Sunny days, chasing the thoughts of misogyny away...

This isn't today's (Friday's) post, but it IS amazing:
Thank you to Jezebel for that one!

Crystal City Couture: who knew Virginia was so cool?

So.

Let's start by saying that I love Arlington. Like, a lot. Especially for a place that is below the MDL, and isn't New Jersey, and isn't a city in the normative sense. But I wouldn't say it's the haute of sophistication, if you know what I mean.

Which btw, suits me JUST fine.

But twice in the past week (yes, including last night - I bucked up. Actually, I drugged up and Ramona picked me up. In her car. Because she is awesome) - TWICE! - I have been proven wrong at a 2-week long event called Crystal City Couture.

Oo la la y'all.

Wednesday was Wedding Wednesdays, so Anna, Chelsea and I went off to this lovely event space in (dun dun) Crystal City to see a bunch of GORGEOUS dresses from boutiques in the area, and to watch a bunch of SKINNY-ASS models parade around the runway, taking themselves as seriously "as though Tyra was watching" (quoth Anna, nevermore). Between the beeyuuuuuuuuteeful dresses and the Very. Fucking. Serious. models (who had both parents and children at the shows, which maybe disturbed me a little) and - oh wait - the CUPCAKES and the CHAMPAGNE and the getting-our-makeup-and-hair-did by a glorious young man named Blair, it was a fucking fantastic evening.

Then last night.

I was worried that I was going to be super fucking lame. Because I was feeling le sick. And because sometimes friends? I am super fucking lame! But because I needed some fresh air, because I missed Ramona and because - hello! - it was "Sexy" aka "Slutty" (again, Anna's words) Saturday - I mean. How could I not go. So we show up, I'm worried that I'm going to suck, or it's going to suck cause how can you top Wedding Wednesday, and besides what IS haute couture without seriously amounts of merignue-like white cloth (that's a shoutout to J. Jeter right there) and maybe the models wouldn't take themselves as seriously as though their lives depended on it.

But oh was I wrong.

First of all, it was lingerie night (hence the Sexy or Slutty or whatever) which was:

1. Amazing, because I like pretty underwears;
2. Amazing, because I like saying lingerie;
3. Amazing, because it meant near-naked women on the runway.

Don't get me wrong, I haven't gone all lezzer on y'all (I just finished Marian Keyes' The Charming Man - so freaking good. Also, so much freaking faux Irish slang) but cmon. Near naked women? Prancing around? In front of sketchy ass men?

Hilarity ensues.

Ramona and I watched as these girls strutted down the runway barely covering their naughty bits as a bunch of hipsters, jealous women, and porn-appropriate-mustached men watched on in awe. The best part, however, was when the "Crystal City Men" came out on the runway wearing footie pajamas. My abfave let his little backdoor down and he had a lipstick tattoo on his ass.

It was presh.

Ramona purchased some beautiful clothes from a local vendor, I sampled the beautiful meatballs provided by a local sports bar, and Anna cheered for the (albeit) beautiful models (real and fake) like the good Virginian she is.

Darn-tooting!! Jayzus, where/when the hell do I think I AM?!

Um, anyway I don't know if this festival (as it were) is an annual thing or if any day could ever top the amazing 2 times I've been, but you all should know that there is another whole WEEK of this fanfuckingtastic event, and so if you're looking for fun below the MDL with booze, food and Tyra wannabes - Crystal City Couture is for you.

Real America scares me

So.

I didn't plan to be um, political today. But I was going to write about how excited I was to go to Crystal City Couture again (I went for Wedding Wednesday; tonight is Sexy Saturday) but I've come down with a bug and now am NOT going, much to my sadness (and maybe chagrin) so instead, I'm jumping on my soapbox (really, crawling onto my soapbox then gagging to make sure I don't puke) and saying: I don't like guns.

Never have, never will.

Not just in a passing, "who actually LIKES guns way" (the answer is lots of people apparently). But really, like, do not understand people who possess slash use them. I hate to regionalize (um, blatantly false) but in No. NJ it was just not Something We Did. Maybe it's not even the Jerz - maybe it's just that my family is, on the whole, anti-gun.

Scared is probably the correct term.

And sometimes I think I'm being insane. The first time I ever encountered a girl who not only had SEEN a real life gun (and not one on Law and Order) but OWNED one and had HANDLED it on a REGULAR BASIS, I was in shock for 3 days. I was at the conference where I met Eva, and for those 3 days I continued to ask my roommate (she of the gun ownership) things like, "but - you, I mean, you SHOOT things? But WHY? Doesn't that SCARE the SHIT out of you??"

Strangely, she and I didn't speak after that week.

Anyway, REAL friends of mine now own or have owned guns, mostly because I'm not some little 16 year old who grew up in a bubble in Rich Suburbia, NJ and because I had finally come to see that perhaps my opinions on the subject were appropriate to me, but not to the real world.

And then I read something like this.

In short, some little kid, some eleven year old boy who probably likes things like Wii and putting pop rocks in coke (um. Ok I was 11 a long time ago) and lived in Pennsylvania, picked up a gun this week and shot his father's 8-month pregnant girlfriend in the back of the head, killing her and her unborn baby.

This is the world we live in.

And it's hard for me not to sit on my soapbox (gagging face in hand) and say - why? Why was there some gun in this kid's house? Why did he know how to use it? Why did he know how to pick it up, load it, and point it at this woman and pull the trigger?

I know there are other issues here.

Issues like, why did the kid think that shooting someone was OK enough to do, but bad enough to lie about it when the police questioned him. Why was this gun not locked up - was it for similarly unconcerned-parenting reasons that led this little child to feel that shooting a person, killing her and a baby that could probably have survived if only someone had found the woman before hours had elapsed?

Sigh.

But no - I focus on the guns. And there's a reason; it's this line that makes me go there:

"'[The woman's daughter] didn't actually eyewitness the shooting. She saw [the little boy] with what she believed to be a shotgun and heard a loud bang,' Bongivengo said, adding that the weapon, a youth model 20-gauge shotgun, was found in what police believed was the boy's bedroom.

The shotgun, which apparently belonged to Brown, is designed for children and such weapons do not have to be registered, Bongivengo said.

Emphasis mine.

Can someone please explain to me why there are shotguns developed for children? Why there are killing devices (because even if you have one for hunting you're still killing SOMETHING) DESIGNED FOR LITTLE PEOPLE HANDS?! Because I just don't understand it.

At all.

And so once again, I am sorry for getting all controversial. But the lack of Crystal City Couture have made me angry. And so did the idea that there are people out there making guns for children.

This is a GIRLS' apartment

So.

Rachel has been dating this guy Aaron for a little while now. He is lovely. They went to college together (although I don't think they knew each other there) and now he does things that involve organs and saving people's lives.

It's all bloody good.

But despite my general feelings of good will towards him, sometimes I want to kill him. Four minutes ago, in fact. And a week and a half ago. And a month before that. Namely, I want to kill him every single time I get up to pee after going to bed and fall into the toilet.

Let me repeat that. INTO the FUCKING toilet.

This is completely absurd. If my brother and father could put the seat down, why can't Aaron? In fact, I'd ask that of all men - WHY THE FUCK AREN'T YOU PUTTING THE SEAT DOWN?! That is insane. It takes two seconds. Just barely brush the goddamn thing, and it clanks down, hard. And then no one, no one's roommate, and no one's roommate's friend who she likes a LOT have to fall in any gross-ish water and have to wish they had a bidet as they STAND there in the FUCKING shower rinsing off their FUCKING ASS.

I'm a little peeved right now.

I thought about writing a super pass-aggro note and sticking it to the top of the toilet that says "Plz put the seat down after you're done. Kthxbai!" but that's not adult of me. Instead we need to have a conversation. And it needs to go like this. "Aaron, girls live here. Put the seat down." "Ok MA, thanks."

The End.

To all my men friends out there - why is this hard? In the alternative, am I being a total bitch? And to my ladies - if someone wasn't putting the seat down in your apartment, what would YOU do.

Now excuse me. I must go rinse off my ass.

Valentine's Day Movie Massacre

So.

Another Valentine's Day spent single. But as I've fervently maintained, Valentine's Day is for everyone who has someone to love, whether that someone is your boyfriend, your wife, your sister, your best friend, or the doorman at your building who says, "Miss MA, you received a package today and it looked liked cookies." It may seem like vaguely sour grapes, but I really don't think you have to have a significant other to enjoy this day.

But apparently la TV does not agree with me.

I was working off my laptop this morning and so I turned on the USA romcom marathon. First up was Notting Hill, one of Arielle's favorite movie and in general, a very good V-day movie: Julia Roberts, fancy neighborhood, down-to-earth friends, and British accents. So I'm eating icing, doing my work, and vaguely paying attention to the movie. I missed a few commercial breaks due to this lack of attentiveness, but one coincided with a decision to put down the laptop and stretch, so I was alert when the first strains of an E-harmony commercial came on.

Hm, I thought. Interesting choice.

Next up: Chemistry.com. Then a commercial for Yaz. Then a commercial for Match.com.

Sense a trend?

All the commercials - and I do mean ALL - were directed at women. And mostly single women. As though the only people interested in watching Notting Hill at 11am on Valentine's Day while eating icing were singletons in want of a mate.

Ok. Fine.

In any case, despite USA's normative judgment on my life I am having a FABULOUS V-day. I'm hanging with Leah and her parents this afternoon (in which "hanging" means "moving things") and then Ramona and Joe are coming over for some chicken pot pie, amazing dessert and a Friends marathon.

I mean. I'm pretty fucking happy.

So to all of you out there who think V-day is (like Virginia!) for lovers - I hope you have a good time. And to everyone else, who loves their mom/bff/doorman, know that this day is just as much about comfort food, chocolate, Hugh Grant, and YOU as it is about Cupid, roses and overhyped prix fixed menus.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Forgive me Father for I have sinned. My credit card number is...

So.

I cannot wait for Easter this year. Truth be told, this is often the case. Typically, I cannot wait for Easter because I give up sweets and diet soda for Lent and since I practically exist on sweets and diet soda (ok, not all the time but still) it's a pretty painful time of year. But since Lent hasn't even begun yet this year (and thank GOD, because I haaaaaaaaaaate it when it falls during Valentine's Day), it's a little strange that I'm looking forward to Easter. And no, its not cause it'll be warmer then.

And there are margaritas in warm weather.

No no, it's because this April will be the 10th anniversary of my last reconciliation (which vaguely sounds like a Mel Gibson movie). I most recently went to penance in April 1998 when I about to be confirmed. I went because

1. It was required;
2. I thought that if I went, the priest would put in a good word with the bishop for me and he wouldn't knock me around.

Unfortunately, that didn't work. Jerk.

But you know, when you're 15 (going on 16) you're not only naive, but men that I'd meet would tell me I'm sweet and willingly I'd believe they WEREN'T trying to get into my pants. So my sins were tame. "I was mean to my brother." "I took my sister's shirt without asking." "I cursed."

"A lot."

But NOW! Now. I have had PREMARITAL SEX! Worse, I have had it with SEVERAL non-Catholics! And we used CONTRACEPTION! And one time, I said I hated the Pope.

Oh I am SOOOO going to hell.

But not if I get forgiveness. And so I am planning on going back in April. Mostly because I can say, "Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been 10 years since my last confession," because there are only 2 ways to shock a priest in confession - have it be a long ass time, or kill someone. And don't get me wrong, I enjoy shocking old Father Mike.

But um. Killing? Yeah. No.

The countdown has been on for years now. At around my 7 year anniversary I started thinking about going back, but thought I could probably hold out for an even number. Then once I hit eight years, I decided to try for a very Catholic nine years (3X3. You know! Trinities and shit). And once I had nine, how could I not go for the full decade? Just imagine! Me and the priest would be sitting in that booth for hours, and he'd had to give me 10 years worth of rosaries to save my soul from eternal damnation.

It was going to be GREAT!

So imagine my horror when I found out from the NYT that the Vatican has decided to start selling plenary indulgences again. Yes, you do know what plenary indulgences are. You've heard about the Canterbury Tales, have you not? What about a gentleman named Martin Luther? Yes. They mocked plenary indulgences mercilessly (ok. Maybe Martin Luther didn't "mock" but he CERTAINLY didn't have much mercy). Because it doesn't sound very God-y to be handing over cash for forgiveness.

Now.

I use my plastic quite a lot. QUITE a lot. I have purchased things from a $0.72 blue book to a $1000 plane ticket to Italy on my card. But I draw the line at buying absolution. No! NO! I don't care if it gets me shitloads of points. It's WRONG! I have been WAITING to BLOW OFF prayers for TEN GODDAMN YEARS, and NO FUCKING POPE-MAN can TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME!!!!!!

Ok. Add to the list:
1. Plan to blow off prayers.
2. Used the Lord's name in vain. Again.
3. Called Benny the Rat a "fucking pope-man".
4. Called the Pope Benny the Rat.
5. And right. That whole "trinities and shit" thing.

A little help from my friends. And the Sopranos.

So.

I wasn't allowed to watch the Sopranos when I was in high school. This was despite the fact that I am an Italian-American from New Jersey, most SPECIFICALLY from the exact same part of the state the Sopranos are from (which I know, because they filmed in the town next to mine. Actually, they filmed in my town too, but the house was in the town next to mine).

OK, it was kind of BECAUSE of that.

My mother would get angry - "this isn't the kind of Italian we are!" (which is funny cause she's not any kind of Italian) and my father would just kind of shake his head at the whole American obsession with the Mafia (also funny, because his favorite movie is the Godfather).

Anyway.

I'm having a kind of crummy day, and because Becca is literally the best person I know, she sent me the following video. Before you watch it, I have to say a few things:

1. This is most definitely NSFW. For those of you who don't know what that means (no judgement, I didn't either until very recently) that means "not suitable for work". Also, this is NSFP, SF, RR, AOEOP (not suitable for parents, sensitive friends, religious roomates, and other easily offended people).
2. After you watch this, you will find your language resembling something from a construction worker, truck driver and sailor "how not to speak in front of ladies" conference. Be prepared. It's fucking awesome, but be fucking prepared.
3. My parents probably made the right decision all those years ago. Maybe they knew what they were talking about after all.

And so, thanks to Becca, I present to you the sopranos, uncensored. from victor solomon on Vimeo:

Hitting snooze on introspection

So.

I know I've been a boring blogger lately (I mean seriously, I could have probably been funnier about my bus-phone post but even the concept is bahorrrrrrrrring) and I couldn't quite put my finger on why. There's definitely been a plethora of things to write about, like single moms living together without men ("they must have a LOT of cucumbers") or the new Zagat guide to dating ("how do you rate a text break-up on a scale from 1-30. -11") or the "Listicles: Fictional Men Worth Loving" ("first of all, if I can get beyond the testicle thing, isn't there only one fictional man worth loving? And his name is Harry Potter? Ok two. Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley?").

And then it occurred to me.

I'm thinking too much lately! I've been skipping the gym because I've been "tired" but also skipping the bars because I've been (at turns) "poor" and "fat" and "embarrassed from the last time I got drunk, took off my bra through my shirt and waved it around frenetically threatening to toss it until I realized that my bazumbas were waving around even more frantically".

Ok that didn't happen.

But the point is, no going out (not ever. Obviously I have a life. I DO! I have friends. I SWEAR. Bish plz I am le awesome) and no gym time has led to a lot of me sitting on my couch clipping my toenails and thinking.

A dangerous past time, I know.

And you know what thinking is? Ok right. Healthy. For both my school life and real life (for example, see the boring but breakthroughy post about losing weight for myself on the other blog. Not hilarious. But sure, "good" for me). And also maybe for staving off dementia.

BUT BORING.

Not funny. Not even kind of funny, like Michael found that adorable kid who was super high on laughing gas from the dentist (which by the way was fucking HILARIOUS and NOT MEAN AT ALL).

Ooo! Side note.

When I was a little girl we used to go to this AWESOME dentist in the Jerz who had like, Sonic the Hedgehog video games in the waiting room and Disney movies in the examination room that they'd put on while you were getting your teeth checked. Although we lived in Central Jersey at the time, I have a feeling this place was Northern Jerz cause it smacks of overprivileged children. ANYWAY it was fantastic and I NEVER dreaded going to the dentist because no one I knew except 1 family had Playstation (that was the Sonic thing, right?) and it was awesome.

Until one time.

Which was actually even more awesome cause I don't remember why they gassed me up except that maybe there was something painful with fillings? And anyway they asked me if I liked bubble gum and put this pink rubbery thing on my nose and about 2 seconds and a few ("just inhaled") breaths later, I was giggling like I had never giggled at the part of Bambi when Bambi's mother gets shot.

Oh yes.

I was high. SUPER high. FLYING high. Which would have been maybe funny if there was youtube at the time (although then I couldn't blog about it, because you'd all have watched it and been like, oh so THAT'S who Vittoria is, that crazy drooling girl in the back of her mom's van who was giggling about shooting deer), but was certainly NOT funny when I walked out of the office all high and it seemed (from the yelling that ensued above my floating head which felt funny and fuzzy and hilarious) that no one had told my mom that I was going to be put under.

As it were.

We never got to go to the fun dentist's again. And the next dentist we went to was not only BORING, but kind of a sadomasichist who wouldn't numb my gums when he was ripping teeth out of them in preparation for my braces.

Which is maybe how y'all feel about the blog lately?

Point is - starting today I will be better. Less thinking! More recollecting the bubble gum high! And maybe more time at the gym (because that yields funny stories too. Remind me to tell you about the guy who's peepee fell out of his shorts once. Actually, that's the story. He was on a treadmill, me on an elliptical, and I don't know the mechanics of it but suddenly he was hitting the treadmill with one hand to make it stop and trying desperately with his other hand to grab and stuff his - you know - thing back into his shorts. I almost fell off my machine from laughter. The best part is that if he hadn't done anything, just stopped running and fixed himself, I wouldn't have noticed because I was deeply engrossed in the "Homeland Security" show that comes on before Scrubs. Awesome).

To sum up: sorry it's been boring. In the future, less buses and more peepees.