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I used to think that in order to have a yearly re-cap, I had to be a mom who writes generic Christmas letters every year, to be sent to friends and family who rejoice in the information; how little Billy grew a whole three inches, how the husband shot a three-under-par in his company’s annual golf tourney, and how teenage Lizzie got her first job working at McDonald’s. That’s right, Lizzie is going to put herself through college, we are so effing proud…
…Yes, that’s what I believed in the age before the Internet, when I was fourteen years old, without a husband, without a son named Billy in the midst of a thrilling growth spurt, and without a teenage daughter who will actually use her income on push-up bras and beer. In those long and tortured years, while my dream of teenage motherhood slipped by, I kept my yearly re-caps to myself. It was repressive, and explains my cry for attention in adulthood.
The Internet however, with its illusions of social engagement, answers the call of the hapless loner, the call of the rambling serial killer, the call of the spinster cat-lady, and the call of me (all of the above?). And so, like any good creepy cyber-stranger would do, I shall share with the world some intimate reflections on the year…
Second-most embarrassing moment of the year:
-I found a song by Nick Lachey (of “98 Degrees” boy-band fame) on my iTunes, having no recollection of when I’d actually purchased the syrupy track.
First-most embarrassing moment of the year:
-I proceeded to listen to the Nick Lachey ballad mentioned above…repeatedly. It’s called “What’s Left Of Me” and I have it memorized.
The best thing I said in 2010:
-Imagine what kind of asshole I’d be if I wrote down the things I said in conversation, referred back to them, then rated them based on my own scale of “awesome.” To everyone in life: don’t ever do that, please.
Cruelest realization that I’m getting older:
-I noticed my first ever “cleavage-wrinkles”. I immediately did some Google research, only to discover that the more often you wear push-up bras, the more premature cleavage-wrinkles you’ll be stuck with. Giving up push-up bras would be like crippled Tiny Tim giving up his crutches, so instead I’ve been applying “Oil of Olay” on my boob wrinkles every night since late September. Whilst gently weeping. I feel unpretty.
Biggest guilty pleasure of 2010:
-Pretending I hate it when creepy brown guys stare at me at the gym, but doing a scan of the gym every thirty seconds when I’m on the elliptical. To see if they’re watching. Because I secretly like the attention. Yes, I’m a whorish tease.
Biggest regret of 2010:
-That I forgot to use my Shoppers Drug Mart “Free Ten Dollars on Any Purchase” card, which I received for spending over fifty dollars before tax on a previous purchase. I could’ve gotten fresh mascara with that but noooo, it just had to expire on December third. It remains in my wallet to this day, taunting me…
Best hairstyle of 2010:
-That time I sort-of-but-not-fully-curled seventy-percent of my locks, so they looked tousled and wavy, but not like I tried too hard. It was in March on a day trip to Buffalo. We had dinner at the Olive Garden and I wanted to look hot.
Worst hairstyle of 2010:
-When I forget to wash my hair for approximately six days during a writing-induced haze (“Romi, the North Pole called, they want their snow back. No wait, that’s just your dandruff. Never mind, keep that shit away from the Artic Circle.“)
Biggest potential for romance that started in 2010:
-There is this German or Austrian guy who works at the Indigo bookstore near my work (nationality undetermined, due to varying octaves of speech). The first time I met him he renewed my “Indigo Rewards” membership. It’s my third year being a member, but only the first time an Indigo employee went through EVERY coupon in the booklet to explain the definitions (“This? It’s five dollars off a purchase of forty dollars or more. So when you spend over forty, you MUST use this! Are you listening?!”). So the coupon-reading was kind of like our awkward first date.
The second time I met him I was purchasing a trashy yet sweeping historical romance novel for my best friend’s birthday, along with a tin of hot chocolate. This gift was a joke, a JOKE I tell you, but to an unsuspecting Indigo worker, it appeared that I was a desperate woman reading romance tales and drinking gallons of hot chocolate on lonely Friday nights. To my surprise he wasn’t deterred, instead agreeing that a wonderful book and a steaming big cup of hot chocolate are an excellent combination. I still suspect that he was picturing me reading that tripe in the bathtub whilst attending to my physical “pleasure-needs”, but I ain’t no Megan Fox here with a zillion options; take what you can get and give thanks.
The third time I saw him I was buying discounted books about Ancient Egypt. So now he thinks I’m smart and is in love with my brain. Onward with 2011, because it’s time to give him my number…
So that’s my year. Even though it had some low-lights you wish you were me, I can feel it. Maybe you’d like to steal my life in 2011, like that girl did in the cinematic thriller “Single White Female”. It can certainly be done, and while “Single Brown Female” has an excellent ring to it, this freak-show is MINE, if you steal it I am nothing but a soul-less bag of bones…why would you do that to me? Jerk.
PS: Consider this my return from a blogging hiatus.
Write you soon,
Justin Bieber was always unsure of his success. His own worst critic, he tried out different gender-bending octaves, he tried out different angles for his wisps of hair, but nothing could settle his child-sized stomach, the prepubescent stress of never being enough.
Then one day it all changed, when a (probably creepy) marketing guru decided there should be a Bieber doll.
Mr. Bieber was heavily involved in the process. He inspected every ridge of plastic hair on the prototype, then every button and bobble on the rusted machines, not wanting the Taiwanese factory kids to screw it up. Once the eight-year-old foreman and his crew had jumped through each of Bieber’s hoops, the switch flipped on and the ejaculate of plastic Bieber was in flight. Thousands upon thousands of dolls in his honour, to light up children’s eyes and fill their poor-taste hearts by Christmas 2010.
So Bieber made it, but what ever happened to me?
There is no Mattel doll of an office girl drinking Starbucks and trying to stab herself in the eye when Microsoft Excel randomly freezes. A solemn reminder that I never reached my dream of epic status.
But…I didn’t always feel this way. When I was growing up celebrity dolls made me happy, even joyous. An army of New Kids on the Block to be my twelve-inch boyfriends, a Rick Astley replica who would never ever give me up (it was actually a Ken doll but close enough), and what about my older brother’s Han Solo action figure? That shiny plastic toy was the birth of what is now my most important “old man crush.”
But like with everything else, wide-eyed youth turned into bloodshot pools of adulthood. Each celebrity doll, each action figure likeness of Christian Bale is a comparative measure, reminding me there will never be toys of us regular folk.
And so…how could we possibly be grateful that there isn’t a plastic “us”?
Enter my epiphany.
Continuing on with Justin Bieber as my case study, the doll will be a jacked-up likeness of the man-boy. But the man-boy has to grow. In fact with each passing minute Justin Bieber gets closer to death. Meanwhile his doll smiles on, its feathered hair immune to the troubles of dandruff and grease.
Even all those girls with Bieber-fever will notice. They’ll burst through security and hold up the doll to his face, only to find that there’s spinach in the real Bieber’s teeth. Plus heavily caked on make-up. Plus a pimple you can see through the heavily caked on make-up. Then of course, years later when the surplus dolls resurface as donations for African children, Bieber will have a run-in (during his Tanzanian trip of self-discovery). This time the comparison will destroy him. His Bieber beer gut, crusted lips, sad-man eyes and receding hair, right beside the perfect plastic manboy.
If I were Justin Bieber I would shoot myself in the face. If I was any celebrity with a perfect plastic version of me, a face shot…to the face.
Instead I can just be me, and no matter how I age or grossify with time, who will even know how shitty I look, when there’s no plastic miniature to point out my obvious decline?
Here’s to finally appreciating life below the radar…
I must be a prude or have a “grandma soul”, because the music of today makes me turn and run more times than not. Usher’s fixated on “boobies like wow, oh wow”, Lady Gaga sings of “disco sticks” which are not an item from Toys ‘R Us as I’d originally thought, and Akon, a featured singer for bouncing bodies or sexy bitches songs, must be riding a wave of perpetual erectus (I hope someone will be kind enough to relieve him). Of course, it gets way more detailed than that (please refer to all the songs where half the lyrics are bleeped out on the radio), but I’ll leave that to your own listening pleasure.
So..what’s the final frontier of music? I suppose the physical union of bodies has long been the topic of tunes, but it was so much cozier in the Frank Sinatra days. I mean a long embrace? Now that I can get behind! A long embrace does not require wowzer boobs and an ass shaped like an astronaut (my translation of modern lyrics may not be exact).
It’s not likely we’ll return to the graceful art of subtlety, and maybe “hook-up” music keeps the nightclub culture booming.
So FINE, let’s keep it slutty, but we still have to keep it fresh! I don’t know what’s left in this modern expression of “man hunts, man penetrates woman” (please re-write as needed for the Lady Gaga version), but what about a throwback to the past? I mean it happens with fashion all the time, almost everything is “old turned new again.”
Okay then…which era should we pick for the next generation of club tracks?
I know, I know, I give preferential treatment to Ancient Egypt all the time. I’ll admit it’s my favourite era, but this time it really makes sense! Ancient Egyptians had beer and wine, so obviously they knew how to party. They also didn’t wear a lot of clothes due to heat. And let’s not forget that future pharaohs were being married off/crowned in their early teens, which means that “sexy time” amongst the young ones was the norm (take that, concerned parents, we’ve always been whores…)
So let’s set the stage, shall we?
It’s a sunny day in Lower Egypt, but heat still burns through your transparent linen gown (you are a woman, by the way). You and the girls are headed for a nearby oasis; trees and sparkling water all around…yippee! A few hours later you realize it was only a mirage. No trees, no water, you have sand in your eyes and your butt-cheeks are starting to sweat.
Night falls, and suddenly an army of man-boys appears from behind a sandy dune. They’re running towards you in all their loincloth glory. Normally you wouldn’t go for silly man-boys, especially not the lowly type confined to manual labour. On the other hand, carrying all that limestone to build the pyramids did a wonder on their forearms, which are veiny and bulbous (just the way you like ’em).
The man-boys slow to a halt, setting down their bottles of wine, whilst smiling at you and your girlfriends all the time. You blush and look away, as your brown skin glistens through the barrier of linen.
Conversation flows at a stifling pace, but who even cares? Mental stimulation isn’t needed on this night.
You swig the wine, eat handfuls of sticky dates, dance underneath the stars, and then…and then…
I wouldn’t recommend a straight story-to-song conversion, but there is so much potential material:
-Transparent linen gowns, man-boys, bulbous forearms, sweaty butt-cheeks, sticky dates, starry night, heat, group sex
I’m no songwriter, but I think I smell a hit. I’ll let the experts build the actual track, but I would really like a credit when it hits the airwaves.
(saving the world again, but musically this time…)
Still traumatized by the creepy picture of Justin Bieber on the cover of People magazine, I would hardly focus a blog post on the boy.
And yet, he’s revolutionizing the pop star to fan-girl experience, so I must.
Before I get all hot and bothered for a lad who isn’t legal, let’s travel back in time for a moment…
…It’s 1990, and the New Kids On The Block are playing yet another sold out show. Joey McIntyre sings the opening line to “Please Don’t Go Girl” and…we all lose our shit.
Oh wait, did I say “we”?
Well technically I wasn’t there, since my parents wouldn’t buy me a NKTOB pencil case let alone concert tickets, but hellllo, their concerts were on Pay-Per-View!
Incidentally, my parents refused to buy us Pay-Per-View concerts, but I still enjoyed the boys as a scrambled black and neon-coloured mess.
There was a point to this post…oh yes, back to the opening line of “Please Don’t Go Girl.” Fan-girls swoon, fan-girls sweat, and eventually…the fan-girls shoot their freshly soiled undies up on stage (with disturbingly impressive slingshot skills).
But wait: that’s not the moment of climax. The peak occurs when one of the fan-girls is pulled up on stage. She’ll now be serenaded, danced with, and kissed by a New Kid On The Block.
The problem of course, is that the “classic” heartthrob moment is remote…what if your favourite idol never plays in your city? And what are the odds of getting seats in the first three rows?
Well…fast forward twenty years and the fan-girl game has changed.
I’ll skip the Twitter tutorial (apologies to the Amish…wait a minute, you Amish, what the heck are you doing on the Internet?), and go straight to the biggest trending topic on the site:
*insert fan-girl squeal*
So how do you experience the real Justin Bieber, without ever leaving your home? It’s a process that reminds me of the Second Life site, which is a treasure trove of virtual pleasure for the modern adult. I mean imagine not only building your online self (with genitalia you can buy using credits), but mixing and mingling with other virtual humans! Like maybe it’s a rainy day outside, but you wouldn’t know; you’re way too busy at the Second Life bar, sipping Jack ‘n Coke, and getting ready to “hit that.”
Justin Bieber will also hit you up on Twitter, but in a much less graphic way. It kinda goes like this (paraphrased from actual tweets):
superfangirl#1: If it’s really u @JustinBieber, and if ur as amazing as I think u r, u’ll reply to this msg, and follow me back PS: I luv u!!! xoxo
JustinBieber: It’s really me @superfangirl#1 , and you are now followed back. Nice to meet you.
Oh my god, did that just happen?
Justin Bieber FOLLOWS BACK, and to the tune of fifty-five thousand people! (at last check)
If there’s anyone besides the Amish who doesn’t understand the enormity of being “followed back”, it’s pretty simple:
-Any time a chosen fan-girl posts an update (from what she had for breakfast, to narcissistic photos, to what colour her bra is), Justin Bieber will read it, ask her out, and probably marry her (at least one time out of fifty-five thousand).
So what are you fan-girls waiting for?!
[This message was brought to you by Twitter (not really), and the freak who writes this blog.]
[DISCLAIMER TO FAN-GIRLS: Even though you’re competing with fifty-five-thousand hungry fan-girls like yourselves, keep it classy, ’cause no one buys the calf when the virtual milk is free.]