Mad Men

I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I had been born again overnight. I almost used one of my floating holidays that day to catch up on my rest. Mad Men Day is a new (to be officially commissioned by the US government in time for Season 6) holiday in which viewers and non-viewers alike are supposed to reflect on the progression of professional and social relationships between males and females from the 1960's to today. Most companies recognize Mad Men Day by now, and the day following a season premiere is normally PTO eligible. If your company does NOT recognize MMD, it may be time to seriously consider venturing toward greener professional pastures.



Despite the fact that I closely identify with Rosie the Riveter (except that I would never work in a factory...vom), Mad Men has this uncanny ability to make me see the bright side of getting treated like shit in the workplace.

Further, there are few things in the world I find more reprehensible than cheating, but while watching Mad Men I find great satisfaction in watching Don cheat on Betty. They have kids so it's a bit questionable, but if you're a bitch then I'm kind of into watching you get hurt. Which brings me to my first character analysis:

Betty Draper

All I really have to say about Betty Draper is that she totally creeps me out. I'm no Sister Sufragette, but come on, a little backbone would have sufficed during the tempestuous ending of her marriage. If she visits her daughter's therapist one more time I will officially give up on her character. Remain calm and stop being so surly, Betty. You will always be able to find a new sugar daddy.

Don Draper

Don Draper: Sleek, brooding, and unable to commit to anything other than work. Those are qualities that I would probably find inexcusable in any other circumstance, and I willingly admit that lusting over Don Draper compromises my relationship standards-but he's a special case.


He's polished, perpetually Brooks Brothers'ed , an advertising maverick and an all around regulation hottie. I'm obviously fawning over him, but to be honest I'm pretty disappointed in Don for impulsively marrying a woman that forces surprise parties and opts to sing a burlesque-inspired rendition of 'Zou Bisou Bisou' in public as a gift, but everyone makes mistakes. And sometimes those mistakes have gapped teeth. We're all human--including Don.

Roger Sterling

Runner-up DILF. It's pretty sad to watch as he becomes steadily more desperate professionally, such as when he woke up to crash one of Pete's meetings only to find out that it was a sham/trap. My thoughts? He's just one stairwell heart attack away from leaving my good side forever. On the other hand, he still looks pretty good--a silver fox of sorts. Roger's seen better days, but who knows what good fortune the new season will bring him.

Peggy Olsen

Peggy Olson and I are kind of frenemies. We have a love-hate relationship. I'm starting to like her for the respect she's earning at work, but honestly her bangs (pictured above) from the earlier portion of the series haunt my dreams 3-4 times per week. I'm working on my ability to forgive and forget, so for now, she's my bitch--but not my MAIN bitch, you know?


I want to love her from the inside out, but she always manages to screw up friendship advances. For instance, as I said before, I really admire her for her performance in the workplace, but she manages to sabotage that for me when her chief pitch for a client selling beans is to create a "bean ballet." No thanks Peggy--nobody likes your Bean Ballet. Love you though.

Joan Holloway

I'm normally prejudiced against the ginger and/or overly pale sect of the human race, but Joan's got my vote. When I grow up, I want to look just like her. She's both sassy and bootylicious, two things I'm striving to emulate. I love her dress here. It's patriotic, form-fitting, and straight up chic. Thumbs up, Joan.

I really enjoyed the dynamic between her and Roger, but I'm satisfied with the fact that all that remains of their relationship now is the illegitimate bastard child that she is masquerading as the offspring of her doctor/soldier/fugly man fusion of a husband.

Even though I got cut from the middle school play because I cried during the audition, it's clear that I was born for an acting role on Mad Men. When AMC comes calling, I'll be ready. 

Q. Co.

Less than one year in the workforce and I think I'm ready to retire. I actually really enjoy my job and the people I work with, but there just comes a point in one's life when settling down into a state of perpetual relaxation is the natural next step. It's my time.

I've been devoting substantial amounts of my time to reviewing my post-retirement options. Right now the plan is that immediately following my retirement party at Cafe Citron in DC I'm going to cut the ribbon to the construction site that will eventually host my new restaurant: 

The Quesadilla Co.

You probably think that Quesadilla Co. is going to be similar to the Cheesecake Factory in that the menu will expand far beyond cheesecake, but you're wrong. It's really going to be mostly quesadillas.

The menu is obviously going to feature an "About Me" that will detail the trials and triumphs of my life as a chef. 

It all started when my mom bought me a George Foreman when I was 19. That was the same year I found myself in a committed relationship with Morningstar products. About a year following its faithful service I dropped George on the floor and it died on impact. After a proper mourning period, I took a leap of faith and bought my quesadilla maker:

This same quesadilla maker is still the only appliance I own/need. Who would have known that such I'd gain such a meaningful friend as a result of the death of my beloved George. Fate is funny like that. At the tender age of 21, I learned to boil water and make pasta. The rest is history.

As for the actual menu content, it will only consist of food that I enjoy. It has recently come to my attention that I'm a bit of a picky eater, but I think the world will start to see things my way after they pay a visit to Q. Co. 

As a recovering vegetarian I've been exploring meat-ish options to be included in my semi-daily diet, and as a result there will be meat options for the carnivorous palate available at Q. Co:

Kickin' Chicken Quesadillas 
Chicken, cheese, and a boatload of guac. 

Chalupas
During high school one of my besties, who shall remain nameless (Jessica...) averaged 1.5 Taco Bell chalupas a day and drank a gallon of fire sauce per week. It was incredible and inspiring. I have to include them on the menu. 

But most options will be meatless:

Plain Cheerios
Strictly plain cheerios in skim milk. Any patron that requests Cheerios of the honeynut, apple, or team variety is subject to immediate ejection without refund. It's all completely detailed in the customer contract that patrons sign upon entry. 

Yogurt with Granola
Key Lime Whipped Yogurt with Oat and Honey bars with sour patch watermelon garnish. Tart meets sweet in ways that you couldn't dream of yourself.

Jumbo Slice
Inspired by Adam's Morgan late-night Pizza in DC. This dish features cascading cheese and about 8-10 cups of grease. It is the only item served on paper plates, and it requires two because one simply isn't large enough.

Poptarts
Who doesn't love breakfast for dinner? Strawberry or Cherry tarts garnished with frosting and rainbow or red sprinkles. Toasted to perfection. Suggested fruit snack accompaniment: Gushers. 

Cap'n Crunch Bread Pudding

I cannot take credit for this dish. The Cap'n Crunch bread pudding has been narrowly acclaimed (aka, just by me) to be the greatest dessert on Earth. My heart recognized it before my head did, and after a few hours I realized I had read about it in the Bible. It was served at the Last Supper.

The bread pudding is accompanied by a scoop of raspberry sorbet playing the part of the crunch berry, and the two main items are connected by a pirouette cookie made of peanut butter crunch.

For decor I've opted to model the overall ambiance off of the Mars 2112 restaurant in NYC. I really admired the designer's ability to combine culinary excellence with science:

It goes without saying that Pitbull and Ke$ha will dominate the smooth/sultry rhythms filling the air at Q. Co., but Rihanna, Weezy, and Yung Joc will be given weekly air time on a rotating basis. Hanson's "Snowed In" album will be strictly played on loop between Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve. 

I'll keep everyone posted about opening night @ Q. Co. No shot getting a reservation within the two years of the doors opening.

Peace, Love, Color-Blocking

Spring time is officially here! And as you can see, I'm loving up on the color-blocking trend sweeping our nation from sea to shining sea. I'm so pleased with it that I'm not even bitter that I definitely started this trend during my infancy, and thus am more fashion-forward than most of you despite the fact that I lack documented proof.

I have never purported to be a fashionista, but I still have my thoughts. Before giving those opinions, I know I owe it to people to willingly and fully disclose the fact that my most prized article of clothing, pictured below, has solicited reactions ranging from projectile vomiting to temporary loss of basic motor skills:

Apologies to the lovely ladies posing with me. My purchase of this rainbow alpaca sweater was more of an effort to stimulate the informal Peruvian economy than anything else. I have no good explanation for the headband. Admittedly, I would have been better dressed as the photo-bombing pizza.

As it is the first day of Spring, it is the perfect opportunity to express what I do and do not want to see whilst 'trolin the Cherry Blossoms. Below you will find a list of my fashion Dos and Donts for the upcoming season:

DO Retire your Romper

Everyone needs to stop trying to make rompers happen. Even if you are in the 1% (you know, the people who can actually pull off rompers without becoming instantly be-camel toed), it's time to just fold it up and put it in its final resting place. Rompers need to follow behind Delia's bell-bottomed jeans and tiered-minis into the fashion attic of no return.

STOP with the Orange and Pink Combo

Just quit it with Orange and Pink. It's not working. I love sherbert as much as the next girl looking for ice cream alternatives other than froyo, but celebrating the union of these two colors via clothing is just too much. I'm a total Loft girl, but I can hardly enjoy myself knowing that this dress is coexisting in the store with me:

I really did try to love it, but at the end of the day it remained clear that orange and pink belong together in one instance, and one instance only:

These two goldfish fell into my lap during lunch yesterday and I was delighted, not repulsed, by the image.

I don't have much else to offer--but if you only take one thing away from this post, let it be this:

This spring, if in doubt while getting dressed in the morning, simply ask yourself one question:

WWSDW?

What Would Sally Draper Wear?

Therefore, DO emulate Sally Draper at every possible opportunity

Please allot yourself 10 minutes to admire/carefully study Sally Draper's outfit choice for her latest interview:

It goes without saying that I would do unspeakable things to spend an evening with Don Draper, but Sally Draper is really a close second in terms of my love recipients. She is twelve years old, and yet she is still everything that we all should strive to be. Her color and accessory choices are wise beyond her years. I absolutely cannot wait for the Season 5 premiere of Mad Men this Sunday, for clothes-watching and everything else.

Happy Spring!

Bud Light

After a successful St. Patrick's Day weekend, I feel it would be most judicious to express my appreciation for a friend that has never let me down during drinking events:

Bud Light.

Bud Light has been there for me throughout my college years and now beyond. When I need a microphone to accompany me during my my metamorphosis from Normal-Allison ----> Ke$ha-Allison, Bud Light is there. When I'm watching any sporting event, Bud Light is always my plus-one. When Journey sneaks its way onto a bar's playlist, Bud Light is always right there next to me--two lifelong friends that won't stop believin'. 

When there's a long day of drinking ahead to celebrate a heritage that I don't identify with, Bud Light is there. When Syracuse Hoops continues to pull through despite the absence of Fab, Bud Light is there. My standard summer outfit of cut-off jorts and faux-bans is never complete without my favorite blue accessory--Bud Light (or Bud Light Lime if I'm feeling a little funky).

Living in the most powerful city of the free world can be a challenge at times, but perhaps the greatest challenge of them all is enjoying a night out without blowing $40 on drinks. You want a vodka soda? You better take out a loan for that. Fancy a vodka redbull? Legend has it that some bars charge $15 per drank. Bud Light would never do you dirty like that. BL is a familiar face on Happy Hour specials lists, sometimes for as little as $3. A round of this trusty brew will carry you through any event without breaking bank.

So here's to you, Bud Light. My confidant, my partner in crime, my beer of choice.

Why my Bracket Sucks

Despite being a certified ESPN Bracketologist, my bracket totally sucks, and here's why:

1. I picked Missouri to win it all. l.o.l
2. I have 'Cuse to the Final Four. As a proud alum it seemed obligatory, but really I'm just waiting for them to blow it. To Wisconsin? To Vanderbilt? Revolting, yet possible. 
3. I actually tried to pay attention this year and actually know what I'm talking about. I picked all the upsets totally wrong, with the exception of VCU.

I'm not going to be the dumb girl who wins the pool due to luck, and I'm also not going to be the savvy hoops follower that wins it because of a deep knowledge base.

March Madness is a cruel season, and Baseball season (ew) is just around the corner. 

God, when is life going to be fair again?

I am, however, enjoying listening to the ESPN announcers and their meaningless commentary:
"Go to the basket with the ball if you can..." 
"What we have here is a physical player who really delivers when he's on the line."

Insightful.


Update: I predicted the Ohio upset over Michigan :)

They See Me Rollin', They Hatin'..

I am particularly displeased with the state of law enforcement today. Allow me to present a scenario.

Stage Left: Innocent, law-abiding citizen with only one speeding ticket on record (35mph over the speed limit isn't THAT bad...right?) trying to cross a moderately busy road to catch a cab going in the opposite direction. No cars approaching, red lights as far as the eye can see. Just myself, the open road, and possibly Jack Kerouac ahead.

Stage Right: Dad-cop (who I will refer to as "Pete" because it reflects his simplicity yet unyielding commitment to rules...would you try to fight a Pete?) literally performing circus-like tricks for a group of Asian tourists holding what appeared to be novelty-sized cameras and sporting "I <3 DC" t-shirts.

I evaluate the situation, determine that the road is safe for me to cross, and subsequently commence a half jog-trot to get to the other side. No REAL urgency--after all, no one is coming (this is key).

Denouement: "Pete" exclaims, "Hey Miss! HEY. HEY. HEY." and I, of course, continue my journey to the other side, his side, to catch my cab (spoiler alert: I miss the cab). Our conversation continues as such:

"Pete" - "What do you think you're doing?"
Allison - "NM, U?"
"Pete" -  "You didn't use the crosswalk"
Allison - "o."
"Pete" - "I'm going to have to write you a ticket, A/S/L?"
Allison - %#%^&$@*^$.
"Pete" - "Cya."

...and after that encounter he took a picture with the tourists. I think they thought he was the Terminator. 

I've seen this cop before. He is a step up from a rent-a-cop. All he does is 'trol the stretch of sidewalk between McDonald's and Chipotle. At any given time on that stretch, there is a pseudo-homeless man (sorry but he's just way too healthy to be in straits as dire as he proclaims) soliciting money and hoodlums stealing from CVS. Me j(ay)-walking was really the focus of his efforts to enforce law and order today? He must have been having a bad day, but I am going to make it my mission to push his buttons every time I see him. You don't even want to know how much I'm going to litter on his sidewalk. 

Humble Brags

My delightfully verbose mother, beknownst throughout my hometown as the mom who was hootin' and hollerin' at one of my HS school functions because a photographer was shakin' his tail feather in her face, and also the mom that publicly shares her cereal with the cats, is applying for a Doctorate. If she follows through, it will be her third time receiving a degree from Rutgers University, her alma mater. I admire her unwavering commitment to both the Scarlet Knights and education. So how did this aspiring PhD Candidate describe the application process to me?
 

"It's hard, you know I'm not really good at jerking myself off for resume padding"

Ah, how refreshingly normal she is. She and I are more alike than I would have previously cared to admit. We both love sushi, we possess the uncanny ability to disrupt any possible environment with our crude, high volume conversations AND we both think resumes are really, really lame.

There are people like my mom and I who believe that doing what you're supposed to do in order to get what you want is not something that warrants a resounding round of applause. Then there are those other people. You know, the people who are very, very pleased with themselves. I was somewhat recently introduced to the phenomenon of the humble brag, and it's pure genius. If there's one thing more annoying than someone being outright pleased with themselves, it's when they try to mask it and draw a compliment out of you. Here is a humble brag in action:


"@JenFriel: omw downtown to try on #oscars dresses. This is such a chore for a chick that lives in hoodies. #bah"
(Source: @Humblebrag)

O rly? You're a hoodie-sporting slob just like the rest of us and you still get invited to the Oscars? You must really be slammin'.

This is the response @JenFriel deserves:
I'm surprised--your face and body are both really, really offensive. It's hard to imagine that you've been invited to the Oscars, but then again I've heard that plain people are solicited so that the actual beautiful, famous people appear even more beautiful and famous.

Don't be fooled--not all humble braggers focus on their appearance. They are shape shifters--they can also come in the form of people who are impressed with themselves academically, professionally, socially, etc. I spent a healthy amount of time stalking Facebook profiles and twitters of random people from different sects of my life, and let me tell you--humble bragging is quickly becoming a global pandemic.

From now on, I'm making it a point to expose every humble brag that comes my way:

"Oh, you interned for a member of Congress? So would you say you're ready to lead the nation?"

"Hm, tell me more about your experience living in New York City. Approximately how much more sophisticated are you than the average American? No, really, don't think so hard, an approximation will suffice."

"You save children for a living via some random non-profit? Pardon my lack of morality. I work in a for-profit industry."

"Please tell me more about your summer session in Europe. I have so much to learn from you."

In Defense of Trash TV

There are a few personality quirks that make me Allison. One of those things is my love for Latin America. Another characteristic is that I value the relationships I have with my pets more than the relationships I have with other people (generally). Most importantly, I love trash television. MTV, TLC, VH1, whatever network Sarah Palin's Alaska show is on...you name a network, there's a show I just have to watch. Among the many stars, there is one brilliant supernova...

Teen Mom

There is nothing better than coming home after a long day of reality and sitting in front of the TV watching miserable people procreate. If I had a rough day, it would honestly make me feel better to watch Leah and Corey's marriage crumble on TV. If you would just give Trash TV a chance, I know you'd love it too.

Is there anything more satisfying than watching Janelle and Keifer (sp?) and their tempestuous relationship? Nothing. If anything, I'm learning from them. It's educational. I appreciate my relationships more. I'm grateful that my boyfriend isn't homeless and doesn't need me to bail him out of jail.

I definitely will not completely disparage the people who argue that shows like "Teen Mom" and "Sixteen and Pregnant" glamorize teen pregnancy and young motherhood, but to those people, I simply present Exhibit A:

After years of watching Teen Mom, I am no more likely to want to have sex and subsequently have a child with this creature.

The point of watching TV is to be entertained. It's a chance to escape from the real world after having to think about the world all day long at work. Haters need to open their minds a little. You'll never look back.

Dominican Republic

School's out! Summer! Camp! Friends! Parties!!! Right?

Not for my older sister or myself. Summer meant it was time to get shipped to the third world. No mom. No dad. No other sisters. Very little English. No bug repellent.

My mother's side of the family hails from the island of Hispañola in the Caribbean; specifically, the Dominican Republic. I know what you're thinking--"Wow! The Dominican Republic? Fruity drinks, white sand beaches, room service and swim up bars! Your summers were AWESOME." No, not exactly. 

You must be thinking about your college spring breaks spent in Punta Canta. I'd like to set the record straight and say that I have never been anywhere near Punta Canta. I spent my summers at my aunts house in Puerto Plata--where I could see the trash-ridden beach from the terrace, but was never allowed to go.  After all, there could be BOYS on the beach, and if there were boys, they were probably naked. We were strictly forbidden from ever communicating with boys that weren't our cousins.

I learned some of my most valuable life lessons on that island. Life lessons more important than Bingo and how to make a friendship bracelet--if you can believe that.

If someone says don't drink the water, seriously, don't drink the water

Drinkable water in the DR is delivered a few times a week via water truck. The same truck delivers the weekly Fanta and 7Up rations in those cool glass bottles (but only under the condition that you returned said bottles to be filled). People were clear about the instructions not to drink water from anywhere other than those delivered jugs, but in my defense, the water I drank was via sno-cone, which I didn't think counted. Additionally, it was bought for me by someone who was supposed to be taking care of me. Anyway, I became violently ill, and to this day I maintain that it was Typhoid Fever (WAY beyond the strain that plagued the Oregon Trail). I was sweating profusely, vomiting, and there was no air conditioning. I spent at least 3-5 days in a vegetable state. I wasn't dead, but I wasn't alive either. 

You really don't need electricity to live
The electricity went out at least once a day, and usually it was out all through the night. I somehow lived to tell the tale. Really the biggest problem with no electricity was that it meant no air conditioning. We had a "generator" that never, EVER worked. No Power Puff girls in Spanish, no sega genesis, no Sabado Gigante, NO Soap Operas. Sweaty, desolate, mosquito/fire ant-ridden wasteland.

Despite literally being behind bars (we were absolutely NEVER allowed to leave the property on our own) my sister and I had a few different distractions when the electricity went out. First, we learned every card game under the sun. Second, if there were some random cousins around, we would put on variety shows for the adults. I distinctly remember singing both "My Heart will go on," and "Barbie Girl." I received a resounding, drunken Dominican applause. Despite my Grammy-level performance, I only got second place. My cousin Gabriela cried so it was obviously rigged so that she could win.


The Miracle of Life
Life and death played out before me nearly every summer, between watching death processionals on the street, seeing the 3 year long fall-out from Selena's death in 1995, or hearing the news of some cousin being born somewhere in the country. Life was having to kiss the cheek of my 99 year old great aunt "Mama Rosa" even though she had liver spots and I cried because I thought she was contagious. Death was the screeching of the chickens every single morning at 6 AM as they had their heads chopped off outside my window by the neighbors who lived in the tin house.

Despite these unsightly images, the more vivid memories and life and death came from watching the dogs my aunts owned. They had 3 chihuahuas: Gigi, Bandito, and the notorious Piloquin. Every summer like clock work Gigi would give birth to a new litter of bastard Chihuahuas (it was unclear who the father was--but I suspect they were all totally inbred). I watched her give birth just once, and then after that I was disgusted and steered clear of her birthing ceremonies. I only went near the puppies once they were properly cleaned and sufficiently furry. That was life. It was disgusting, but very real.

And then came death. Piloquin (though at the time my little gringa mind heard "Pillow King") was tyrannical, ruthless and ferocious. As much as I tried to stay out of his way, I couldn't run fast enough. I have scars on my hands from that dog. He eventually died and it was awesome. May Pillow King never find rest wherever he is now. My dog Fester has confirmed in my mind that there is indeed a heaven, because I can't imagine that he could ever meet a fate of anything less than eternal paradise--but I hope Pillow King is consciously, knowingly stuck in his cement grave forever.  

Take Chances

My other aunt, whose house I also spent a lot of time in, had this monstrous dog named Dumbo (pronounced "Doom-bo"). We weren't even allowed to go near the dog, let alone dream of petting him. Upon our arrival Dumbo started up a chorus of fearsome roars that wouldn't cease until our departure. 

One night after a 50th wedding anniversary party, I went to sleep in an aunt's room upstairs  where Dumbo usually was. He had been removed from that floor to protect the safety of the party-goers on the balcony. I woke up alone the next morning. I had no way of knowing whether or not anyone remembered that I was up there. No cellphone to call anyone for help. No means of making fire to send smoke signals. I was petrified. I stayed in that room for probably 5 hours just trembling, until finally I stood up and decided to meet my fate. I was either going to die like a soldier in the jaws of Dumbo, or I was going to return to the world. 

Turned out Dumbo wasn't up there, so it was fine. 

Something can transcend cultural/language barriers

...and that thing is Doritos. Doritos are the international language of peace and serenity. That's it though. Anything else could have been lost in translation. I'm convinced that the math is even different down there. For instance, in America motorcycles are generally meant for 2 people maximum. In the Dominican Republic, the maximum capacity for a motorcycle of equal or even smaller size is 5.

Moms make everything better
When August would come around, I would wake up every single day just a little more excited. August meant my mom and my 2 remaining sisters were on the way--they'd arrive usually about mid-month. She stayed for two weeks, during which I would be at the beach every day, we'd frequent the Columbus Water Park that had no safety regulations, and we'd listen to the same Beatles tape over and over again in the rental car. It was pure paradise.

Looking back now, I wouldn't have changed my childhood summers. I'm glad that my Uncle Augustín had me hold his gun while he popped open a new bottle of Brugal Rum. I'm glad that when I lost one of my teeth, a very sentimental aunt took the tooth and made a necklace out of it--which I think she STILL wears. If I had been shipped to Haiti, I probably would be singing a different tune.

The Market

In my high school it was common to refer to someone else's popularity as "stock." The social stock market was all-knowing and extremely volatile. Depreciation-worthy offenses included (but were certainly not limited to) joining after-school clubs that weren't sports, leaving the country for an extended period of time, or simply getting on the wrong side of the alpha male. Once he said your stock was down, the market reacted and it was hard to sway public opinion of the stability of your stock. Conversely, getting a perfect score on your SAT's, having good parties, or knowing someone over 21 to acquire alcohol beverages were examples of reasons why one's stock could suddenly shoot up in value. If you didn't catch my tone already--I didn't like this system. It was normally used in jest, but still, it's very Mean Girls-esque (not that I don't LOVE Mean Girls).

I decided it would be interesting to apply the social market principles and norms to global events/trends. Read on for my thoughts on the value of certain social stocks today:


OWS -Devalued. Way devalued. The "movement" not only lacks a clear, agreed-upon mission, but the Occupiers also terrorize free Starbucks bathrooms everywhere. If they haven't been already, OWS camps will be bull-dozed soon enough. No one should invest anymore time/attention to these people.

Swine Flu - Bankrupt. No one gets swine flu anymore.

Blackberries for personal use - Plummeting, absolutely plummeting. Sell immediately, cut your losses. The Blackberry was, at one point, the cream of the smart phone crop. Blackberries joined breathing, food, water, and homeostasis as one of the primary necessities listed at the base of the Hierarchy of Human Needs pyramid. The features were divine. We all knew that BBMing was just way better than normal texting. Actually, I stopped texting people if they didn't have BBM. Actually, I stopped being friends with people who didn't have BBM. Brick Breaker was cutting edge, but now we have Angry Birds. The sole reason why the Blackberry stock has any value anymore is because companies usually issue them for remote email access, and that's a huge turn-off for me.

Caring about Uganda - SELL! SELL! SELL! Good for you for having the foresight to care about Uganda, you obviously bought low and now you get to sell high. You could even donate your profits to non-profits by texting "Haiti" to 080808. Or not--that's also an option. If you don't have shares of this stock, you need to buy immediately. If you don't, you are not only going to be excluded from the flash mob on your local college campus, but you will also be labeled heartless, ignorant, and probably a Republican. Can you imagine?

Actually taking the time to read about Africa beyond Kony2012 - Penny stock. The eventual payouts could  be worthwhile, but that is dependent upon a lot more people developing a lasting interest in the welfare of Africa. The sad thing is that I'm not very optimistic about that at all. 

Update: lol @ Kony2012 now. Masturbating in public? I couldn't have wished for a better way for the demagoguery to be tarnished.

Threatening to leave the country if a GOP candidate wins the White House - Way up. The best thing you can do is sell and use the money to actually leave the country. It's more than likely that nobody would miss you, but it is very probable that you'd miss us. 

Napster - Bankrupt :( God I loved Napster, RIP.

Mario Kart - If you're a guy, you've probably moved beyond Kart. If you're a girl, however, it's absolutely mandatory that you swear to all of your guy friends that you are awesome at Mario Kart. Sell or buy accordingly.  

I hope I've been able to properly inform people about what is tweet/facebook status worthy. You're welcome.

Lent

It's that time of year again! By now, Catholics everywhere should have chosen what they are giving up this year for Lent. I had a very difficult time choosing what I was going to give up this year.

My previous methodology in choosing my sacrifice was to draw inspiration from posters hanging up around school. There was no need to look within myself to see what I should do. Why waste the time? I had an immensely busy social life as a child and simply couldn't be bothered to devote the time to such follies. The following list illustrates examples of messages I saw around me, and how I translated those messages into Lent sacrifices of yesteryears:

Elementary School
"Having fun isn't hard when you've got a library card!!"
...watch Arthur everyday after school.


Middle School
"The way to have a friend is to be a friend."
...stop being a bitch.


High School
"Shoot for the stars, because even if you miss, you'll fall on the mountain top!"
...apply to college, get accepted, go.


College
"Need career advice? Visit the Career Center in Schine!"
....get a job.

Unimaginative, blase, lazy--all fair criticisms of my previous Lent choices. One is supposed to choose something difficult because you are supposed to feel as though you've sacrificed something. Nobody's asking for you to mirror the sacrifice that was made for you, but do something. Now that I'm no longer in school, it became clear to me that it was really time to face my demons. What are my vices? Am I really strong enough to give them up? Suddenly....it dawned on me.

"This is the year I'm going to give up pop-tarts."

I am Odysseus attempting to forge a path home after the Trojan War, and poptarts are the irresistable Sirens. I cannot deny their rainbow frosted, strawberry preserve-filled song, despite the fact that they will one day kill me. Then I hit a hurdle.

As some of you may know, I'm somewhat of a scientist--and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that giving up poptarts was simply out of the question. That would be defying my genetic make-up. It's all very clear. Please observe the following Punnett Square plucked directly from my pedigree:

Ability to Resist Poptarts in the Post-Childhood Stage of Culinary Palate Development

As you can see, both of my parents have the dominant poptart resistance gene, and all 3 of my sisters seem to also possess the dominant. My diabetic sister Valerie is clearly the top Left corner, completely resistant to poptarts due to insufficient insulin production.  Conversely, my genetic makeup is undoubtedly that of the completely recessive bottom right corner. My position as a recessive homozygous individual is simply non-negotiable. So really, giving up poptarts for Lent was, scientifically speaking, out of the question.

Once I had established that in my mind, it was time to get serious. If I couldn't think of something difficult to give up, then there was really no point in giving anything up at all. It wasn't until someone I care very much about proposed this novel idea to me:

"Maybe you should stop saying "fuck this" and "fuck that" so often..."

I had to admit, the f-bomb, unlike poptarts, is not a natural part of me. My propensity to use the f-word in all types of situations, multiple times a day, is just a bad habit and a product of my environment (New Jersey). As much as I love my home state, I don't live there anymore, and the people outside of that wonderful bubble are often offended and appalled by my filthy mouth.

And so it was decided. I am going to try and limit my use of the F-bomb as best as I can. I haven't been doing very well so far, but I am trying. You better believe that once Easter Sunday comes around, however, I will be saying the f-word with potentially alarming regularity. The first day of the post-season is sure to be exceptionally profane.

"What the fuck Grandma? Did you even TRY to hide the Easter Eggs this year? I can fucking SEE THEM sticking out of the bush. Fuck you."

O:) Happy Lent.

It was the Best of Times, it was the Worst of Times

As I tweeted a picture of the Veggie Tales fruit snacks that I had for dinner, I got to thinking about technology and self-expression. The interplay between the two has certainly progressed throughout my life. I would be remiss to not dedicate my inaugural blog post to this topic, and it would be a further disservice to followers if I did not discuss something that inevitably exacerbated ALL of our growing pains...

AIM   One of my favorite conversation starters is to ask someone what their AIM screen name was. Seriously, try it. The answer is inevitably hilarious. In my case, it is a rarity to find someone with a worse SN in the closet than mine. I was "DusTBunniE29g." While most other girls were Princess whatever or something Angel....I was a dustbunnie, and I don't know why.

Once we all got on AIM, the social dynamic in the middle/high school shifted dramatically. Your choices in font and color became your identity. Relationships began and ended over the internet. A simple copy and paste job from a 'private' conversation could ruin you, and if that happened to you, you could at least still be friends with SmarterChild (until he started charging $, that is). "OMG" and "LOL" became a way to express extreme emotion, even if you were just staring stone-faced at the computer. <3 became a symbol of love, and so it necessarily followed that </3 became a symbol of heart break, loss, or a big fight with your BFF that you and said friend were both too stubborn to apologize for. The anatomy of the AIM user's profile is fascinating.

AIM Profile

The AIM Profile was a sacred space. It was each user's chance to really show everyone who they were. For a girl, the recipe for the base of an acceptable AIM profile was strict and unforgiving. First, you take your name preceded AND followed by a SYMMETRICAL (this is key) series of *~*~*. Your name was typically followed by your relationship status. The standard choices were: "Single", "Taken", or "Single....but looking."

After the base was established, users usually took the opportunity to exercise a degree of creativity. You could list your hobbies. Something akin to "LAX 4 LYF" or "Soccer rules!" could be acceptable, if executed properly. Shout-outs to your main girls and/or Dave Matthews Band quotes were timeless choices. For the misunderstood AIM user, a Brand New / Yellowcard quote followed by an ever mysterious ellipses would suffice in ensuring that you appeared to be both artsier and deeper than your mere mortal, immature classmates.

(ex: "Fix me to a chain around your neck and wear me like a nickel...")

In between different profiles, it was common to see an "Under Construction" message as the place holder. I always found this to be helpful.

Away Messages

Surely one could not be expected to ALWAYS be at the computer tending to the needs of AIM buddies. In the event that a user had to go eat dinner or do homework, the away message was there to alert everyone. The "brb" away message, though uninspired and boring, got the job done. If you were at the movies and/or TGIFridays with your besties, it was crucial to make certain that all of your buddies knew you were out enjoying yourself while they weren't. If you were angry or upset about something, your away message could be used as a tool to reach out to people. After all, in the end we all just wanted someone to send us a "lylas"/"lylab" during trying times. John Mayer or Maroon 5 seemed to be the standard choices for attention-seekers.

(ex. "I don't mind spending everyday out on your corner in the pouring rain. Look for the girl with a broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay a while...")

  
"I am away from my computer right now."

Everyone knows what this means. You messed up BIG TIME if you were fighting with someone and suddenly this pops up in response to your last message. The Times New Roman font, the Size 12, the black font, the period at the end of the sentence--all tell-tale signs that your conversation is officially over. Person X literally has nothing to say to you. You have inhibited Person X's ability to compose a witty and cool message. He/she wished to be curt and emotionless. You took the color and cool font out of their life for the rest of the night, at least. Depending on the circumstance, this type of away message could signal that your relationship with Person X was irreconcilable. 

The Actual Conversation

princessxo: hey, sup?

GatoradeRush89: nm, u?

princessxo: sh, jc

GatoradeRush89: cool cool

If your conversation ever managed to move beyond the obligatory opening, you were in the clear. Normally you would then proceed to talk about what's going on at school or have a somewhat deep conversation about life. It was delightful.

 

Like any great tragic hero, AIM had a irreconcilable flaw--users could not post photo albums to portray to AIM Buddies everywhere that they were having more fun than their friends at college. AIM followed behind Rome, Greece, and the Ottomans into history as one of the great empires that inevitably fell. We have since moved into a new phase -- which I have affectionately coined "Pax Facebook."