Friday, April 18, 2008

Shocking Story of the Week: Men's mags offensively sexist

I'm currently stuck at work on a torturously beautiful spring day and for some reason we got men's lifestyle magazine Best Life delievered to us, so I've been flipping through it to keep from killing myself. It was all just vaguely offensive until I came across an article entitled "Can I Buy My Wife a New Va-jay-jay?"

Okay, seriously? Women have enough insecurities, they don't need to be worrying about their vaginas as well. But with vaginal rejuvenation increasing in popularity, men really are living the "Best Life."

The article continue:

When your wife gave birth to your children, she martyred her vagina… [now] neither your wife nor you can get much pleasure when you have sexual intercourse. What if we could fix that in a simple outpatient procedure and give your wife the va-jay-jay of an 18-year-old? Wouldn’t that be the greatest Mother’s Day gift ever?

I honestly don't even know where to begin.
1. Do you know how pregnancy happens? You come inside her, and then 9 months later she has to force some screaming slimey thing out of her vag. And it's also the most painful medical procedure a human could possibly endure. Try pissing a grapefruit. Yeah. Are you really going to complain because it's a little floppy now, after giving birth to YOUR CHILDREN?

2. How exactly is giving your wife a new vagina a Mother's Day gift and not a gift to yourself? She derives just as much pleasure from her newly stretched vag as she did before the babies. It's not like after having the baby she stopped being able to orgasm. If she did decide to go through with the operation, it would be distinctly for your pleasure, not her's. It's ludicrous that they try to play it off like it will change a woman's sex life at all beyond the fact that now her husband will want to fuck her while fantasizing about the babysitter.

In other news: WHY IS IT NOT 5 O'CLOCK YET?


New York's Finest Prove They're New York's Creepiest

I get hit on a lot. I'm not saying this from a place of arrogance; in fact, I'd prefer it didn't happen. Because it's not cute boys with glasses that are hitting on me, it's the delivery men, the truck drivers and the vagabonds of this world who find me attractive. My friends call me a creep magnet. It's flattering, I know. But today this reached a new level.

I'm used to the hoots and hollers from cabbies and movers and construction workers; they don't faze me anymore. But today while walking down Mercer on my way to work, I spotted a cop car parked outside of the Marc Jacobs store. Inside there was a policeman smoking a cigarette and eyeing the people walking up and down the street. I was immediately gripped with anxiety: even when I'm not doing anything illegal, the police manage to scare the shit out of me. I'm always terrified they can sense that I had smoked a J the night before, or that I'm a champion underage drinker.

But this policeman did not question me or give me an evil glance; in fact, he used his eyes to fuck me.

I got eyefucked by a member of New York's finest, and he wasn't even subtle about it. He even said, "Hey honey!" to me as I walked by.

Aren't police officers supposed to be protecting me from sexual harassment, as opposed to, you know, sexually harassing me? What would have happened if my dress had been a little bit shorter, my hair a little bit straighter, my heels a little bit higher? Would that have made me the subject of even more ridicule? And is there somewhere you can report sexual harassment by police officers?

I mean, it's not that big of a deal in context. He eye fucked me, he tried to flirt with me, I moved on, he kept smoking his cigarette and daydreaming about donuts. But I'm sure this is just the tip of the iceberg. Who knows what would have happened if I had been doing something illegal and they had reason to handcuff me? Part of me totally wants to play out that fantasy, and part of me is thankful I was an upright citizen at that moment in time, especially after last week's Law and Order: SVU episode.


Thursday, April 17, 2008


My friends will be able to tell you with much accuracy that I love Madonna. Her music, her videos, her stage persona, Evita, whatever, she's fabulous, and I'm usually fully behind whatever project she's working on. Confessions on a Dance Floor and American Life are two of my favorite albums ever.

That said, this is embarrassing. It's the video for her new song, "4 Minutes," featuring Justin Timberlake. And it's awful.

The song itself is so disappointing, like it's try too hard to sound hip-hop and "edgy," like Timbaland--whose sad attempts at beatboxing are inexplicably sampled throughout the song--couldn't make this sound right, so he kind of just threw some horns over the whole thing and glued the pieces together, as it were.

The video looks like one of those Mad TV video parodies, only it's the real thing. It's confusing to watch; you don't really know what's going on, and why are she and JT dancing on checkout-line conveyor belts? It looks okay, sure, but OK Go kind of already covered that territory, and it's just in a series of too-rapidly changing scenes. And that big digital clock in the background? It's tacky. Like, hey, didn't realize Xzibit loaned you some of his video props. Like, you're not ghetto, Madonna, so stop it.

And she looks old. Worse than that, she looks old while trying to look young. One of the reasons I love the Hung Up video so much is that she beautifully acknowledges her rightful place as experienced queen of the dance floor while basking in the eternally youthful glow of the disco-ball lights. It's Madonna going back to her roots while also pressing onward; in my opinion, it's an instant classic.

But this video is just overwhelming. It's the video equivalent of the sales section at Forever 21: crowded, disorganized, littered with discarded items and just a mess to look at. And you know they spent a ton on this thing; Madonna and JT wouldn't dance in front of a cardboard backdrop, that's for sure. Unfortunately, it was money poorly spent.

I really hope the rest of Hard Candy is better than this. I've already heard "The Beat Goes On," which despite its awkward intro is a solid track, and "Candyshop," which is god-awful as its title suggests.

Get it together, Madonna. Stop trying to be the hot young thing and accept your aged place in the music world. You admitted yourself in "Sorry" that you've seen it all before; why don't you try to show us what you've learned instead of convincing us that you're still the 25-year-old you long ago left behind?


The people you don't want to (but will) see at the gym

The gym is a breeding ground for insecurity. It's essentially a bunch of people putting their bodies to the limit to show off for other people doing the exact same thing. If you can't run longer than the girl next to you, you're probably a fat out of shape loser. But there are always those types of people who frequent the gym far too often. I see them every single time I go. They are as follows:

1. The Anorexic: There are so many girls at the gym these days who really shouldn't be at the gym. They run with towels around their necks and sometimes anchor themselves to the treadmill with their arms lest they let go and pass out. They watch America's Next Top Model on the TVs while they run as thinspiration. They stay on the treadmill for three times as long as you're supposed to, and they run at a ridiculous speed the entire time. Their collarbones stick out of their chests and even though they are drenched in sweat they're still wearing sweatshirts and baggy pants. They're there every day at lunch time, and sometimes after dinner, too.

2. The Gym Hottie: These girls know they're hot, and they know they're hot because they go to the gym so often. They run in Nike sports bras that showcase their pert nipples and booty shorts that keep their asses firmly in place while they sprint into oblivion. They purposely stretch in seductive ways in front of the guy's tennis team. They wear their hair DOWN when they run, and frequently apply lipstick between workouts. They make me feel frumpy and awful in my Springfield Township High School tshirt and Soffees.

3. The Musclehead: Transplanted straight from Venice Beach, these gym rats have necks the size of their biceps, and their biceps are fucking huge. They spend most of the time hitting the weights, but when they get on the cardio machines they always ALWAYS wipe the sweat off their brow with the shirt so whoever is around can catch a glimpse of their washboard abs. Their sweat smells like rotten eggs and they most likely belong to a frat. Do. Not. Want.

I need to stop going to the gym. Clearly it's making me insane.


Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Jess and Josh How To: Grow Your Own Pirate

Step one to becoming a feminist: Get an egotistical boyfriend

Jezebel posted an article today comparing Carrie Bradshaw with noted feminists Sylvia Plath and Simone De Beauvoir. If you're a fan of SATC at all, you remember Carrie's egotistical, power hungry and emotionally unavailable (yet completely perfect in my eyes) boyfriend Mr. Big. He was rich and selfish and even cheated on his wife with Carrie at one point. Jezebel argues that there are cases of many feminist type characters falling for the anti-feminist. (I would definitely disagree, though, that Bradshaw is a feminist)

I'm going to use myself as an example.

I posted this a few months ago about the kind of guy I like. To sum it up for you, they're usually selfish, arrogant, angry egomaniacs who call themselves writers but rarely write anything. I like them because they don't get jealous and they let me flirt with other people in front of them and they really enjoy that I'm down to have sex whenever(/wherever). Perhaps that's the kind of feminist I am: all sex and power. And maybe that's the reason I'm attracted to guys who are so into themselves. Egomaniacs are too wrapped up in their own self interest to even notice that I'm macking on another guy right before their eyes.

Emotional unavailability is probably the most attractive quality to me. I am so in touch with my emotions that it's sometimes scary. I can tell what you are feeling before you even blink at me. Maybe I need someone who is stoic to balance that out. I also enjoy fishing for emotions beneath a hard facade. If you're open and outright about how you feel, I'll probably lose interest rather quickly.

Then there are the cheaters. Plath allegedly killed herself because Ted Hughes started dating another woman. I've luckily never been with a man who cheated on me, but I can only imagine how easily it looms in my future.

So why am I, and tons of other girls, always attracted to those who treat us as lesser individuals? Who laugh when we express our feminist ideals or think it's "cute" when we get angry? Who can't take us seriously, and then when we demand they do, they get angry that we're always so serious all the time?

The men who are cold, hard, minimal with their affections: these are the ones that reel me in the quickest. And unfortunately, as Plath's oven showed us, those are also the ones that drive us to emotionally violent extremes. I mean, I would never hurt/kill myself over a guy (talk about the anti-feminist), but it's not like I derive happiness out of being treated like shit. Or perhaps like many feminists before me... I do.


Smileys and Sob Stories

Jess and I are weird. We're weird and stupid and we have our sick sense of humor that allows us to laugh at things like monocles, starfish, and Shenandoah. I'm not even gonna try to link those for you, because you won't find them funny and we'll just look even more silly. We were talking about how we each talk to other people the same way we talk to each other.

JOSH: like i use a smilie and they're like "hehe" i'm like "no make fun of how stupid it is"
JESS: same!!!!
JESS: thats like what i did with ned [our wonderful NYULocal editor]
JESS: with abu dhabz
JOSH: lol! "silly bitch"
JOSH: we should call him things like "reverend paul ned guy"
JOSH: and see how he handles it
JESS: we really should only be allowed to speak to each other and no one else
JESS: LOL guy!
JOSH: hey guy
JESS: hey guy thanks for the articles
JOSH: this english teacher at my school used to call people that
JOSH: then he got arrested for h/u with a student =/
JESS: yeah "guy" is rly only used by child molestors
JOSH: haha yeah
JOSH: new fave thing is "=/"
JOSH: cuz like it can mean so much
JESS: yeah i noticed
JESS: it expresses all of our insecurities so perfectly
JOSH: like "sorry i can't hang out tonight i'm gonna sit by myself and cry and OD on tylenol"
JOSH: "=/"
JESS: LOL yeah!
JOSH: or "oops forgot your birthday! =/"
hectorormano88 has gone offline.
hectorormano88 is now online. [This happens many times during the course of any given Internet conversation I have with anyone; my Internet cord is gayer than I am.]
JESS: my parents fought a lot in front of me so now i have ridiculous expectations for romantic relationships =/
JOSH: sometimes i question the way i've chosen to depend on substances to allow me to have fun and lose my inhibitions. =/ 
JOSH: i used to be friends with [fat gay person I used to be friends with] but then he turned into a heartless coke addict =/
JESS: sometimes i worry that the reason i love my dog more than my family is because i have an inherent inability to connect with other people =/
JOSH: sometimes i worry that the misshapes and ruff club pictures i've tagged of myself and put on facebook give potential boyfriends the impression that i'm just another mindless club kid, drug addict, and whore who has no interest in anything but attaining the next cheap thrill. =/
JESS: LOL!!!!!!!
JESS: can u post this convo on the blog
JOSH: yeah sure
JOSH: i think....we should maybe write for someecards
JESS: i would but sometimes i fear that my obsession with the blog illuminates my overall disgust with anything outside the digital realm =/
JOSH: we're gonna run this joke into the ground for rather acknowledge our problems and how difficult life can be we'd rather just make stupid jokes and go on stumble. =/

PS: Okay, so I can't really express the true meh-ness of the "=/" smiley on here. Just...use it in your next AIM or iChat conversation, and you'll see what we mean. Maybe.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

High school girls are promiscuous

I was digging through my Youtube account and came across this video filmed senior year of high school during our senior week trip to Vermont. It chronicles my friends and I drunkenly dancing to the Nelly Furtado hit "Promiscuous Girl." I completely LOL'ed upon seeing it. Why is it that anyone under the age of 18 who consumes alcohol immediately becomes a slut, even if boys aren't around? Please enjoy:


Poker? But I Just Met Her!

I'm not into online poker, but if I were, I would so go to Piggs Peak, solely because of this stereotyping yet clever ad.

Also, this post totally didn't need a picture, but they're hot so whatever.


Rogan Gregory meets Target is a fucking safari gone wrong


That was my first reaction to the Rogan Gregory line for Target which I previewed over at Nylon.

Okay, we get it. You're environmentally conscious and want to translate that into mass production for an international conglomerate. But does that require your clothes be so... ugly? And okay, you love animals, but does everything have to be LEOPARD PRINT? This bathing suit looks like something you'd find on a cheap European hooker:The cutouts! The side ties! The blue animal print! Ewww.

The only thing I'd consider wearing is this dark brown romper, but I'm not feeling the multicolor buttons, and let's be honest; cotton rompers don't really look good on anybody unless you're pin thin.
The GO! International lines have been relatively awesome so far, but I am just so disappointed with this one. Gregory could have done so much with it; he could have taken the reins and proven that environmentally friendly clothes aren't only bought at Whole Foods and don't have to cost a wad of Benjis. Instead, he produced something that only drunk Long Islanders and Lisa Rinna would consider wearing.


Stars - they're just like us!

Today my friend from high school, Susanne, was in the city for some interior design workshops. She met me for lunch at this shitty place called Dojo across from my work on the corner of Mercer and W. 4th. Who should dine right by us but the emaciatedly beautiful Kirsten Dunst! Clad in her typical outfit of raybans, jeans, a tank top and cardigan, Ms. Dunst looked stunning despite no makeup and a recent stint in rehab. She ordered a tofu sandwich (no bread) with a salad, drank water, and chatted with a woman who was so ugly I can only assume she's her publicist. She was sweet and pretended she couldn't see me staring; she even signed an autograph for our waitress. Love her!


A Wiccan's Guide to Fucking With Your Ex-Boyfriend

So I was really bored and bumming around on YouTube when I found this, aka the CREEPIEST FUCKING VIDEO I'VE EVER SEEN. It sort of maybe touches upon some of the themes Jess discussed a few days ago, except Jess isn't fugz, faux-New-Age, or crushing on any long-haired Irish men who look like they just got back from a Lord Of The Rings convention.

Seriously, this video is both the greatest and most terrible thing I've ever seen. Crappy low-budget effects! Creepy atmospheric shots of bare trees! Wicca! Fisheye lenses that don't really flatter anyone's figure! And the lack of background music only adds to the vortex of sin that this video sends you down.

Watch at your own peril. And don't piss off the Enya fan who works at your local coffee shop, Barnes & Noble, or other stereotypical "progressive" suburban institution.


P.S. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little worried about having just pissed off an apparently magical, evil, crazy-psycho Wiccan girl with too much time on her hands (and, it seems, a fully-stocked refrigerator.) I really hope I don't wake up to find my hands tied to the bed and my lips sewn shut.

P.P.S. This is one of the comments for the video:
"Wow, the special effects were great. And the moral, too. 'Don't use girls'! This should happen to people who cheat for selfish reasons. I'm Wiccan. The only gray spell that I did was a karma spell to get back at a person who egged my house. And then maybe about a week later - they got thier house broken into. I'm into karmic powers, so it isn't tottally black wicca. Just how I view this."
...Holy freaking Jesus Christ help us all.

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride

Ever since I was a wee babe, any success I've achieved has been marred by one tiny thing that fucked up the whole event.

If I received an award, I would trip onstage going up to accept it. When I won the Union Terrace Elementary School hopscotch tournament, I got yelled at in the bathroom by a roving pack of angry girls who were pissed a "white bitch" stole the notoriously Latina title. And yesterday, when I found out one of my poems is going to be published in the 2008 edition of The Gallatin Review, I knew something was about to go awry.

I opened up the tentative Table of Contents for the Review and found this:

For some unknown reason I am the only author without a last name.

I immediately broke into a neurotic sweat. Anxiety-laden quesions dashed through my mind: Are people going to think I withheld my last name on purpose? Will they assume it's a pseudonym? How am I going to prove to my friends and parents that I actually did write the poem and not some other Jessica? Who the fuck do they think I am, freakin Madonna?!?!

It's just so classic. I finally get something published and my last name is mysteriously left out. Not that I mind anonymity, but for fuck's sake, In a Hotel in Paris by JESSICA???

Luckily I e-mailed the Gallatin Writing Director and requested she put my last name in. Thankfully I caught her before the book went to press. I don't think I could bear the thought of my first ever published poem floating around New York City under the most-popular-name-of-1988, Jessica.


Monday, April 14, 2008

More Like HELLevator

Holy fucking Jesus Christ I was stuck in an elevator today.

I wouldn't call myself claustrophobic, but like (I imagine) many people, I still don't like small, confined spaces. Especially elevators. For no matter how richly decorated the walls are or how soothing the smooth-jazz music is, it's still essentially a box being suspended by a couple of ropes that, depending on where you are in the building, could be perilously dangling a couple hundred feet above ground. One of my biggest fears has been getting caught in an elevator, and really slow elevators (like those in the Alumni and Thirteenth Street dorms) always make me nervous.

Well today it finally happened. I got in and pushed my floor number, but the electronic display just flashed a few times and then remained on "L." The elevator didn't move. I tried pushing "Door Open" to no avail. I frantically pushed every floor's button, but nothing worked. I even rang the alarm. Still no movement.

Finally, after calling the campus emergency hotline, the building manager caught wind of my imperilment. He started shouting directions at me--since he sounded so far away, I presumed that I had somehow dipped below the ground floor--but I couldn't really hear what he was saying. He kept asking me if I needed medical assistance, and I know his intentions were good but hearing those words--"medical assistance"--weren't doing much to make me feel better.

I felt like I couldn't breathe; I was sure my lungs were running out of fresh oxygen. I felt sick and started imagining the scene hours from now, when I'd be huddled in a pool of my own sweat and vomit, firefighters descending on ladders to rescue me. There was an All in the Family episode in which Archie gets stuck in an elevator with a pregnant woman who's going into labor. I tried consoling myself with the thought that at least I didn't have a fetus inside me, but that didn't stop the pacing or cries of "I can't hear you!" or silent prayers to God apologizing for all the bad things I've done and just please please let me make it out of here alive. I told myself that despite living on the eleventh floor I was going to take the stairs for the rest of the day; we'll see how that goes.

All told, I'd say I was stuck for about ten minutes before the elevator decided on its own that it had better let me off on my floor. They were easily the longest, scariest ten minutes of my life. Seriously, I was still shaking when I got to my room. It wasn't that I was scared of dying; I knew that the elevator wouldn't fall or explode or otherwise send me to my doom. Just the opposite, in fact: long hours spent waiting to be released from this immobile prison, the air poisoned with my panicked carbon monoxide, and the really lame obituary that mourned the loss of an unemployed, underachieving college student who died of fright and loneliness in his dorm building's elevator.


Sunday, April 13, 2008

A Girl's Guide to Fucking With Your Ex-Boyfriend

These are schemes I don't (but probably should) employ. After talking to various sources on the issue over the past few weeks, I've compiled a list to be followed only if you have sheer mutant revenge coursing through your veins.

1. DO make him jealous.
I have nice boobs. You have nice boobs. And chances are, if you got past 2nd base, he knows we have nice boobs. Why not flaunt them? Show a little cleav. It's not going to hurt anyone! Except maybe entice some grotsky truck drivers to make comments through their cracked windows.

2. DON'T fall for the regret ploy.
A few weeks into the breakup his desire to express his regret will exponentially increase. Do not fall for it. He may drunk dial you or write something hauntingly sweet on your Facebook wall, but it does NOT mean he wants to get back together with you. He is playing games. If you're immature like me, you want to play them back. Go ahead. Change your relationship status to "In an open relationship." Ignore his text messages and photo comments. And, if possible, change your picture to one of you macking on a gay guy who looks straight; remember, straight guys have no gaydar, so he will automatically assume you are letting a straight guy touch your boobs. Why let him regret when he can Regret?

3. DO let him know you've orgasmed since.
If you can't avoid his IMs, and you just need to talk to him, make sure the conversation includes how you've fucked another guy since, ESPECIALLY if you know he hasn't scored a rebound yet. This will make him feel sad and small, which is the way ex-boyfriends deserve to feel. If possible, this should actually be true information. Might I suggest fucking an ex-ex boyfriend who serves strictly as a Friend With Benefits now? Or perhaps an older man who loves the college ass. Those 30-somethings sure know how to use their hands.

So, fuck Cosmopolitan. They don't know shit. If you're intent on exacting emotional revenge on someone who has turned you into a sad emo fuck, these are the three golden rules to follow. Let me know how they work out. I don't have the patience for these games. (Oh god someone knock me off my high horse I totally do)