You're Trouble

It is just way too entertaining to indulge in observing the delightful train wreck dynasty of self absorption that Taylor Swift has created for herself. America’s sweetheart? More like sweetheart of every boybandmoodyrockershirtlessbrooder to be gracing our great land with their latte-drinking, leather-jacket-wearing, bed headed presence. Innocent as apple pie? I don’t think so.

I allowed myself a little guffaw at one of Taylor’s pitifully ironic interviews, where she claimed, “I want to be that girl that when she falls in love, it’s a big deal and a rare thing.”

Allow me to debunk said statement:

http://pinterest.com/pin/481603753871662474/

This girl’s dating track record would put Colin Farrell to shame. For all her whiny songs about how boys have treated her so badly, and her ‘woe is me all I do is wear cute 50’s inspired dresses and play my guitar barefoot while I squint-smile at you’ persona, her indulgent dating habits aren’t doing much to inspire commiseration.

Plus, I have a sneaking suspicion that she is much more business savvy about her career choices than her adolescent demeanor lets on, what with her immense talent as a song writer, spot-on fashion choices at public events, and clever self-marketing. Her Cute As A Button image is a shallow façade, one that has made her lots of money, yet does little to honor respectable womanhood.

A Guilt Trip to Ulta

Oh, outrageously-opulent-lifestyle-championed-by-credit-cards-everywhere, how you call to me. While I have always seen shopping as me just doing my patriotic duty to help keep the economy afloat, alas, the tinderbox that is Wall Street has imploded, and it seems that a budget may be in order.

And it wouldn’t it just be so cruel to find my newfound frugality mocked by the most perfect nail polish color to ever grace the aisles of Ulta. That tiny bottle filled with a luminescent pink confection and peachy sheen cost an outrageous $10, and what else would it be called, but, ‘Recessionista’.

Rest assured, beauty universe, the irony is not lost on me.

It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have been in Ulta anyways, where hundreds of women are daily led to the checkout counter like sheep to the slaughter, their arms brimming with girly must-haves. But really, Essie? Why must you remind me of my commitment to thriftiness with a guilt trip of a name like ‘Recessionista’, all the while looking so chipper and perfect for my expectant fingertips? All you have done is remind me of what I should not have.

I hope you are happy.

Tease. 

Resolutions: The Grumpy Cat Perspective

I have never heard of any resolution being kept after the first five days of January. Cynic though I may be, you have to admit that statement is entirely true. When has a conversation involving resolutions ever involved this repartee: “Guys! You’ll be so impressed. I made a list of 20 resolutions last year and I kept every single one of them! I lost fifteen pounds, found a six-figure job right out of college and found the love of my life, all while simultaneously building my Pinterest empire! I have over 10,000 followers!” Said no one ever.

This just goes to prove what Grumpy Cat would say about resolutions: Don’t bother, because you will fail.

No matter how small and underachieving your resolutions may be, somehow, the minute they are labeled “resolutions” and the shame and trepidation of January 1^st approach, they have been cursed. Resolutions such as but are not limited to: flossing (do any of us know anyone who actually flosses on a regular basis?), reading more (tweets don’t count, lo siento), getting organized (folding your towels differently is a sad sort of satisfaction) or drinking more clear liquids (downing vodka with the locals on your study abroad trip to Russia also doesn’t count).

So if you are really wanting to make some improvements in your life this year, do yourself a favor and resist the urge to call it a resolution. Maybe you’ll have more luck than those poor people already regretting that expensive gym membership.

The Highway Waltz

There’s no way you can live in as gargantuan of a country, ahem, state, as Texas without facing the occasional necessity of driving long hours to get to where you need to go. In 6 hours I could get from my house in Phoenix to sitting on a San Diego beach, scarfing down fish tacos. That same amount of time in Texas will get you lost amongst fields of hay, longhorns and Wrangler-clad cowboys, and guess what, you’re still not at your final destination.

But ahh, the open road! How hard can driving be when you can pick up sweet tea at any gas station/family-run barbeque restaurant/local bar along the way, and country crooners grace the five stations your radio will pick up?

Regardless, driving is a pain, because there is always that person who competes with you for your spot on the road. Here I am, cruising along listening to Josh Turner (that voice), and somebody comes all up on my bumper, guilting me for only going eight over when there is a perfectly nice lane right next to me. Outraged at this inconvenience, they whip by, only to settle into the lane ahead of me and slow back down.

….

Did I miss something? I thought you had some terribly important place to be or something. Some other person to bother perhaps. I feel awkward passing you again, but, you started it.

And so we dance. 

Ch-ch-ch-ch...What?

Netflix has proved its worth many a time. Hours of potential productivity give way in the wake of never-ending archives of distraction. My most recent affinity within Netflix is the random documentaries that educate viewers on the more bizarre facets of culture. One such documentary alerted me to the existence of an infomercial product so kitschy and ridiculous I felt embarrassed for Americana at large.

Obama Chia Pets.

How tacky have we become? One of the most influential people in the world, reduced to a terracotta caricature sprouting a sassy green fro. Besides my gut reaction that said fro may have a slightly racist connotation, I couldn’t help but snicker at the generous options given to the eager American consumer; depending on the demeanor you prefer, you can choose between Obama’s “Determined Pose” and his “Happy Face”, all for the low price of just 17.99.

Other cultures have immortalized their leaders, whether real or fictional, in high aesthetics like murals, poetry, and song (Anyone heard of the Odyssey?). And we have…chia pets. Archaeologists a thousand years from now will surely think our culture was highly advanced.

Now what self-respecting American wouldn’t want that little gem gracing their windowsill? The Obama Chia Pet: pour some water in him and see if he Changes. 

The Scourge of the Sidewalk

At one point or another, we will all come in contact with them. They’re everywhere. On the roads, in the parks, in neighborhoods, maybe on your own street. Their presence is gut wrenching and inescapable.

Runners.

Yes, they inspire a begrudging admiration at times, and may even motivate me to try something other than Zumba once in a while. But, real talk; running is not fun. And some runners take things too far.  In the name of all that is decent, stop flaunting your ridiculously toned body! I see them smirking, knowing the rest of us can tell from their sweaty shirt that they have just run a half marathon, the spring in their step taunting us that they could easily run another twenty miles.

I am perfectly happy not being able to run ten miles without expiring, and I don’t need runners to remind me of how long it’s been since I’ve struggled laboriously to complete a 5K. The only sense of gleeful satisfaction I gain from seeing them bound along the street are those ridiculous Nike running shorts they think are cool.

I know I am not the only one who hates running. 87% of people in our poll (out of 2) agreed that running is painful and unfun. Hateful. Horrific even. 

So no matter how guilty runners try to make me feel, I will stand by the fact that I burn just as many calories dancing in my kitchen to Britney Spears as they do running mile after boring mile.