ON. THAT'S what I'm talking about.

When I sit down to watch tv, I don't want plot. I don't want enlightenment. I certainly don't want education or long-term engagement or an interesting conversation over dinner. I want glitter. I want sparkles and singing and streaming mascara and flying accusations and Seen on TV products and blatant advertising placement. I want Paris Hilton to be holding a Diet Coke, and I want her to stare soulfully into the camera and say how deeeeelish it is. I want Katy Perry to dance onstage with a giant banana, and I want Lady Gaga to dance onstage with a red glitter bodysuit and a cape. Sparkly bikinis? A thing of the past. I want CAPES, and I want them BIG.

So you know what, guys? Stop asking me to watch crime shows and documentaries about children murdered in their little beds. That's just not my kinda thing. My kinda thing? Glittery red capes. And sparkles.

Branching Out

Now, I want my loyal readers (SHOUT OUT TO EMILY CARR! Love you girrrrrrrl!) to know that I'm not always a negative person. No sirree. Now, they don't call me Pollyanna, (that's my grandmother), but I'm not a negative Nancy either. There are loads of things I like. Eggnog. Walks in the woods. Gingersnaps. Pear jellybeans. Chai tea. And that's just the beginning. With this in mind, I have decided to add to my blog: thus, I'm going to have TWO kinds of posts: rants and raves.

So far, I've only posted 2 real rants: the one on people who add superfluous x's and z's to words, and the one on paintings hung at jaunty angles. Now, I'm branching out into raves. 

Raves, as I'm sure my intelligent readers know (SHOUT OUT TO EMILY CARR! Love you girrrrrrl!), a rave is a complimentary rant. Kinda. Sorta. It's good. I'm tired. It's late. Just let me be. Don't make me define things for you. Google it.

And now, without further ado, I blog.

Insipid Rant #3: Jaunty Angles

For the love of God, stop hanging paintings askew. 

There's a restaurant very close to my school that I visit with great regularity (on average, 3-4 times a week -- the food in the dining hall isn't great). I adore this restaurant. I always get a slice of mushroom-and-onion pizza. It's a truly lovely place. However, all the paintings are hung at jaunty angles at this restaurant. And I hate it. Every time I enter this restaurant, I experience the following:

• I step in; the waitress says chipperly "sit wherever you like!" and I proceed to go to the booth in the back, facing the television so whichever friend I go with doesn't get distracted from my scintillating conversation with whichever sport is playing;
• I glance down at the menu before realizing that I always get the same thing and am really not an adventurous person and perhaps I should work on that so I make a mental note to do a little soul-searching;
• I look up and see the paintings that are hung askew. I start breathing heavily. My friend asks me what's wrong. I whisper, "the paintings. Look at the paintings."
• My friend mocks me for my OCDness.
• I try to carry on normally, but am forced to avert my eyes from the walls at all costs. This sometimes results in my staring at the television, which I am loathe to do. (Unless Paris Hilton's My New BFF Season 3 is on. But that's another post).

It is exhausting.

There are lots of people with slight OCD-esque tendencies. There are many, many people in this world who cannot abide paintings hung askew. It's not ironic and fun and lighthearted. It's kitschy in a bad way. Please stop. 

Insipid Rant #2: Zs and Xs

I do not come from a family of especially technological people. My mother's friends refer to her as "the Luddite". My brother is perhaps the only 11-year-old in the country who doesn't have an email address. I cannot say that we are especially, you know, hip people. 

But still, I am a teenage girl. I do have friends. (No, really, I do). And I do have a facebook account. So I see a lot of my generation's casual writing. And I must say, some of it is pathetic.

Teenagers. I must tell you that when you say "knowz", or "haz", or "pix", you sound like an idiot. It's not cute. It's not whimsical or charming or twee or whatever you think it is. It's positively inane. Positively insipid.

When you make your status, "its mai bday & i got a carrrr!! i haz da best parentz EVAAAA!!!" I am not won over by your charm and way with words. I am not filled with joy for you and your best parentz evaaaaaa. In fact, I want to stab you. You. Not your parents. Because even though you're sixteen and really not trustworthy and SHOULDN'T HAVE A CAR IN THE FIRST PLACE, that's irrelevant for this rant. This is about you.

Because it's plain stupid to add superfluous x's and z's to words. It's not hip or groovy or cool or rad or whatever. It's not clever or charming or witty. In fact, it's quite the opposite. So just stop. I'm not interested in your new car, and frankly, if you spell the word "my" as "mai", I'm really just not interested in you as a person.

So to sum it up : there are a lot of things I detest in this world: cabbage, licorice jelly beans, people who don't push in their chairs, and people who double-park, to name a few. But people who add gratuitous x's and z's to their words are possibly one of the worst offenders.

First Post: The Inspiration

As I write this, my friend Emily is sitting next to me, typing furiously on her own blog. You could say that she inspired me. And by that I mean the conversation went something like this:

me: Did I tell you we have to have to have blogs for Desktop Design class?

Emily: A BLOG! I think I'm going to make one.

me: What will you write about?

Emily: I dunno. My life. I'll complain about stuff. You know. The usual.

me: Oh.

(brief pause)

me: You know what? I think I'll make a blog too. Mine'll be better than yours.

Emily: Oh God. Don't tell me you're getting all competitive about this.

me: ... nah.

(brief pause)

me: So, what are you calling yours?

Emily: I dunno.

me: Call it "Emily: Uncensored and Unabridged"

Emily: THAT'S GREAT!

me: Give me credit.

(brief pause)

Emily: It's not fair how you can just WRITE like that.

So pretty much this is Insipid Post #1.

More to follow.