So the 2014 Winter Olympic Games began on February 7th, 2014. We can choose between watching alpine skiing, biathlon, bobsleigh racing, cross country skiing, curling, figure skating, freestyle skiing, ice hockey, luge, nordic combined skiing, short track speed skating, skeleton racing, ski jumping, snowboarding, and speed skating. I totally just Googled that.
Much like the Superbowl, I feel like the Olympics can go one of two ways: Either you’re obsessed with it or you couldn’t care less. Unfortunately, I fall in the second category. I don’t even watch baseball or football, so I truly have zero desire to watch anyone compete in sports I’ve never even seen anywhere but in the Olympics. Unless, of course, one of these people are on the screen…
Magic Mike is the best thing to happen to me and my friends since Fifty Shades of Grey. We’ve dubbed this move the “best worst movie ever made in the history of the world.” Whoever had the INGENIOUS idea of getting five of the hottest guys on the face of the earth and putting them in a movie in which they had to remove their clothing and dance should be given a Nobel Peace Prize. As a matter of fact, I will personally present it to them if I can stop salivating long enough to stand on a stage and hand over the award.
I’m sitting here, watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show (something I do every year), while stuffing my face with Chocolate Teddy Grahams. Yes, I’m trying to ignore my sorrow by masking my pain with chocolate. Shockingly enough, though, eating fistfuls of tiny bear-shaped cookies straight out of the box is not making me look any more like the 90-pound, 6’2 models I’m watching dance down the runway in 6-inch stilettos that cost more than my car. And they get wings. Come on, isn’t that just adding insult to injury, now?
When I look at a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, sure, I cry because I have no boobs, let alone Double D’s. Sure, I weep over the fact that they are a foot taller than me and weigh less. And, yes, I contemplate plastic surgery when I see how flawless their skin and features are. However (and this is a BIG, HUGE, GIGANTIC “however,” ladies), I also know that the catalogue has some of the best-paid Photoshoppers in the business. I can, there, lie to myself and say that they really aren’t that beautiful in real life. That it’s a computer making them stunning. That they’re actually ugly and fat and that’s Victoria’s REAL secret. And then I watch the annual Fashion Show and immediately reach for the Kleenex. Continue reading →
Everyone has their own tolerance for spicy foods. That is why you need to know who you’re asking when you want to find out how spicy something is. Maybe I should be clearer: You should know who not to ask. For example, I’m no fool. I have learned to never ever ever ask my dad or my best friend, Kerry, if what they are eating is spicy.
I am convinced that both of their tongues have been deadened over time. They have the highest tolerance for spice of anyone I know. I, on the other hand, am horrified by spicy food. I think it completely ruins the taste of whatever I am eating…oh, and I cry. Yeah, the crying sucks.
While I was on my cruise this past July, a hilarious comedian named Andrew Kennedy made a comment about the Indian section of the buffet in the main dining hall. He commented on the fact that he thought he could handle the curry they put out, but it ended up being obscenely spicy for his taste. He then went into a whole skit about how Indians put curry on absolutely everything, and joked about how he saw an Indian woman scooping it up and putting it in her cereal earlier that day.
I have come to realize that my hatred of looking at myself in glasses is mine and mine alone. Every boyfriend I’ve ever had has done the “Oo, you look like a sexy librarian” or “Come here and teach me something.” I usually respond to both statements with a “Really, dude?” And not just because of the cheesy comments, but because of the sheer fact that I have always associated glasses with nerds.
And yet, guys seem to enjoy the “nerd” aspect of my glasses. I think it stems from the whole “Lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets” concept. Guys love a girl who looks innocent and sweet and is a wild woman behind closed doors.
I do tend to make a complete transformation when I go out of my house. The messy bun sitting atop my head becomes flowing curls, my pale, reddish face magically becomes a Mac ad, and my oversized pajamas are traded in for some skin-tight ensemble that I had most likely recently Continue reading →