cats vs. dogs

as anyone who has seen my coffee table book, "all about me," knows (or anyone who has ever heard me talk about my cat or seen me with about any cat), i like kitty cats. a lot. and i REALLY like my cat, lulu. she's a fat bitch, but she's got spunk and i totally fawn over her like the princess she is. moving on.

so i'm a bit of a cat lady (put down the animal-control phones though; i've set a lifelong limit for two at a time). and there's no question that i prefer cats to dogs. i mean, i LIKE dogs. i do! they're cute, and fun, and loyal... but they're needy little beggars who demand semi-frequent attention, and they always make me feel like i need to wash my hands after petting them, and they smell sometimes and slobber and, no, i don't want to play tug or fetch with you right now, you hairy stinky beastmonster.

nonetheless, when my friend sara asked me to dog-sit her pupper louie for a few days, i didn't hesitate: princess lulu had actually managed to acclimate to another living creature (which is, trust me, a major accomplishment. i'm still working on lowering her level of hatred for my 1 year old niece from "danger alert 45" to "reproachful indifference"); the dog knew and liked me (sara and i also work together and have a dog-friendly office, so louie and i are pals); and i've actually had a bit of dog experience that i knew i could rely on (aka poorly raising an ex's puppy, hiding a shitzu for a month and flying it from chicago to los angeles to be adopted in a warmer climate).

so i'm 24 hours in, and i've come to this conclusion: cats and dogs are so different.

ok, that's not a newsflash, but there have been some very interesting power dynamics here at play, and i think i might have a microcosm of zoological behavior happening right now in my apartment.

THE CAT: is very jealous of the dog. the dog gets to go outside. the cat meows resentfully.

THE DOG: is timid in his whoreish attention-seeking. yes, he is a coddled specimen, but he seems to be aware that his needy needs will not be met here. this is the cat's territory, and she will defend it to the death.

THE CAT: wants to eat the dog's food and wants to drink the dog's water. she has her own bowls, but they are of no interest to her highness.

THE DOG: is afraid of going near the cat's food and water bowls. she has exerted her dominance and he retreats like a mere pup.

THE CAT: furiously kneads my flesh, purring her best "fuck you, hound."

FIN

science is fun!

GERMANY ROUND-O UNO

One day in Europe and my expat fires have been fueled

So I’m in Düsseldorf. My initial impression, based solely on the airport, was that all things in Germany essentially look like a giant IKEA. Now now, before you get your panties in a twist, be advised that a) I know IKEA is a Swedish company, and b) I am aware that an entire country cannot possibly take on the characteristics of a build-it-yourself furniture warehouse. Therefore, my initial impression was, admittedly, inaccurate, but the Düsseldorf airport, from what I’ve seen, does LEGIT look like one big ole empty IKEA. I mentioned this to a lovely little southern lady with the cutest darn accent, and she not only wholeheartedly agreed, but also laughed uproariously at my obviously genius-astute observation.

My second impression was that Düsseldorf is the QUIETST PLACE ON EARTH. I have since realized that this is not an accurate statement either (cue the endless stream of drunk dudes), and was rather an ill-informed opinion based on the fact that my flight arrived at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning. It was light out. I had traveled for 16 hours. I legitimately had no idea what day or time it was, so I shall forgive the momentary quiet, as it has since been disproven.

My third impression is that Germany has a ridiculously high proportion of gays. Every two seconds, my gaydar goes flashing, and I’m certain that a pair of gents or a lady with short hair or sneakers is a homo – but are they gay or are they just coolly European? I spied one lady who would, in LA, be easily identified as a big ole’ dyke, and upon smiling my biggest Sapphic-sisterhood smile at her, I got nothing. Ever pair of men I see looks too cozy, and too well-put-together to pass for straight in America, but I am having a hard time believing that Germany is made up of 97% gay men, so I am having to rethink this theory.

My fourth thought thus far is that rich Europeans know how to be rich – and they make it look good. I’ve been told that Düsseldorf is a shopping and vacation destination for wealthy Dutch people, and I would amend that statement to include rich Europeans in general, as I’ve heard snippets of BRITISH, Spanish and Italian being spoken in the streets (I’m sure Dutch is being spoken as well, but it’s all German to me). not only do people flock here from all over the continent, but if they’re rich and they’re shopping on the kenigsallee, the street home to all of the major design and couture houses, they are DONE UP.

But this ain’t no fifth avenue or rodeo drive shit; the wealthy Europeans who come here to spend more money than I make in half a year wear head-to-toe furs and leather in a way that’s unlike anything seen on any wealthy person under 75 in the united states. the Hollywood set would never even be caught dead wearing FUR IS MURDER chic, and if someone even tried to walk park ave wearing a dyed-yellow chinchilla, the PETA folks would be splashing red paint all over them before they could even blink. Here, the wealthy are impossibly put-together from head-to-toe in a very classic way; the women are all in heels, sophisticated trenches and understated yet expensive makeup, and the men are all handsome and perfectly coiffed. See the previous point about how gay all the dudes look.

Dusseldorf is, in fact, a beautiful city with a vibrant culture, and I’m thrilled to have a few more days here to explore when I’m not busy schlepping around this ginormous wine and spirits expo (36,000 people are expected! Yikes!). my hotel is in a “little Tokyo” of sorts in the city, so this area is particularly culturally and linguistically diverse. … which brings me to my point of the day: the privilege of being a native English-speaker.

As a result of centuries of imperialism (PS: DADDY I WILL EXPLAIN THIS TERM TO YOU FOR REAL ;)), the united states’ mid-20^th century ascent to worldwide business dominance, and centuries of philanthropic efforts to “Christianize” and “civilize” the people of the world, English has become a widely-spoken, taught and learned language all over the world. Of course, in America, we can really only be bothered to lean American, and shoot, JR, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.

Having had the benefit of lifelong private education and a degree from a highly-regarded major university, I have, of course, “learned” four languages: Hebrew (jew!), latin (dead language or not, that counts), French (ummm I really sucked at that) and Spanish (which I can muster the energy to vaguely read and or speak only upon threat of death or mortal humiliation, and a language at which I dramatically improve at speaking when under the influence of a drinkypoo or two). But truthfully, I speak none of these languages, nor do I really even attempt to.

But why should i? why would I need or want to put myself in an uncomfortable situation, even when in a foreign country, when everyone around me will cater to my needs and respond to my timidly-put requests and questions in their own broken English? Why should I make the effort, when everyone around me will do it for me?

Of course, I speak no german (danke is my current go-to), and am tremendously relieved to find the natives of this fine country bridging the language gap for me, but I can’t help but feel like a major asshole every time I walk into a store, spit out one word (thus far coffee and water have resulted in the desired effects, thank god), and have some genial german responds in perfectly-phrased english. What’s worse is that I’ve found myself expecting, rather than hoping, that people will speak English and therefore understand my feeble attempts at communication, which leaves me feeling like an entitled shithead who epitomizes the ugly American persona: someone unwilling to bend, even whist standing along the banks of the rhine, to the local language or customs.

I will continue to struggle with this sense of language-entitlement, doubtlessly, but that’s not going to change or alter my behavior, if only because I do not, in fact, speak german. However, I hope to endlessly convey a silent apology for being a dickhead in every timid English-language request I make.

Ok, I must get myself to bed. Delirium has set in, so don’t judge me too harshly. Xoxo GOODBYE, as we say in America (fuck yeah).

Ps: oh yeah. I need to move to Europe, STAT. whichever country’s language I manage to master first wins.

reflections of a former sorority girl

every time i see a woman in her mid-late 20s driving a car with her sorority's letters emblazoned on the back with some heinous sticker, i can't help but ask myself, "really? you're still clinging to some sort of collegiate alcohol-and-sex-fueled affiliation? you don't have, like... a real life now?"

proponents of the greek system will be quick to lambast me, arguing that there's more to being in a sorority than doing beer bongs on the roof of a frat house while several "brothers" you've hooked up with rate the quality of your body and or sexual performance. sure, there's "sisterhood" and "community service" and "scholarship" and blah blah blah, but let's get real here about the most popular and frequent raison d'etre of the greek system at the majority of colleges in the u.s.: PARTY-TIME!

as a sorority-dropout, i doubt anything i have to say about life in sororities is actually all that groundbreaking. there's excessive drinking, promiscuity, gossip, infighting, and every other stereotyped scenario you've seen played out in the media in the last 30 years, but i'd like to offer the unique perspective of someone who drank the (low-cal sorority girl) kool-aid... and then dropped all guises of sisterhood like a bad habit. yes, i was once a girl awoken by frat boys at 10am saturdays with shots of pucker that led to day-long drinking sessions. indeed, i have been to a sorority "barn dance" (admittedly, only one), replete with making out on a hay bale, climbing over a fence, tearing my shirt and landing in a puddle of mud, and hitting on the DJ (because i claimed he looked like nick carter. dear lord, am i the most embarrassing human being alive?).

so, i've been there, i've done that, and now, i've got something to say about: THE SORORITY GIRL UNIFORM.

i think women's fashion in general is driven in many ways by the culture in which we live; one which encourages women to compete (with each other) for men - based on the way they look. dress like this and you'll be successful, beautiful, and you'll snag (and keep!) that man, says our cultural influencer, the fashion media... which in turn distributes trends to the masses, and in this case, sorority girls, who are like, clearly SO pumped to be hot, ace their exams, and date the cutest football player (full disclosure: i was IN LOVE with bennie joppru).

consequently, there is definitely a fair amount of pressure to dress and look a certain way when you live in a sorority house with 60 other young women, who will, in fact, judge you. as a matter of fact, the entire sorority rush process is based on judging other women; from five minutes you spend with an awkward 18 year-old, you're expected to essentially score these girls, and cut them accordingly (ok, again with the full disclosure: i ran rush at my sorority one year. i was maybe the biggest and judgiest bitch ever. i'm only slightly repentant).

in the early 2000s, when i was a sorority girl (in michigan at least, ok?), the cutest-ever outfit was some sort of sparkly top accompanied by tight, bootcut black pants. preferably from express. depending on the party and some nights of the week, the sisters would swap jeans for the black pants, but there was sort of always a homogeneous look going on.

when living in the sorority house, every night out is prefaced with the usual ritual of putting on the uniform, including glittery eyemakeup and dangly earrings, then pre-partying with shots, usually accompanied by some sort of game. my friends and i were particularly fond of the classic, "never have i ever," and actually created our own bitchy little clique using this game as "initiation" to our exclusive group, which offered benefits such as eligibility to be awarded the "sketchy crown," an alternately prestigious and shameful title bestowed upon the girl who had been, essentially, the drunkest slut as of late. that is, clearly, a reflection best saved for another time.

anyway, back to the uniform and deflecting attention from aforementioned embarrassing information, one day, my sophomore year, a fellow californian and i had had it; i had likely just taken off my skintight red pants and requisite square-toed boots (actual outfit worn by yours truly. sigh.) when we decided that we had HAD IT with the incredible amount of effort constantly demanded of us. we didn't WANT to wear heels anymore. we didn't WANT to wear those godforsaken black pants with no fucking pockets, therefore demanding that you carry an appropriately tiny little coordinating clutch in which to carry all of your belongings.

we called it "california casual." it meant jeans; it meant (diesel. yup.) sneakers; it was, essentially, a big "up yours" to the sorority status-quo, and holy jesus i loved it. of course, i was by no means taking some sort of stand that forever changed the face of fashion, sorority-driven or otherwise, but it was empowering, even then, to tell my sisters, "no, i'm not going to blow-dry my (dyed black-and-purple) hair," or that, yes, i did think a tennis skirt was appropriate attire for a frat party.

breaking ranks with the sorority girl uniform may have been a small act of resistance, but i think it was pivotal in my youthful understanding that i was not, in fact, what good sorority girls are "supposed" to be, at least at a school like the university of michigan. in that rah-rah, go greek and go blue environment, sorority girls wear sweatpants with their house letters proudly emblazoned across the butt to class, know all of the guys in their favorite frat by first and last name (in a pre-facebook era!), and look forward to greek week every year with a fervor matched only by their appreciation for low-fat frozen treats.

and, of course, they party. so there i found myself, wearing any of my several pairs of straight-up ARMWARMERS, drinking shitty beer with drunken douchebags, when i realized... this isn't really my thing. i mean, i made some good friends, and there were some good times had, but the whole "sorority girl" identity didn't fit with the person i really was. i mean, i was never really that into the whole thing anyway, and i couldn't ever envision some future version of myself attempting to "network" via some feigned sense of sisterhood that essentially bore no more weight than a thimble in my book (this is similar to my feelings on jdate: i would never want to date anyone specifically looking for a jew. i guess that makes me a typical self-hating jew?).

i broke ranks with the sorority fairly easily and quickly, save a handful of people whom i still keep in touch with (two of whom are big homos = shocker to nobody), and really, never looked back. eventually, after tiring of the endless postings of elaborate wedding and engagement photos (WHY with the engagement photos? barf), i defriended most of them on facebook, and there's no more of a trace of the sorority girl in me than some highly-incriminating photos in albums (remember disposable cameras? people actually had prints!). of course, in half of those photos, i'm wearing the uniform. eventually, i'm not. and then, i'm not there at all.

orange is in

in the world of vegetable-based soups, many smooth, creamy-style soups are the sneakiest bastards of the bunch: they look like the contain cream/dairy, they smell like they contain cream/dairy, and (most importantly), they TASTE like they contain cream/dairy, but TA-DA! they don't! amazing! how do you achieve this waistline-friendly flavorbomb? it's all in the puree, loves.

it's rather simple really, and the best part is that, once you get the hang of it, you can pretty much throw together any vegetables with complimentary flavors and find success sans recipe (i'm still fine-tuning my liquid/solid proportions a bit, which is where recipes help. if you have the energy to recipe-it, you can probably get a good idea of this ratio down pat... or you could fly by the seat of your pants and just live a little). basically, all you need to do is chop some veggies, throw 'em in some stock until they're tender, drop 'em in a food processor (or blender), and puree the shit out of 'em. once you've got a gunky mass that looks an awful lot like babyfood, stir it back into your broth, season, and voila! soup!

here's this concept in action:

last night, after a particularly produce-inspired trip to the market (i love calling the grocery store the market; it makes me feel like i'm a wee little lass who spends her days roaming the cobbled streets of her charming provincial village), inspiration struck: i had sweet potatoes, i had carrots, i had a pantry exploding with various spices: i knew i had a good soup in me.

after sauteing a leek and throwing in some veggie broth (5 cupsish), i threw in two peeled, sliced sweet potatoes and like maybe two handfuls of baby carrots, also chopped (i suppose regular carrots would do, but i never buy them because baby carrots are so versatile and mini-cute-delish). i let all of this come to a boil, then sit over medium heat until veggies were ready to hit the blender. ten minutes later, i had a very orange, very carrot-y soup, and it didn't need much seasoning - a bit of curry powder, ginger and cinnamon and a generous squirt of honey did the trick! i topped my soup with some romano, truffle oil and cracked pepper, and it was YUMM-O.

up next? a kale chip taste-test. rants about toddlers and tiaras. so.many.things!

xo

the post holiday blues

every year, our entire society becomes obsessed with "the holidays." from the day after halloween until january 2, everything we see and hear is about a countdown to christmas, magical family togetherness, overindulgent food (and, obviously, her twin, "battling the holiday bulge"), and trinkets and sweaters and motherfucking earrings that say things like "joy," "peace," and "i heart santa." we are assaulted from all sides, and we like it. we walk through the world and everything seems different: the air seems more energetic, the streets are more bustling, and life is special, finally imbued with meaning in a dazzling array of twinkling lights and glittery presents and sparkling seasonality. we all buy right into the Holiday Magic because it makes us feel good, and we're happier and better people and give pennies to people in santa hats who ring bells obnoxiously outside of the grocery store. we live it and breathe it and absolutely love it for two full months - and then, just like that, it's over.

as this sad post-holiday time rolls around, i always find myself paying extra attention to the houses that still have their lights up. they look like twinkling little beacons of joy in the cold darkness of a january night, little orbs that whisper, "sssshhhh... forget about your new year's resolution. it's still the holidays - there's always next week!" i enjoy that, seeing my fellow holiday-romantics gently clinging to the magic of the season, unlike their grinch-like unlit houses next door.

i also find myself paying attention to the discarded christmas trees as they make their slow appearance to the curb. once beloved talismans of our Holiday Spirit, these pines are unceremoniously stripped of their charms and discarded, no longer serving their purpose as expressions of joy, and, instead, mere dry, needle-dropping nuisances that the dog or cat will invariably knock over. this ritual is that continues for months; from the assholes who toss their tree out on december 26th, to the slackers who line up their brittle brown shrub in march, i monitor the great tree disposal as i drive, noticing when the neighbor puts his tree out on a respectable january 6, marveling at the pile of properly-discarded trees at the fire station, grumbling at the jerk who carelessly tossed his out the car on the side of the freeway. asshole.

this comes every year, the cycle of holiday-mania, followed by a slight depression as the entire world comes off this high of fruitcakes and presents and excessive spending and wearing sequins and drunken missteps under mistletoe. suddenly, it's back to life, back to reality, and boring jobs and paying bills and going to the gym to combat the hell you just put your body and budget through.

clearly, we need a distraction to lift our drab spirits: it is officially valentine's day. god bless you, corporate-capitalist brainwashing.

leafy green thing reveal: the soup.

last night's kale, potato and chickpea soup turned out to be superdelish, and although i don't "do" recipes, here's everything that went into the pot:

1 can chickpeas
1 can diced tomatoes
2 small yellow potatoes, cubed
two stalks of kale - the stalk is very bitter! just tear off small pieces of leaves and drop them right into the soup!
1/2 onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced

now, when i cook, i generally just season things to taste, so i can't provide precise measurements of anything, but here are the spices i used:

in a small saucepan, i made a sort of paste out of the following spices, by mixing with a small amount of heated olive oil (if your pasty-mixture gets too thick, add a splash of water or broth from your soup): tumeric, cumin, smoked paprika, curry powder and small amounts of ginger and cinnamon. after mixing the paste into the broth, i realized that my soup still wasn't quite there, so i made another batch of paste to mix in. when working without strict recipes, it is best to err on the side of caution; you can always add more cumin to your dish, but you can't take away a too-generous dose of hot mustard powder (been there, done that and holy shit does it ruin a dish). also, you don't need no stinkin recipes, people! trust your palate and taste your food - it's the only way you'll improve your palate, and it takes all of the ugh-boring-precise-scienceness out of cooking, which should be all about fun with great tasting food and whatever-fits-your-budget wine!

the final important factor in balancing out this soup's flavor was a simple one that works wonders to add a needed layer of complexity to many dishes made with big bold spices like these - you need some acid, y'alll! of course, i'm not talking tune in, turn on and drop out style stuff here, i mean nothing more complicated than a plain ole lemon. lemon juice does amazing things - it cools heat, it lifts smoky, heavy flavors and it is an essential ingredient in my kitchen pretty much anytime anyone lets me near the tumeric.

more soup related tips and recipes will be popping up soon - what kind of soup do YOU want to know how to make?

leafy green thing

so, i've recently become acquainted with a leafy green thing you might know as kale. having once picked up a similar-looking leafy green thing and been consequently chided that what i was holding was not kale but, in fact, ________ (i don't know, swiss chard or something?), i've since learned to recognize this beast by its dark green leaves that even manage to look super healthy. it's pretty tasty too, and i think you should all give kale chips a try!

so now i have a bundle of kale in my fridge, and tonight, i will attempt to cook it. i'm thinking of throwing together some sort of soup with tomatoes and potatoes and perhaps some kind of chickpea situation, and i kinda wish i had some lentils because that sounds like it would be a nice, hearty touch on a reasonably chilly la night. i've also got some boxed wine (don't hate), so this is looking like it should be a pretty successful evening after a day of being awesome.

oy.

oh heeeey, yeah so it's been like a year since i've blogged anything.

that's ok. so i'm back.

and just for clarification, this isn't part of some new year's resolution thing. sometimes a girl's just gotta get.it.together a bit, you know what i mean?

soooo, that brings us back to the bloggity-blog-blog. this time around, though, we're going to have more fun. more succinct fun too, maybe!

boo fucking hoo

as part of my adjustment to adulthood, i've been spending the past month in my lovely apartment apologizing to people. "i'm sorry i ran out of cumin and this soup is less-than-perfect!" i've bemoaned. "i'm sorry, i wish i had cleaned more before you got here! i've just been so crazy," i keep telling people. "oh, i'm so embarrassed about the state of my bathroom - you must forgive me!" i've demanded. i can't help it; i'm on compulsive hostess with the mostess behavior at the moment, wanting every single tiny thing to be just so, every minute detail to be absofuckingperfect. thankfully, i'm a realist and have learned to just sorta live with that box in the bathroom and the as-yet-unhung art laying around wherever, but today, as i faced the prospect of my first real-life houseguest, i was not surprised to find myself on all fours, vacuuming the shit out of every square inch of the place.

i'd done some heavy-duty cleaning in the kitchen, master bathroom and my bedroom (which is now making a very strong princess statement thanks to the most questionable impulse purchase of my life, the purple velvet tufted headboard which is totally cute but really, um... purple), and was about halfway through the living/dining room when the most unfortunate thought crept into my head: "god, it sucks that this place is so big. it takes forever to fucking vacuum." umm, yeah, i'd like to officially nominate myself for most obnoxious statement of the year, because omg who complains about that shit? like, "ooooh, yeah, my life is too awesome and i have waaaay too many nice things and it sucks so hard to be me!" i do, i thought to myself, instantly nicknaming myself captain complaint; and, per usual, i'm fucking right.

i've got to admit it; i'm a bit of a complainer. i really, truly don't mean to do it, guys (thank you to anyone who is still my friend and for not stabbing me every time i've sighed and said, "i'm hungry," which is admittedly kinda really-semi-frequent, but i like to nosh, so leave me alone), but apparently complaining has been as much a part of my life as cats and near-narcissiscm have, for like, ever. i mean, i guess the word "apparently" isn't exactly appropriate, as i've known this about myself since 1992, when i was a awarded one of the highest and most meaningful accolades of my super illustrious life: best frog catcherSLASHbiggest complainer. yup, fancy!

you're probably wondering what type of institution would issue such awards, and i'm proud to report that i earned that title at the one and only sierra ski and pack club sleep away camp, where my parents deposited me for two consecutive years, once as the youngest (by 2-3 YEARS, aka motherfucking eons in kid ages) in the only female "tent" in camp, and the next year as the eldest amongst the first and only boys-and-girls group thing, which included little boys two years younger than me falling in love with me (and resulting in a very awkward conversation, negotiated by my C.I.T. who was maybe three years older than i and, ugh, seriously fucking horrible as some little kid explained that he was only mean to me because he liked me. barf.). however, the title of biggest complainer was only bestowed upon me once, and i think probably pretty clearly reflects that i had no friends and totally hated camp, but no hard feelings, mom and dad. i sure hope you enjoyed your two weeks of kid-freedom, you selfish jerks. jkloveyou!

anywaaay, i'm rather certain my endless sighs of, "are we there yet?," "i'm tired," "i'm hungry," among other whiny things that undoubtedly escaped my lips, had something to do with my unpopularity, which in turn fueled my admittedly freakishly good frog-catching skills. our tent was right next to this gross swampy sort of creek-thing, which housed hundreds of ping-pong-ball-sized frogs, buried in the mud. while my troop-mates (i'm not sure that is correct camp terminology, but like i said, i wasn't that into it) spent their free time laughing with each other, braiding each other's hair and talking about which boys they had crushes on, i was usually elbow-deep in mud, endlessly digging around for frogs, catching them, naming them, and promptly releasing them. i'm rather certain these cool older girls thought i was a total freak (um, i don't really blame them), and i think the "best frog catcherSLASHbiggest complainer" award sums up their feelings about me pretty accurately. they might as well have said, "best annoying weird kid," and they probably wanted to but the counselor wouldn't let them.

so i guess i shouldn't be too surprised when i find myself complaining, despite the general awesomeness of my life, but i think i'm turning a new leaf, and thinking of curbing my complaint-quotient. when i griped needlessly as a child, poppa b used to always say, "i'll give you something to cry about," in a very archie bunker way, like he was going to smack me around or something (which he totally didn't. no libel here, daddy!), and i feel as though i need to start saying that to myself now that i'm a real-life adult and can admit that hungry as i may be, i'll never know real hunger. truthfully, my life is an embarrassment of riches, and i could do well to remind myself of that sometimes rather than bemoaning the minor hiccups, inconveniences and bumps in the fucking pink sparkly road that is my life. so, there you have it, folks! no more bitching! i'm an all new me!*

ugh, i have to get in the fucking shower and go to my stinkin' job. ugh, so annoying. ugh.

*starting next week, i promise.

big brother 2010

i've just got to say that i'm kinda getting freaked out by the prospect of a real-life "big brother," and yes, in a very orwellian way. if you're a little rusty on your 1984, fret not; i'm gonna hit you with a twitter-style synopsis, 140 characters or less: big brother is the dictator in a futuristic world that’s all surveillancey and shit. succinct! ok, so you might be asking yourself, "what's going on in planet sparkle that's making rachel morgan so freaking paranoid?" (or you might be asking yourself, "what am i doing reading this blog right now? i have a lasagna in the oven and i must tend to it lest it burn." per my most recent blog, i've started to try to accept the fact that just maaaaybe, people aren't thinking only of me, all the time. bastards.) well, guys, i hate to be the one to break it to you, but i'm pretty sure the internet is big brother.

"THE INTERNET?!" you're likely asking yourself, shocked that anyone would possibly cast such aspersions on the one thing we all love so much that we've devised ways to carry with us at all times, talk about constantly, and spend countless hours enjoying her bountiful pleasures, such as google, youtube and porn. and, i have to say, yes; the internet is one powerful motherfucker. sure, the internet has a solid hold over all of us (i can admit that facebook and i might be best friends. sorry, ninja, you've been replaced. and, yes, this is because you've been a total slacker in your reciprocal blog loving. jk!!! love you!!! sorry, that interlude was probably really boring to everyone else reading this.), and i can't even begin to imagine how anyone ever did work or accomplished things before the internet. like, you had to fax people? and before that, call people? and before that, telegraph people? and before that, write to people and pray that it got there? jesus fucking christ that sounds awful.

ok, so we're hooked on this powerful beast, but what is really starting to freak me out is that the internet knows everything about me. like, seriously. if i google my name, i'm all over the fucking place, with everything from my high school and college athletics, to the really embarrassing things i wrote about nick carter like a decade ago, to articles i've written in my current 9-5ever. in a lot of ways, i feel like my life has been documented, forever, by the megabeast, the internet. i'm not so sure how i feel about this anymore, internet. i'm actually feeling a little violated... but i do understand that these are sort of very public sphere things i'm complaining about, so i'll let this one slide for now.

but i've got to take a stand, because not only are you using your crazy powers to spread the word of my awesomeness (i'm ok with that part, yo), you're also fucking hacking my shit now! like, every time i log into facebook, i'm bombarded with lesbian ads. and, no, i do not want to watch the movie drool, which is described as: anora collects her kids and new female lover for an offbeat roadtrip to bury daddy. that sounds terrrrible, facebook! and, wow, it is sooooo convenient that you're looking for 27 year old photographers! i just happen to be 27! and have like a bagillion facebook pictures!!! it's like you're in my head, internet!!!

i've been silently accepting you and your stupid targeted ads for a while now, internet (oh google is so guilty too, btw), because they've been somewhat vague and shot-in-the-dark-ish for the most part (i mean, sure you know i'm a big ol' dyke, but that's not exactly difficult to determine, is it?), but i think you took things a step too far today, big brother internet bastard. there i was, just a little rachel morgan doing her rachel morgan things, when i said to myself, "hey, rmb! let's check out some news on the superliberalawesomeadmittedlybiased website, huffingtonpost.com!" among headlines like "top 10 worst internet passwords" and "killer spiders invade austraia" (TRUTH TIME: if this headline ran with the word "california" in place of "australia," there is a reallyprobably chance this blog would center around my megahatred of spiders and serious concern that i would die, as well as various commentary about the movie arachnophobia.), there was a banner from the website allposters.com, which i'd recently been browsing for some crap to put on my walls.

specifically, i'd been looking at vintagey prints from one of my all time favorite movies, a philadelphia story, starring katharine hepburn, cary grant and james ste wart. i'd debated over a few, but didn't buy anything, and then, no more than ten minutes later, on the front page of huffpo, were the smiling faces of good ole' khep, cgrant and jstew... in an ad that not only peddled a philadelphia story, but also anything any of the stars had been in (which among those three is quite a resume, and i have to offer a momentary shout out to khep, because i maybe love her). i really couldn't believe you took it there, internet. i mean, it is one thing to be all helpful and informative and feed my late night shopping habit, and it is a whole other thing to monitor my every keystroke, gleaning your evil little knowledge from things like my desire to not have naked walls.

but, internet, bristle as i may at your dominance, i have to admit that i'm totally your bitch. like, you are the most powerful big brother in the history of big brothers, and you've got us right where you want us. i'm not certain we'd be able to figure out how to contact each other without you, internet. and, like, if facebook wasn't reminding me to reconnect with people, i totally wouldn't (actually, (99% of the people fb urges me to reconnect with are people i only vaguely remember existing, so like, don't care)! i remember when you were just a baby, internet. when you were all noisy and dial-uppy and slow and i had the stupidest aol screen name ever, piixy, ugh, which i am still annoyed by today. you were so charming and novel back then! now, over a decade later, the honeymoon is over.

yet, somehow, i'm more in love with you than ever. and i guess that's a good thing, because let's face it; you're not going anywhere anytime soon (apocalypse pending). see you on dads in short shorts tomorrow.

insert cliche: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

i have very patient and indulging friends. nearly all of them, upon some preliminary visit to my apartment, are subjected to reading what i like to call a coffee table book: "got to be me," a fill-in-the-blank sorta early education thing that children fill in with adorable answers in nearly illegible scrawl, and then when they grow up to be sane people, they file away in some unthought about place. i, however, force this book on people (if i can't get them into my house to read it, i will at least tell them about it in animated detail), as if they care nearly as much as i do about the mental state of (like maybe) 7 year old rachel.

well, friends, get ready for a whole new syllabus for rachel morgan 101, because i am now the proud owner of various other ridiculous things that i wrote as a child! you will be happy to know that themes 1-3 of "got to be me" are strongly recurrent, but for those of you who may have fallen behind in your reading, here's a refresher: 1. cats. specifically the longing for one. ex: "i'd use a magic wand to: get me a cat;" "i like to play: cats;" "i would be happier if: i had a cat." 2. hating my brother. really, its all about the fact that he exists in general. ex: "i hate it when: my brother talks;" "i would not like to have: another brother;" "what really bothers me is: my brother." 3. how much i love myself. in pretty much every way. ex: "two of my favorite things are: cats and me;" "i really like: me;" "one of the best things about me is: everything." for further background on "got to be me," please see me after class.

seriously, i just unearthed a construction-paper "book" i made when i was 6. it is called "my book about me," and the first page says, "my name is rachel. i am 6 years old and i have already lost 4 teeth! i like myself." omg, i am so totally bustedly predictable with the self-admiration. several pages later, in the midst of discussing my rigorous academic schedule (dogs and hebrew, apparently), i write, "i want to learn about cats." ok, so at least there's no hardcore brother bashing in this book, but two out of three isn't bad, right? in case you need further proof, here is the last page of the book (although there are multiple cat-and-self adoration instances within): "i like many things about myself. i like being jewish. i like being a part of my family. i like books. my face."

finding this second piece of evidence that so strongly mirrored the first, i was forced to take a moment to take a hard look at myself, ask myself some serious questions, and mainly, laugh hysterically at the fact that if nothing else, i'm consistent. sure, i've grown up and realized that it's good to have interests in things other than cats, and that no, my brother really isn't all that bad (although, truthfully, that animosity was a slightly lingering phase, but now like toootal 180! xoxxoxox, hjb), but this blog is essentially a grown-up version of these books in which i fondly write about myself (note that i didn't mention anything about not being slightly in love with my own awesomeness anymore; i think i just say it out loud less frequently now).

(parenthetical paragraph: as i kept throwing those parentheses in that last P, i couldn't help but mention that parenthetical writing, when combined with my intense narcissism, has made me a lifetime believer that someone is reading, and doubtlessly loving my endless witticisms. the evidence for that currently is in... um, nearly everything i write, but i've recently discovered that i was an early convert, when i came across "room 31's how to book," in which my classmates and i instruct a reader on how to do things like: "how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, by d. stern (dumb girl);" "how to try to get out of eating vegetables, a. kaufman (fat kid);" "how to drive a car, by j. shanaberg (yeah, right);" and of course, "how to make a book, by rachel morgan" (fucking nerd). anyway, i must admit i was slightly shocked when i read the first sentence in my how-to-book-it: "hello, fans! (thank you, thank you)." UM OMG. i'm 99.9999% sure that i've written that exact sentence somewhere in this blog. well, i probably would've thrown in a fancier word or two, but the little me was totally awesome, and i was pleasantly surprised to see that i thought highly enough of myself to assume that i had a readership, even at that young (and apparently delusional) age.)

i guess i can no longer ignore the fact that although i'm grown up, livin' the high life with a genuine, amazingly adorable kitty that the 6 year old me would be insanely jealous of, i've still been known to dote (practically coo) on her with just a little bit of that kid-obsessed-kid-crazy-eye-thing that the 7 year old me would likely do (and lets face it, probably 70, but seriously, guys, i promise to never be a crazy cat lady!!). i can admit to maaaybe having a healthy dose of self confidence too, but i rarely do things like devote entire blog entries to writing about myself and comparing my current self to my younger self by pulling direct quotes and pretending they're primary sources for some sort of made up class about myself?

yup, when you boil it down, i'm the exact same person i was 20 years ago. except i like my brother. and i have boobs. and a cat (suck on that, kid me!).

bad luck voodoo clock

as new year's eve approaches, many of us might find our minds wandering towards the topic of time a bit more frequently than throughout the rest of the year (march 6, 2009: oh shit! i have a meeting in 10 minutes! i have time to stop at starbucks, right?, vs dec 28, 2009: oh shit! i only have three days to quit smoking, lose ten pounds and learn tai chi and therefore fulfill all my new year's resolutions for 2009!). time is something that i generally try to be pretty aware of, and i've even been known to be a sliiiiiiggghhttt pain in the ass about being on time/early/way-too-early for movies, parties, concerts, events, meetings, airports (arrival and departure), dinners, weddings, etc etc.

for the past 24 hours, my mind has been slightly more pre-occupied by time than is usual for even my extremely punctual self. well, sorta... kinda...ok... actually, i've been obsessed with a clock. and not like a clock i want to BUY or anything (although that does sound very much like something i would do/say). allow me to explain:

when i moved into my last apartment, i hung this CLOCK. its a sorta-ish kinda cute-ish maybe cheap plastic target clock that i kinda liked and bought a looooooooooong time ago before finally hanging it up in the lovely apartment i shared with my dear stefario. i never really had a problem or particular affinity to the clock, but remember that i'd often hear it ticking when the room was very quiet. i never gave the ticking sound much thought other than an occasional giggle to myself about how freaked out captain hook would be, and the clock lived happily and unobtrusively on my wall for a year.

fast forward to last night. after a long day of moving and a double-dose of codeine cough syrup (did i mention i'm sickly and have strep throat? seriously, i feel like the little invalid boy in the secret garden), i struggled through the final throes of unpacking, having spent a good 45 minutes placing all like 800 pairs of my shoes onto their very own SHOE SHELVES!!! (sorry, just got really excited about the shoe shelf.) anyway, i picked up a yet-untouched box, took off the lid, and my ears were immediately assaulted by the horrendous TICKING of the clock!

i was shocked: i hadn't seen, thought about or even remotely cared about the clock in more than nine months, and suddenly, i just hated the thing. i was totally and utterly convinced that the clock (and its subsequent ticking) was evil! so i tore the clock out of the box, ripped the battery off its back and hid the repugnant thing away from me in the closet. um, at this point, i would like to point out that i had been moving all day, taken a double dose of codeine, and also later spent 5 minutes freaking out and looking for a spider in my bed that did not exist... i think i might have actually been slightly hallucinating.

anywayyy, i woke up this morning, saw the clock and slightly giggled at my cough-syrup-induced insanity, but somehow, i was still quite certain in my reserve that the clock was, if not truly "evil" per se, bad luck. i'm a big believer in following your gut, as crazy as it may be, and have therefore violently thrown the clock into the garbage! yayayayay! no more bad juju clock!!!!!!! i have decided that i need to purchase a new clock to represent a new year, and a new start for me, and i am inexplicably certain that getting rid of that clock is only going to bring good things. maybe its symbolic for like cleansing my life or some deep shit.

so i guess that this slightly literal point about time (and clocks?) and the upcoming new year is that, although the insane hooplah of a new year's eve celebration, coupled with the ridiculous pressure put on things like new year's resolutions are way too much over-hyped bullshit, the beginning of a new year is always the opportunity for a fresh start and for something new. so get rid of something that symbolizes the crap of the past, yo! buy new things for a new and totally kickass 2010!!! this will also stimulate the economy! and create new jobs! and make everyone happy in 2010!!! yaaaaaaaayyy!!!!!!

if i ever run for public office, someone please publish this blog so that people will know i've got a truly sound political mind. happy new year!!!

rub a dub dub

as you may know, i have spent the past few months dealing with the oh-so-pleasant processes of buying a condo and then throwing myself into one of the most terrifying and harrowing experiences i've ever had: remodeling a bathroom. of course, i'm excited and thrilled about the whole thing, but i've found the process extremely difficult and trying, and would have never made it without the help of my wonderful parents, who, as 20% of my readership, are doubtlessly reading this. so before i enter into my typical rant, i must thank the wonderful and fantastic and super-annoying-at-times, momma and poppa b for their many many hours of backbreaking labor and patience with my inability to successfully paint, screwdriver, take a door off its hinges, wash a window or purchase the correct light bulb.

today was moving day, and with the exception of the realization that i don't have nearly enough furniture, everything went pretty well, albeit exhausting. but throughout the day, i just wanted everyone to leave so i could finally enjoy the one moment i'd been fantasizing about for months, dreaming about for weeks, and savoring the thought of nearly endlessly... the first bath. most of you probably don't know this, but i am a serious bath enthusiast. fanatic. fiend.

as a child, i was a voracious reader, and there was nothing i loved more than reading in the bathtub (with the possible exception of writing really, really, terrible poetry/songs). i was the type of reader who wouldn't put down a book to do anything as petty as eat, sleep, talk, walk... pretty much anything... i was a really engaging child, i swear. of course, as a pretty much obsessed swimmer, i was also a big fan of being in the water, so it seems that water + book = reading in the bathtub was a natural progression for me.

i remember locking myself in the bathroom, johnny tremain tucked under my arm (poor, poor johnny and his sad crippled hand! i did a recent re-read of this book and have found that it does stand up to the test of time, johnny tremain fans!), lying in the bathtub, start reading/filling it up (HOLD PLEASE: this is a serious bath survey. am i the only person who lies naked in the bathtub while it slowly fills up? i feel like "normal" people fill it up and then get in? i guess i just like the whole process so much? i need answers!!! is this just another case of rachel-cant-tie-her-shoes-like-99%-of-the-population syndrome? thank you for participating in this very important survey!), filling the tub up to the highest level possible, reading until the water goes cold, draining and repeating. perhaps several times.

since childhood, baths, and reading in bathtubs have remained a hardcore favorite activity of mine, so when i bought the condo, i immediately knew that the 14-inch deep piece of crap they were passing off as a "bathtub" wasn't going to do. of course, my wanting a new bathtub pretty much quickly snowballed into wanting a new bathroom, then expanding the bathroom, then building a cabinet and installing doors and moving electrical boxes. so here i am, 10 weeks later, with a brand new, pretty bathroom... complete with the deepest fucking bathtub i could find.

sure, this 27 inch beauty makes the entire bathroom feel like it was specially-built for someone at least five inches taller than i am. sure, i have to make sure i don't tip over when i climb in because i have to lift my short little leg so high. who cares?!?! this tub is awesome. seriously, i splashed around like i kid!! water sloshed around and didn't even reach the top!! i can do a 360 in the middle of the tub! it took like 10 minutes to fill up because it is so awesomely deep!! this tub is big enough for two (wink wink)!

i'm a happy camper.

today's bath was bookless, but blissful. looking forward to many more, and extending invitations to come visit me!!! yay!

rmb

an ode to my BFF

this holiday season, i've decided to take stock of the things for which i'm most grateful. i've got a wonderful (albeit totally fucking crazy) family, a cool job (i like drinking and writing. that sounds like i mean i like to drink and THEN write, which would be rather hemingway-esque of me, but drunken writing is definitely not something at which i excel. i'll drunk blog for y'all sometime, and you'll be all "WOAH! who let courtney love loose on this ridiculous pink glitterblog?"), a totally VALLEYTASTIC condo, which i will eventually move into (patience is so not my forte. these past 10 weeks of waiting for my bathroom remodel to be finished have been absolute TORTURE!), and amazing, hot, talented, smart and funny friends (that's you!). moreover, i have seriously the best BFF a girl could ever ask for, so drum roll please as i introduce a blog dedicated to my one and only, the super stealth, badass motherfucker, NINJA!!!!!!!

for those of you who don't know, ninja and i met during our 1L year of law school (you know, that thing that most people go to because they want to be lawyers, yet i went to and spent a year at the beach before running for the hills, swearing to jab my eyeballs out with hot pokers if anyone ever tried to put me in a SUIT again and told me to like, LITIGATE?). i remember the first time i met ninja, as she sat outside studying with two other girls i knew. naturally, as the semi-loner i was for the first few weeks of law school, i didn't pay her much heed. i do, however, remember that she was wearing cute turquoise sandals. i should've known then that we were meant to be.

a few months into law school, ninja and i drunkenly befriended each other on the fabulous third street promenade, where we were joined by several of our classmates for a friend's birthday party. it was right around halloween, and ninja and i met a woman in a pharaoh costume. we took pictures with her! and each other! OMG! it was just sheer fucking bliss!!!!

over the course of the rest of our 1L year, ninja and i (and the fabulous ficks, her totally excellent boyfriend and another dear friend of mine!!! don't worry, buddy, i'd never forget you!!) learned that we shared several similar interests, including but not limited to: beer, eating until you can't walk, drinking beer, hearts, burritos, unicorns, shopping, sequins, buying beer, breakfast burritos, mario party, building beer towers, dance parties, pizza, getting fat, rolling around the sand like beached whales, and admittedly, a fair amount of consumption of THC (wink wink, only if it is not too incriminating? good thing i live in CA, where this kind of thing is pretty much standard procedure).

our friendship continued to flourish the summer after law school, aka the best and most worthless summer of our lives, when ficks, ninja, my ex and i were an indefatigable foursome, terrorizing the streets of malibu, dancing, singing, eating and drinking our way many really ridiculous situations, including but not limited to: window-breaking, disneyland fight-picking, trash can peeing, mid-afternoon communal passing out, and a fair amount of roommate baiting. that was four and a half years ago, and i'd just like to say one thing to you, ninj: the magic is still there.

if you've managed to read through that (only slightly) embarrassing introduction without giving up on this lovefest as little more than my pathetic attempt to secure our spots on the next season of the bad girls' club, hi! your efforts will be rewarded, because i'm going to hit you with 10 fabulous things about my BFF. enjoy!

1. she wanted to buy an entire box of lighters that had a light that shone the image of a heart and the word "love." i only let her buy seven, and she gave me one anyway :). love you, ninja!!!

2. she won't bat an eyelash, instantly saying yes when the waiter asks if we'd like another round. at noon. on a tuesday.

3. she is in love with her dog, toby, even though he is a BAD DOG who farts a lot and eats garbage. i've got a bad kitty of my own, so i can relate.

4. she loves teal! like i love pink! we're motherfucking soulmates!

5. at least 30% of our jokes to each other are about my jewiness or her asianness. we embrace our mindless stereotyping, apparently.

6. when i suggested we share a dish at a restaurant, her response was "fuck that shit i'm hungry." don't mess with a hungry ninja!!!

7. um HELLOOOOOO, she's a NINJA!!!! ok, not really. but that's her nickname and i'm pretty sure she goes by it at leas 75% of the time, which is pure awesome.

8. i don't think i've ever had so much fun with someone for so many years... and remembered so few specifics about what we did and why it was fun.... hmmmm....

9. ninja is an actual LAWYER! hot, right?

10. ninja is the best, sweetest, most loving and supportive friend a girl could ask for. she's seen me through the shittiest times of my life and she's celebrated all of my happiness alongside me. i hope to do the same for her, and look forward to the day when we're 89 years old, living in a pink-and-teal palace with the cloned offspring of toby and lulu, eating and drinking whatever the fuck we want (we will be old and won't care), wearing sequined mumus, and rocking back and forth on our unicorn rocking chairs. sounds like heaven to me :)

love you, ninj!!!! merry christmas!!!

ps: i need to add a number 11, because there's nothing i love more about our friendship than the ability to have conversations as follows:

ninja: you spelled toby's name wrong
rachel: ugh, bitch
ninja: no, YOU'RE a bitch!
rachel: no, you!!!!!
ninja: no YOU're a bitch!
rachel: BITCH!
ninja: love you.

gobbletastic

smack dab in the middle of america's two favorite holidays, halloween (aka whore-o-ween) and christmas (aka santafest), falls thanksgiving, an antiquated and as-of-late overlooked holiday that conjures norman rockwellian images of white middle class families holding hands whilst lovingly gnawing on turkey together. in these traditional notions of what it means to give thanks, everyone is happy, satiated, charitable and content, and between mouthfuls of perfectly-prepared green bean casserole and polite please-and-thank-yous, thanksgiving is a holiday that celebrates wholesome family togetherness, preferably with two loving parents, 2.5 kids and a cute-as-hell beagle begging for scraps under the table.

i don't know about you, but that image sure-as-shit doesn't resemble any sort of thanksgiving i'm familiar with.

the past decade of thanksgivings in my family have been, more or less, drunken shit shows. there was the thanksgiving a few years ago during which my brother showed up high as a kite, causing some major drama between him and poppa b, which is actually rather standard fare for our family. then there was the thanksgiving during which i came out to my parents (as if they needed corroboration that the "BFF" whom i'd been inseparable from for the past 2 years, was in fact, my girlfriend... oh, the futile vanities of youth), causing my mother to drink an extra bottle or two of wine at dinner. of course, that thanksgiving could only be followed up with a holiday in which we were all rather hammered and i had no choice but to tell my mom i was pretty sure she was a lesbian and that i'd "gotten it" from her. that went well.

i'm certain that i'm not the only person whose thanksgivings more closely resemble the jerry springer show than the cheerfully benign images shoved down our throats every year in commercials. as such, i propose a makeover for thanksgiving and am initiating THXGIVIN 2009, a holiday which will more appropriately fit the lives of modern americans (and will go quite nicely at my family's THXGIVIN 2009, which will be spent with the family of my brother's lovely knocked-up fiancee in the middle of topanga canyon, aka hippieville USA). like whore-o-ween and santafest before it, THXGIVIN will put a commercialized, modern twist on the holiday that consumers will find a bit easier to swallow. please note that i wouldn't dare suggest any changes to the food served at thanksgiving, as it is universally agreed upon that it's the best part of this family-funtastic time in america, the land of the fat. having said that, i propose the following revisions to this awesome, totally fattening holiday:

• we need a mascot. sure, there are the standard pilgrims and turkeys that kids learn about in elementary school as being symbols of the holiday, but let's face it: when is the last time you saw a pilgrim on TV? who gives a crap about turkeys the other 364 days a year? what we need is a THXGIVIN MEERKAT. thanks to the popular discovery channel show meerkat manor, meerkats are bigger than ever in 2009. still, these adorable little critters (seriously, have you ever seen them stand up, survey the landscape and scamper off? CUTE.) haven't quite gotten the recognition they deserve. i propose that with the proper marketing, meerkats can become the next penguin (aka, america's current favorite exotic animal in 99% of new animated movies). soon, children will make macaroni meerkats in art class, moms will go crazy for meerkat jello molds, and dads will love the new meerkat parade at halftime of their favorite football game. now let's give santa a run for his money! gooooooo meerkats!
  
• we need some kickass tunes. this morning, en route to drop two friends off at the airport, the crisp, golden air and general buzz of activity that embodies "the holidays" filled my spirit and caused me to muse aloud, "hmmm... do you think the all-christmas-all-the-time-between-thanksgiving-and-christmas music station has started with the christmas music yet?" with an adventuresome spirit, our trio vowed to find out; soon we were thrilled to hear the tra-la-la-la-las and jingling sleighbells that filled the car with laughter and joy. ok, that sounds really cheesy, but as a christmas-loving-jew, i have to say that there's something magical about bing crosby's dulcet tones as he dreams of white christmases. therefore, THXGIVIN needs to jump on this bandwagon. in order to make this process as smooth as possible, i propose ripping off already-existing christmas songs such as: swimming through a gravy wonderland, elastic waistband rock, little drumstick boy, and randy the totally cute THXGIVIN meerkat.
• we need some sponsors. let's face it: we live in a corporate, commercialized world, where money talks and holidays are brands. what THXGIVIN needs is to cash in on this shit. how? with SPONSORS. just imagine the potential for innovative marketing and advertising campaigns: "THXGIVIN, brought to you by nike: just gobble it," or "THXGIVIN carol cds, available in happy meals at mcdonalds, a proud sponsor of THXGIVIN 2010." This brand exposure is just what this holiday needs to compete with the big dogs, halloween and christmas.

i am confident that making the aforementioned adjustments to this holiday will give thanksgiving that supercharged powerhouse kickassitutde it needs to reclaim its stake on the national landscape and remind the american people that, yes, there is a holiday between whore-o-ween and santafest, and no, it's not that weird 8-day thing that's just for the jews. go on, THXGIVIN, this is your moment to shine.

have a happy, fantastic, drama-free thanksgiving!! xx, rachel morgan

PS: ANONYMOUS, i miss you.

an open letter to anonymous; or more appropriately, CALLED OUT.

dear ANONYMOUS,

this morning, as i struggled to rouse myself from the totally bizarre dreams that have been plaguing my sleep as of late (did i really dream about the vampires from TWILIGHT and meeting them at a swim meet? can vampires even swim? did i just give some disney staffer the idea for the next hit teen TV series, BLOOD AND WATER, about a bunch of sexy vampires who have to struggle to make a name for themselves in the world of competitive swimming, despite never being able to swim outdoors??), my blackberry quietly buzzed on my bedside table, indicating yet another early-morning email waiting to be read/ignored/deleted. i stretched, rolled over, forced my eyes to focus, and grabbed my Bberry, eager to learn what kind of deals borders rewards was throwing at me, or what barbara boxer has to say about the exciting affairs of the CA democratic party (note to self: donating $$ to hillary clinton's presidential campaign will get you on a democratic email blast list for life.).

as i scrolled through the various facebook notifications and emails, i was shocked to see an email from this very bloggerific website, notifying me that ANONYMOUS had commented on my blog. "hmmmmm...." i thought to myself, "i haven't blogged in AGES! i wonder what it says?" i laughed when i read the following comment in response to my most "recent" (if you can count something from 6 months ago as recent) blog:

Dear Rachel,

Why have you stopped blogging?
Did you find a new girlfriend?

Sad.

well, ANONYMOUS, your efforts are appreciated, and i will respond in kind. why have i stopped blogging? god, i wish i had an acceptable answer for this other than some combination of laziness/business/preoccupation with coming up with terrible vampire-themed television shows/laziness. truthfully, i don't, so let's just accept my inconsistent-at-best bloggitude as fact and move on. secondly, no, ANONYMOUS, i have not found a new girlfriend. thanks for asking!

now that i've answered your lovely questions, ANONYMOUS, allow me to pose one to you: WHO ARE YOU? you've opened a pandora's box regarding your identity, and i've come up with the following theories as to the face behind the mask of anonymity.

• you are my dad. i'm lucky enough to have a father who is, if anything, TOO supportive of my many talents and abilities. for four years as a college athlete in a state halfway across the country, my father was at nearly every single one of my games and tournaments. his was the voice cheering the loudest, his was the face sweating the most during triple overtime, and his was the most nervous gait pacing along the back rows of natatoriums across the country. surely the same man who had sweatshirts made of "scat the cat," a construction paper kitty cat i made at the age of 4, would also check my blogs daily, hoping for some sign of life. he is also the man who, when heartbroken at the lack of activity here in world sparkleize, would passive-aggressively shame me into resuming these self-gratifying rants. well played, poppa b... well played.
• you are my ex. yes, i'm talking to you. i've got my suspicions based on your style of writing. however, the use of correct capitalization is throwing me off a bit. but then again, perhaps that was your goal? to make me second-guess my gut instinct? but you also KNOW i don't have a new gf... so why ask? again, to throw me off track? AAAAAHHHHHH damn you and your mind games!!!!!!!
  
• you are a total stranger and one of my many, many admirers. in which case... helllllloooooooo! we should, you know... hang out sometime... i'm footloose and fancy free... and single... and will make empty promises to be a more consistent and enthusiastic blogger if it means you will make out with me!!!!
• you are rachel maddow. this is actually the theory that makes the most sense to me. following the entry in which i professed my undying love and admiration for you, you likely discovered my blog during a sunday afternoon spent googling yourself. then, you probably read all of my posts, realized that i'm totally bomb-diggity, fell in love with me and spent hour after agonizing hour wondering how to get in touch with me. i realize i'm rather intimidating, but, rach, you're a shoo-in. no need to resort to ANONYMOUS taunting in order to get me to pay you the attention you so greatly deserve. i'm here for you, honey. anything you need, anytime. i'll even pick up blogging again, and change my name from sparkleize to R+R=TL4Eva (rachel + rachel = true love 4eva, duh).

these are my leading assumptions as to the identity of the ANONYMOUS commenter. as i said, i'm running with the rachel maddow theory, but if for some reason none of these are correct, well, i've got to hand it to you, ANONYMOUS... you've gotten me back in the blogosphere and piqued my interest as to your true identity. please, contact me again, ANONYMOUS. in the meantime, i toooootally promise to be a better blogger. like, when i'm not writing BLOOD AND WATER and coming up with cool vampire names like AZRAEL (the hot vampire version of michael phelps), ELEKTRA (the sexy she-vamp who falls in love with a mortal) and CROW (the evil vampire dude who is TOTALLY trying to bang elektra), i'm totally gonna be all over this lesbian blogging stuff. like, fer real.

xoxo, rachel morgan.

an open letter to proposition 8

dear prop 8,

let's face it: you've gotten a bad rap. a lot of people in the media, in the privacy of their own homes and in the vast expanses of the interweb have been giving you a pretty hard time these days. your name has become synonymous with hate (or is it h8?), you've spurred protest rallies across the nation, and celebrities are coming out of the woodwork to publicly berate you as an antiquated, evil right-wing institution of fear of "the other." in light of all this, i can sense that your ego is probably a little bruised, and i'm certain you expect yet another "crazy lesbian blogger" to unleash a shitstorm of ANGRY on you.

not so.

i'd like to take a moment out of my day to say THANK YOU to proposition 8. THANK YOU for passing in november against the backdrop of a historical election that proved the vast majority of americans are down with having a black man in the oval office, while in certain california communities, longtime "roommates" lisa and linda better keep up the charade and cancel their honeymoon plans on an olivia cruise. THANK YOU for proving to liberal, educated, cosmopolitan americans that discrimination is alive and well in the united states. frankly, we needed the reminder.

while many americans are angry letter-writers when a WAL-MART moves into their town, or furiously ask to speak to the manager at mcdonalds when their big mac has too much mayo, when it comes to larger issues, the vast majority of us tend to be a bit complacent. sure, there are always people fighting for change: activists working a difficult grass-roots movement or holier-than-thou celeb hawking one charity or another, but a lot of us are perfectly content to float along, lost in our daily lives and concerns (did i leave my flat iron on? why is this idiot in front of me driving so slowly? where did i leave my slutty bra?). in these times of smooth sailing, it takes a jarring BUMP/CYCLONE/KICK-IN-THE-ASS to wake us from peaceful reveries of contentedness. that's where you came in, prop 8!

like the bombing of pearl harbor finally spurring america into entering WWII, the secession of the south forcing lincoln into demanding abolition, and britney spears locking herself and her tots in a bathroom FINALLY causing her poppa to seek a 5150 court order (and a lifetime supply of undies), the passage of proposition 8 has forced proponents of gay marriage to take a stand. in these situations, once we finally realize how great of a cost we have to lose, we've got no choice but to DO SOMETHING.

since novemeber, there have been countless demonstrations across the country, which, in turn, have forced the issue into the public eye with increasing ferocity. similarly, several states seem hell-bent on proving that they're more progressive than home-of-the-hippies-and-pot-capital-of-the-world california, and have begun passing legislation that says, "hey! you're gay and you want to get married? come to IOWA!" (seriously, IOWA, where there are more cornfields than citizens *******please note i totally made this fact up and in no way vouch for it's accuracy*******? IOWA is more gay-ok than CA at the moment?). with each day that passes, more and more people becoming involved; we're marching, we're picketing, and we've finally learned that the only way to GET change it to MAKE it happen.

following this week's decision by the CA supreme court to uphold the ban you've instilled, prop 8, my wonderful and amazing girlfriend, rachel maddow, said the following of the protest movements that sparked across the country: "it's a sign of how much more organized and galvanized supporters of gay marriage are now than when proposition 8 passed in novemeber." i couldn't have said it better myself, rach. apparently, all the gay rights movement was lacking before novemeber was a little push. we needed a little reminder that outside of our accepting families and friends, and away from bustling boystowns and lesbo-villes, prejudice persists.

without you, prop 8, it might have taken a lot longer for us to wake up and realize that nobody is going to hand us civil rights on a silver platter. now, thanks in great part to you, change is coming. it won't be immediate, and it won't be easy, but i can promise you one thing, prop 8: next time, we'll be ready, so prepare to die. :)

xoxox

rachel morgan

america's idol

last night, when adam lambert and kris allen stood center stage in front of the tiny orange creature known as ryan seacrest, i couldn't help but set my general air of snobbery aside. i was giddier than a schoolgirl, wracked with nerves, and anxiously awaiting the news that would either leave me squealing with joy or groaning in disappointment.

i was disappointed.

yes, i was/am an adam lambert fan. i mean, seriously, what's not to love about a man who can hit higher notes than mariah, sport more makeup than a 17 year-old slut at prom, and rock out in platform boots so high that i got vertigo just watching him?!?! of course, i also think adam is RIDICULOUSLY talented. like, seriously, SUPERGOOD. i get that some people may find him a little too much to handle, or that his style/sound doesn't really float their boats, but people who flat-out think he sucks are f'n NUTS. (haters: watch this video. and stop being so mean: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJYyqzUr6jU)

now lets get to the real meat of this issue (in my world, at least): THE GAYNESS.

i somehow doubt i'm out-scooping people magazine on this one, but adam lambert is gay, y'all. i am the first to admit that i was smitten with the idea of having adam be the first gay american idol (clay aiken does NOT count. it took him like 6 years and 123451324 manhunt scandals to admit the obvious), and part of my idol-ehthusiasm this season was definitely driven by his pretty-freaking-overt-and-out-there sexuality, all while set against the backdrop of our current political and social environment. it's pretty obvious to me (and stay tuned for an upcoming blog on the subject pleasethankyou) that we're on the cusp of a civil rights movement for a new (gay) generation. gay and lesbian issues are hot topics in the media and on capitol hill, our communities are banding together in visible activism, and straight society is waking up to the not-so-novel notion of equality for all. and somehow, last night, with kris and adam standing there while america watched, i couldn't help shake the feeling that i was witnessing a mise-en-scene playing out our nation's latest social drama.

there they stood: kris, the adorable, married (at 23 - eeeeek!!), ministry-leading, average joe dressing, acoustic-y singer/songwriter type; and adam, the satin suit wearing, perfectly coiffed, practically-pissing-glitter glam rocker. having each received millions of votes to reach the finale, it's clear that these are two talented, charismatic guys, both of whom have the support of a dedicated fan base. but what particular demographics make up their respective fan bases? i think it is fair to assume that they're both pretty popular in the "ridiculous and annoyingly obsessed teenage girl" segment. if i were a 16 year-old during this season's AI, i can promise you that i would be walking around telling everyone i was IN LOVE with one or both of them, and that their posters would be plastered all over my walls. but this is where i think things diverge a bit for kris and adam's fans.

at the risk of sounding like every other commentator out there, i think there's a pretty noticeable "god factor" in the works here - as the crux of the issue in both our little TV sing-off and our real life national melodrama. politically, americans are being divided more and more strongly along the lines of religion and its place in our legislation, moral compass and national psyche. socially, this division is fairly obviously applicable to the adam vs. kris singing showdown: kris is the jesus-loving, churchgoing heartthrob whom all good little christian girls want to marry, while (in the eyes of the religious right, at least) adam is the drag-dressing, boy-kissing, hit-us-over-the-head-with-the-gay sexual deviant hell bent on destroying the sanctity of the right to get a divorce (or marriage, however you look at it). it's a pretty logical conclusion that those who fall on the more conservative, christian side of the fence miiiight not be not be such big adam lambert fans, and might, by default, vote for kris.

now, before you get your panties in a twist, i'd like to clairfy two things:

1. kris is talented, appealing, and uber marketable (which is what AI is all about, really), and i do not mean to belittle his accomplishments. GO KRIS! strum your little heart out, you adorable, silly-face-making boy!

2. i am, in no way, implying that a vote for kris = a vote for homophobia, or that disliking adam makes you a right-wing nutjob whose vernacular consists primarily of phrases like "commie-loving bastard" and "get your faggy ass away from that ricky martin poster, boy."

however, the fact remains that (in my opinion, at least, yo!) adam's talent eclipses kris' by like... a lot. yet somehow, he didn't win. how did this happen? without specific statistical, demographic and geographic breakdowns, it is difficult to pinpoint... but i don't think it's much of a stretch to attribute a portion of kris' votes to viewers who simply don't like adam for being gay. it's the sad truth about the world we live in, kids. BUT this isn't all doom and gloom! as i mentioned before (and will say again and again and again...), the times, they are a' changin'. i DO believe that americans are changing the way they look at the gay community; i DO believe that many, many, many voters cast their ballots regardless of sexual orientation or religious beliefs; and i DO believe that if americans were really that homo-hating, adam wouldn't have made it this far in the first place.

having said allllllll of that (believe me, i could go on, but i'm worried i've already scared off anyone reading this, cuz, seriously, i'm verbose), i'm committed to remaining a big fan of adam lambert's. he's undeniably talented, but, more importantly, he's never flinched in being himself. he is who he is, and he's ok with that - even on a national stage. and it looks like many americans are down with the glambert, too!!! so i say: "work it out, sister," to adam, and "yay we don't totally suck, USA!"

type-casting

most people i know (gay, straight, bi, confused, horny, virgins, sluts, whatever) have a "type." this is not a bad thing. in fact, i think having a "type" is a handy dating tool, allowing you to instantly reject a portion of the population that doesn't do it for you (not in a superficial, "i don't like ugly people" sort of way (although, lets face it; nobody wants to plant their flag in the realm of fugdom), but in a responsible manner that says, "hey, i'm an adult and i know what i'm into.").

in the lesbian community, having a "type" goes beyond physical attributes like height, hair color or ethnic background. of course, those things ARE important (trust me, you'll never catch me dating anyone shorter than i am. which is, i suppose somehow rudely self-loathing, as i am not particularly easy to find in any sort of crowd myself), but what is often most important is the lesbian "mold" into which a potential mate fits. i like to call this the LESBIAN LADDER OF LOVE, wherein lesbians who identify with a certain subsection of the community fit on rungs based upon some of the most common "types" of lesbians. lets face it, you've heard of them: femme, butch, tomboi, stone butch, lipstick lesbian, power lesbian, dyke, womyn, genderqueer, andro, etc etc. essentially, each of these labels describes a specific "type" of lesbian whose categorization is dependant on the level (or lack thereof) of her femininity, as well as the ways in which her femininity shapes her personality, behavior, style, and, of course, dating preferences.

this is where things get interesting. some lesbians are only attracted to ONE specific type of woman; others are more flexible in their self-created pairings. allegedly, some lesbians are even able to fall in love with the PERSON, rather than the type (i don't buy this and it sounds like total BS to me, but whatever). so what dictates our types? it is certainly more complicated than "femme + butch = lesbian love," but it is, in my opinion, undeniable that there is a level of socialized gender identity inherent to many lesbian pairings.

personally, i would never date a woman whose femininity even comes close to rivaling my own. at the risk of sounding like a total bitchy princess.... i'm a total bitchy princess, and if anyone's going to be a girly girl in my relationship, it's going to be me. this is not to say that i expect my mate to adhere to ridiculous antiquated gender roles and be the breadwinner, force me to watch football on the weekends and, like, stand up when i leave the table. similarly, as pink-obsessed, short skirt-wearing, and eyeliner-enamored as i am, i'm no delicate flower who is incapable of putting together IKEA furniture (it may take me twice as long and i may mess up every 30 seconds and have to backtrack, but I CAN DO IT!) or afraid of playing football in the mud.

having said that, i do see myself falling into a traditionally feminine pattern when it comes to relationships (friendship or sexual). and while i'm the one standing on a chair freaking out over a spider, my B.O.T.M. (bitch of the moment (although it looks like it says "bottom," which is a whole other story entirely.)) is there to kill it, my chivalrous knight in shining armor, kleenex in hand. unsurprisingly, i'm sure, after this explanation in my personal dating preferences (seriously, this is not a personal ad or a desperate attempt at self-congratulation. however, i am awesome and single), i tend to prefer hot babes who are a little more on the butch-y side (two things: 1. exes reading this: don't argue; you know its true 2. see this love letter to rachel maddow and you might get the picture) of the LESBIAN LADDER OF LOVE.

i tend to not stray far in my "type," and, frankly, neither do most of my friends. whether its the waify model type in the corner or the curvy brunette at the bar, it's never difficult to be out at a bar, see a girl and say, "so-and-so would think she's cute" (and then immediately text so-and-so and tell her to come because i've found a new B.O.T.M. for her). this is where wardrobe comes in, acting as a signifier in determining where a P.B.O.T.M (potential bitch of the moment) sits on the LESBIAN LADDER OF LOVE. in a dress? femme. ass-kicking boots? butch. mullet? run away. dressing the part for your particular lesbian role is important, and picking up on a P.B.O.T.M.'s style and the way that it relates to her lesbian identity is equally important in determining whether or not someone is our "type."

without this nonverbal code, we might be lost. in fact, if we lived in a futuristic society wherein everyone dressed identically and individuality was punishable by death via mosquito zapper, lesbian dating would suck. you'd meet, you'd make out, elope and be on your honeymoon before you're both shrieking on a chair, wondering "who's gonna kill the spider?"

dear rachel, i love you. love, rachel.

i'm not so good at hiding it if/when i like someone. in elementary school, i told josh w that he was my boyfriend, without his consent or any actual corroboration on his part. in high school, when i decided that nick carter and i were DESTINED TO BE, i plastered his face all over my walls and forced my friends to learn important facts like a) nick's favorite food is macaroni and cheese, and b) nick's favorite color is green (actually, i've thankfully erased that info from my brain, so BSB fans, don't take my word for it). then, a few years back, i became obsessed with tegan of tegan and sara, and decided that it was appropriate to answer every question with something tegan-related at our monthly game nights. soooo i've been known to obsess a bit.

but this time it's different. i am LEGIT in love. i'm not playing any childish games, harboring any silly crushes or daydreaming about some half-wit i'd probably want to punch in the face if i met. i've finally discovered my soul mate....

i want to marry rachel maddow. i want to meet her, steal her from her partner of 10 years, make her fall in love with me, get a dog, pop out some babies and live happily ever after with rachel maddow. seriously. i want to get rachel and rachel monogrammed bath towels. i want to take her last name and go by rachel morgan maddow. i want to starch the collars on her shirts. i want to wake up at the crack of dawn and walk the dog while she reads the morning news and thinks of witty and insightful commentary. i want to tuck her into bed when she falls asleep reading and her glasses start to slide off the end of her nose. i want to throw fabulous dinner parties together and wow our friends with my charm and delicious food while maddow whips up a batch of dry martinis (i'll take mine dirty, thanks, honey) and explains the importance of the upcoming nigerian elections. sigh... there's a lifetime of wants when it comes to maddow.

in order to win her over, i've decided to return to the classic courting device known as a love letter. were this not electronic, i'd spray it with perfume and send it to her via carrier pigeon, but since this is 2009, i'll have to just blog it and pray that it someday meets her eyes. sigh. here goes nothing.

dear maddow,

hi, how are you? you looked adorable last night. i really liked that bit you did about the TRAKKIES (and you look ridiculously cute in that hat, FYI). listen, you don't know me, but i just wanted to let you know that i love you. and not in the way that i love pear jelly bellys, or in the way that i love harry potter, or even the way that i love my many, many bffs (because i'm soooo popular that it's difficult to pick just one, rach). no, maddow, i am IN love with you. wow. i can't believe i put myself out there like that! i feel so vulnerable. so... naked.

i've got a great rack, maddow.

being the incredible, unbelievably smart, perfectly composed and insanely attractive woman you are, i'm certain you have your fair share of suitors. all i'm asking is that you give me a chance. i may not be a rhodes scholar, but i'm certainly no dunce, dear. i can't pretend that i'll add a lot to our conversations regarding the democratic senator from north dakota's voting record on the war in iraq, but i think you might be interested in what i have to say about britney spears' recent tour, and how that reflects americans' support for the underdog and love of a comeback kid. i think we'd actually be a good match; you could talk about foreign policy, and when things get too intense, i'll offer a little comic relief with a re-telling of how i earned quite a studious reputation on my first day of law school when i announced to my entire section, "i don't like going to class."

i don't mean to imply that you and i have no common ground, maddow. observe: you're a self-proclaimed nerd; so am i! you're into maps; a secret pastime of mine is stalking people on google street view! you're a cocktail enthusiast; um HELLO, i write for a wine and spirits magazine! you got your start in radio; i'm a burgeoning radio starlet! if these facts don't add up to compatibility, i don't know what will, rach.

i'm afraid i've said too much, darling. i guess the point it: i love you...... and i want to be on you.

i want to be on you.

love,

rachel morgan maddow