Don't Rain On My Parade

Over the last few years, Facebook (as well as other social media) has become so much more than just a place to share photos or stalk people you haven't seen since 5th grade. It's become a marketplace of opinions, both of the solicited and the unsolicited variety. This is heightened during important moments in sports, TV, current events, general pop culture, politics, and whatever else.

Sometimes Facebook opinions make me happy, like when someone says they just started reading the Harry Potter series and they remark about how great it is. Other times, Facebook opinions clue me in to things I would have otherwise had no idea about - as someone who isn't particularly tuned into the Batman franchise, for example, I don't think I would have ever heard about the Ben Affleck casting selection had people not been (mostly) up in arms about it.

And yet other times, Facebook opinions make me want to tell people to stop raining on my fucking parade.

For every person out there who obsesses over Dexter, there's another person who delights in telling you how they hate Dexter. People will even delight in telling you how they have no interest in Dexter because it seems like it sucks, which is the same as saying, "I have no knowledge of this thing but I'm going to shit all over it anyway."

For the record, I've never seen Dexter, but I've certainly seen this same scenario play out with Breaking Bad, with every woman who happily has her first pumpkin spice latte of the season*, and with just about any other thing that people get excited and vocal about. And it's never in the form of intelligent discourse, it's just in the form of "I'm better than you because I think this thing you love is terrible."

After getting a little annoyed over people who take pride in hating things I'm excited about, I had a mildly disturbing realization: I do this all the time.

I am the asshole who tweets something like, "So, like, there's a sports thing happening?" during the World Series or the Superbowl or one of those other things that literally millions of people look forward to and care deeply about. I am the first person to talk about how lame sparkly vampires are even though I haven't read a single page or seen a single second of Twilight. I do this because for some sick reason it makes me happy to act like I'm above these things and oh, look at you plebians who spend your time caring about such silly pursuits.

Why do I do this? I'm not above sports, and as much as it loathes me to say it, I'm probably not above Twilight either. They just don't interest me, and that's fine. Everyone else's enthusiasm for these things doesn't have any impact on my life, and those people certainly don't give even the tiniest bit of a crap that I don't care about Twilight or sports or Lost or the Batman franchise or any of those other things that I just haven't incorporated into my life because hey, there are only so many hours in the day and no one can possibly be into all the things, ever. Yet I still insist on making sure everyone knows my stance on these things instead of just letting everyone talk amongst themselves (speaking of talking amongst ourselves, let's all discuss Breaking Bad from now until we die, okay? Because...!!!).

Now that I'm aware of what I'm doing and how much it probably pisses other people off, I'm going to try and stop. Because there is no reason and no excuse for raining on someone's parade.

* Do men like pumpkin spice lattes too and are just less vocal about it?

50 Shades of Suckitude

After suffering through 50 Shades of Grey, I needed to get my thoughts about this horrible book down on paper (or blog, whatevs).

I've recruited a few others to also post reviews of this book, because the world (and by "world" I clearly mean "the 3 people who read my blog HEY Y'ALL, LOVE YOU") needs to hear from a few women who have some semblance of a brain and who realize that 50 Shades is a seriously pathetic excuse for literature.

Here is a handy list of why this book is probably the worst thing I've ever read. Ahem:

1) The story takes place in 2011. Our "heroine," Ana, is a 21 year old college student. She does not have a computer. She does not have an email address. I mean...okay. If I ever encountered someone in real life without an email address I would BANISH THEM FROM LIFE. Except I don't have to worry because only in this weird world where gingers are sexy and stalking people is endearing would this actually happen.

1b) Yes, Christian Grey, who, we are reminded constantly, is so insanely attractive that women pretty much melt into puddles all Wicked Witch of the West-style when they see him, is a ginger. HAHAHA OKAY.

2) No one in this book sounds like a real person. People do not seriously say "shall," E.L. James. I don't care if you're a middle aged British woman. Get with the programme (see what I did there?).

3) There is a character named Jose, and he very frequently says, "Dios mio!" If any of you reading this are Hispanic, on a scale of 1 to 10, how offended are you? If I had to guess how many Hispanic people E.L. James has actually met, I'm going to go with...zero.

4) Look, I really don't want to go that much into the sexy sex parts. Mostly because I'm not particularly well-versed in erotic fiction, and I'm definitely not at all well-versed in having totally unrealistic sex. But I will say this: if you read this book because you've heard about how it's revitalized marriages and you want to turn your love life up a notch, DO NOT READ PAST THE SEX PARTS. The prose is honestly so awful that it will take any amount of turned on that you might be and douse it with a bucket of ice water. To the soundtrack of 1,000 crying babies. With the smell of garbage on a hot summer day invading your nostrils. As in, it's a fucking buzz kill.

5) On that note, why is this book so popular with mothers? There are no moms here. Unless you count Christian's mom randomly coming by his house and not being bothered by his new lady friend with sex hair. Which I don't.

6) I think Ana is some kind of robot. She apparently hates eating. Every time Christian asks her if she's eaten (which, FYI, is totally weird), she gets all sheepish and "Whoopsiesssss totally guilty of not having eaten today!" as if she's a 5 year old who just got caught stealing cookies from the kitchen counter. WHY DOESN'T SHE EAT? I mean sure, every so often I forget to eat or don't have time to, but mostly, NO, THIS IS RIDICULOUS EVERYONE FUCKING EATS.

7) Related to #6, why on earth does this book talk about Darfur so much? I mean, why does it talk about Darfur AT ALL? I know that Christian had some weird upbringing where he was hungry all the time and that's why he's so controlling about Ana's food intake and also why he helps out Darfur (?????), but I kind of feel like this is E.L. James's way of saying, "Hey guys I’m going to talk about a serious issue now and I'm totally not stupid because I’m socially conscious and stuff, what?”  Also, I get that he wants to feed people, but doesn't he want to do something about the genocide? PRIORITIES, CHRISTIAN. Also, maybe read a newspaper, E.L.

8) Ana bites her lip a lot. I just tried to bite my lip and look sexy doing it. I failed. In fact, I kind of look like a scared chipmunk. Does anyone look sexy doing this? (Disclaimer: I don't look sexy doing anything, so...fine).

9)We hear a lot about Ana's subconscious, and also a lot about her inner goddess. WHAT IN THE WHAT. First of all, if you anthropomorphize your subconscious, I think that negates the whole "sub" part of it and DOING IT WRONG, E.L. Also, I don't know about you guys, but my subconscious maybe gives me weird dreams sometimes, but it definitely does not yell at me or look at me or anything that one of my besties would do. Because it's not a person. And the inner goddess? Who is this? Her inner slutty sex kitten? Why are these 2 different entities? What is even going on here? IS THIS REAL LIFE?

10) Typos. I wear "sandals," but apparently in this book, you wear "sandles." Does this book have editors??? Were they so blinded with pathetic mommy porn passion that they couldn't even think straight?

Sigh. And eye rolling.

Lacey's review is here, Debbie's is here, and Jess's is here.

For more hilarious reviews of 50 Shades, check out the Snark Squad, and this amazing article by Julieanne Smolinski.

And then I became a creepy ginger

This weekend, somewhere in between the beers and the gourmet hot dogs and the AMAZING GLEE CONCERT and more beers and the Korean fried chicken and some guy giving me his belt so that I could wrap it around my head like Quailman from Doug and then asking for my number and then talking shit about me on Facebook and I totally took the high road and did NOT publicly call him out for saying mean things AFTER getting my number and texting me but WHATEVER I WASN'T INTERESTED IN YOU ANYWAY, D-BAG, I got my hair dyed orange.


It obviously wasn't supposed to be orange but I guess these things happen sometimes. Also, this picture does not do the brightness of my orange hair justice. I assure you, in person it is much more Crayola crayon and much less...normal. It might not be a crayon that comes in the 8 crayon box, and maybe not even in the 16, but in the hugest size that Crayola sells, I guarantee you there is a crayon in there with this color on it.

Unless your hair is black or dark brown, you shouldn't be able to find your hair color in a crayon box. Mark that down. Life lesson #1.

No one has said anything bad about it, and many people have said it looks good, but it means people are either being nice or I guess they legitimately like it. I refuse to believe that EVERYONE likes it though because I am pretty not-at-all picky about my hair color and totally loved it even when I accidentally dyed it fire engine red in college, so I think this is pretty bad. But I'll get used to it.

For the record, I wanted more of this.


See? That hair color is awesome. Red, not orange.

That's a mighty fine looking beer too, actually.

The anti-chivalry stance

When I was in Chicago, I got into a nearly-heated discussion with Dan and my friend Anna about chivalry.

Dan and Anna are in the pro-chivalry camp. I am not.

Dan says he was raised to act like a gentleman and treat women well. I say that sometimes, chivalrous acts are really just a way for a man to help me do things that I can do more efficiently myself.

Do I want you to pull out my chair for me? No, because in all honesty I find that annoying. I'm going to have to adjust my chair after I sit down anyway, so your efforts are totally wasted. Just like the unnecessary bathroom attendant who insists of handing me my paper towel, I simply prefer to do it myself.

Another reason why I sometimes find chivalry off-putting is because I have no desire to be in any kind of relationship where I'm not viewed as an equal. And hello, chivalry kinda sorta originated in a time where women weren't viewed as equals.

This doesn't mean I want to be treated like crap, of course. If a guy insisted on paying for the first date (or the fiftieth) I would certainly let him, but I will always offer to pay my half, and unlike most women, I actually mean it (frankly, I think the game that women play where they pretend to take out their wallets but really don't want to pay is bullshit. If you don't want to pay, own it).

Similarly, if a guy opens a door for me, I'm cool with that, but only because I think it's a nice gesture to do for another person regardless of their gender. I open doors for everyone.

I just don't think chivalry is necessary in order to be said that you're treating a woman well. Dan gave an example of wanting to come home and talk about his day with his girlfriend while rubbing her feet. That's not chivalry in my eyes, that's just a normal level of affection between significant others. Do I want a future boyfriend to massage my feet? Certainly. But why shouldn't I do the same for him? Unless he has gross boy feet. Then he has to wear socks while I massage them. But, you get the idea.

There's just something about helping a perfectly capable woman put her coat on that screams to me, "SECOND CLASS CITIZEN." I mean, I can put on my own damn coat, and someone trying to help me implies that I can't. I wasn't swayed even when Dan and Anna made a dramatic display of Dan helping Anna put her jacket on when we left the bar. I responded with my own dramatic display of how well I've learned to put on my own coat after 27 years on this planet.

What it all boils down to is that I want to be with someone who enjoys my company, thinks of me as an intellectual equal, and expects the same out of me as he does out of himself. Sure, he can take care of me and do nice things for me at times, but I will always return the favor. I want a guy to feel like he's with a strong, independent, capable woman (and if that's not what he wants, he's barking up the wrong tree, yo), not someone who needs to be coddled and can't pay for anything or even get out of the car without his assistance.

Is that so wrong?

No, I will not donate to your marathon

This morning I was having a lovely gchat with my friend Anny. We were discussing an issue that I'm certain most if not all of you have come across at least once since you graduated college.

That issue, my friends, is being asked to donate to someone's marathon.

While I certainly support charitable giving, and I support my friends in pursuing their interests, there are a few things about being asked to donate to a road race that really annoy me.

1. There is no real relationship between running and charity. People run marathons because they like running and want to set some kind of personal goal for themselves, and to get the bragging rights that come with having completed a marathon. No one goes, "Hey, I want to raise money for charity, what's the most efficient way for me to do that? Oh I know! I'll train for months and months to run a long race and raise a few thousand dollars along the way." If they did think that, they'd be morons because running a race is far from the most efficient way of raising money. I put this reason in bold because this one is always in my head even while considering the other reasons.

1a. I would rather give my money to someone who I know is wholly committed to their cause as opposed to partially committed to their cause and partially committed to running a race. For example, to an awesome friend who puts a ton of time and effort into maintaining the non-profit that she started (though I haven't donated to that charity either recently, sorry P! Ha).

2. Not giving money to a friend or coworker's marathon makes you look like a jerk even if you really don't have the money to donate.

2a. People running marathons will always have a few friends who willingly part with $50. As Anny pointed out, $50 is a lot of money for some people, but sometimes those people would in theory be okay shelling out $1, $5 or $10. However, going to someone's donation page and seeing that everyone else is giving the big bucks might make some people balk at the thought of giving a significantly lower amount because, yet again, they'll seem like a jerk. I know that I'd rather give zero than give $1 for fear of having people see my donation and think, "Why did she even bother?" This is terrible because when charity is concerned, every dollar counts (right?).

3. Personally, I make a point of giving to charitable causes when I'm able to do so and in ways in which I feel comfortable. I gave money to my alma mater this year (undergrad, not grad school - they will never see a dime of mine) even though I'm not exactly financially stable right now; it was something I wanted to do at the time. Just because I sometimes have charitable tendencies does not mean I want to donate to your cause of choice at the moment. If we all gave money every time we were asked to do so, we'd all be broke. You have to pick and choose.

4. Running marathons isn't exactly great for your health. Yes, I know that runners are sort of by definition in shape, but marathoning is really hard on your body in more ways than one (or five). If I emailed my peeps and asked for money because I wanted to undertake an endeavor where I drank a shot for every year old I am (26!), no one would do it. But just as sure as I would end up in the hospital long before I reached my 26 shots, some marathoner running in NYC next month is going to end up there too.

I'm wondering if there are other people out there who secretly (or not so secretly) resent being asked to donate to road races (but, I might add, still sometimes do it anyway).

Why I don't like job hunting

I am still job hunting. And could be for awhile. Now that I'm on the cusp of reaching the 250 job applications mark (!!!), I've gotten all too familiar with some aspects of the job search that I don't like. Here goes!

1) When people tell me, "Don't worry, it's going to be fine." Yes, this is very easy for you to say when you have a cushy job and parents who still pay your cell phone bill. Talk to me when you have student loan debt going into repayment, health insurance to pay for (as in, the entire thing) and no job.

1a) Don't act like I'm disappointing you when I say I can't go on elaborate vacations. I'm really sorry that you want to go to Europe this fall and I can't join you. TOTAL BUMMER FOR YOU. Not.

2) I don't really ask for help with my job search. It's my own problem and no one else's. However, if you shove your business card down my throat and insist I send you my resume, I certainly don't expect you to find a job for me, but at least do me the favor of responding to my email. I probably spent a fair amount of time researching the company you work for and the available positions, and it's really a waste of my time if I never hear from you again.

3) Why the stigma about not finding out what a job pays until an offer is made? Let's be honest here - salary is one of the most important deciding factors for most people. I don't want to go through the effort of applying for a job that only pays half of what I want to make, and if companies would openly advertise that a position pays $150,000 a year, I'll know better than to apply for it because I'm clearly way too junior.

3a) For the hypothetical job above, if the (unmentioned) salary is the only way for me to know that I'm not qualified for this job, you wrote a job description that was either a) vague b) flat-out wrong or c) a magical mix of the two.

4) Just as I am supposed to be prepared for any conversation, so should you. If you say, "Why don't you have any employment on your resume after 2008?" you clearly didn't read the thing at the top of my resume that says, in bold, EDUCATION - MASTER OF BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION, MAY 2010. Similarly, if you select me for an interview and then ask me if I have experience with a slew of fun acronyms that appear nowhere on my resume and then mention that this experience is absolutely required for the job in a non-negotiable way, you really should have paid closer attention to my resume before deciding to interview me.

Phew, that's it. For now.

Trying not to let the bedbugs bite

I assume it's not like this in any other city, but you cannot open a paper or any news website in New York without being attacked by stories of bedbugs infiltrating the subway/hospitals/hotels/retail stores/everywhere. Today alone I've already been bombarded with 3 bedbug stories and as I write this it's not yet 11 AM.

A lot of you know, either from knowing me in real life or perhaps from reading my old blog, that I used to have bedbugs. And let me tell you something: they are No. Fucking. Joke. Here's why.

In October of 2007, I started getting itchy red bumps all over my face, arms and legs. I thought I was having an allergic reaction to something and went to see the dermatologist. After 2 visits and multiple tests, they had no idea what was going on, but new bumps were still cropping up. In the meantime, I missed a day of work because I woke up one day with multiple bumps on my face and neck, in addition to one on my eyelid that made it swell up and look like I got punched in the face. I purchased nearly every type of cover-up I could find at the drug store and combined them all to try and look presentable for a wedding I had to go to. It didn't totally work and you can look at the pictures and see some red on my arms.

The following week, after talking to a coworker who had just finished dealing with bedbugs, I had my lightbulb moment. I told the doctor, and he confirmed that bedbugs made sense. I went back to my coworker to talk to her about it, and she walked me through the hell of getting fumigated. I had no intention of doing that and decided to seek other options.

I went to a hardware store and purchased some anti-bedbug spray. It proved ineffective. I bought a bedbug-fighting powder and turned my bedroom into something that resembled a sloppy cocaine den. That didn't work either. I began a nightly ritual where I would douse myself and my entire room with bug spray before going to bed. I knew it wouldn't work, but at that point I took every suggestion I got.

As I struggled to get rid of the bugs, I was itchy. I had bumps everywhere that ranged from mosquito bite size to as large as if I had been hit with a fastball. The biggest ones were more like welts. Despite the research, there was no rhyme or reason to them. Sometimes they were in groups. Sometimes in lines. Sometimes I would wake up with 7 bites in completely different places. They didn't stop itching for about 2 weeks, by which time I had amassed new ones. I went back to the drug store and purchased all sorts of cortizone creams and moisturizers, and had a few donations from my coworker who didn't need her anti-itch stash anymore. I also began pumping myself full of Claritin and Benadryl and promptly took to taking daily naps with my head down on my desk at work due to the resulting drowsiness.

The thing about bedbugs is that it's not just being itchy that gets to you. I went from being pretty stable to going absolutely out-of-my-brain crazy. I was afraid to go to sleep knowing I would get bitten. I would delay going to bed as long as possible, and then I could never fall asleep because I knew the bedbugs would come out as soon as I stopped moving around (they're attracted to warmth, carbon dioxide, and things that stay still). When I finally did fall asleep I would wake up itchy, either from old bites or new ones (or both). So I didn't get much rest those days. This fear of going to bed only multiplied into an overall uneasiness about going home, because I soon realized that I could get bitten while watching TV or sitting at my computer. If I wasn't moving, they were biting. So I was walking around like a panicky zombie who, as I already mentioned, was uncomfortable due to the itching and self-conscious from the welts. I was on edge and started snapping at my coworkers (and probably my friends too, sorry!) for no reason.

It was after the failure of the aforementioned powder that I knew I had to get fumigated. I called and left a message with my landlord. No response. I left another messge. No response. I called again and unleashed all the fury of a Jewish Woman Scorned on the answering machine and finally, someone picked up the phone and gave me the information for the exterminator. I called them and learned that they refused to make an appointment until the apartment was "prepped." They sent me a prep sheet and I got to work. But as it turned out, this was no easy task.

I had to pack up my room as if I was moving out. Every little thing had to be thrown in plastic bags and moved out of the room. Though I worked at top speed, I had to wait for my roommate, who worked 14 hour days and came home only to sleep and who, I should mention, NEVER got bitten, to do the same. She slowed down the process and there was nothing I could do about it. So as I waited for her to pack up her room, I got bitten.

I was able to schedule the exterminator after we had made substantial packing progress. And thus began an awesome week which involved packing in the earlier days, getting fumigated on Wednesday, heading to NJ for Thanksgiving the following day, coming back to New York on Friday to unpack my life from the garbage bags, and oh, taking this little test called the GMAT on Saturday.

Once I had unpacked and the GMAT was a thing of the past, I felt home free. On Monday morning, I woke up to go to work and had fresh new bites. I resisted the urge to tear out my hair and instead called the exterminator. He informed me that it's perfectly normal to get bitten after fumigation because the bugs don't die unless they come out of hiding and walk through the poison. So essentially I had to lay there in bed as bait for them because if someone wasn't there to draw them out, they wouldn't die. In the words of Adam Sandler, "Once again, things that could have been brought to my attention YESTERDAY!!!" Grumble.

So I kept getting bitten for a bit, but as promised, it stopped. And eventually I had cycled every article of clothing I owned through either the laundry or the dry cleaner (they were ALL supposed to go to the dry cleaner but hello, that's expensive). I added to the ridiculous list of bedbug-related costs by purchasing brand new everythings for my bed. Things were actually, finally, thankfully, better.

Fast forward to several months later, July of 2008. I had been sleeping peacefully in my brand new sheets/pillows/comforter for over 6 months. I awoke in the middle of the night with an itchy face. I lay there scratching for probably about a minute before I realized that my bedbugs were back. I broke down in tears because I knew the whole process was just beginning again. And it did, start to finish. Because that's just how the fucking bedbug story goes.

Don't insult my intelligence

MBAs tend to have a bad reputation. A lot of people think of business school grads as those who just waltz into an office and expect to manage everyone and run the damn place because weeeeee I have an MBA and I know everything!

I am not one of those people. For real. I can hardly run my own life let alone any kind of organization.

That said, being a) a smart person, b) an MBA grad and c) someone with a few years of legit full-time experience at a fancy name brand financial services company, I think I'm entitled to at least defend my intelligence and look for a job that will be fulfilling and challenging. And specifically, to defend my intelligence WHILE looking for a job that will be fulfilling and challenging.

A few weeks ago, a recruiter called me to tell me about a job they had available as the Recruiting Coordinator for a tech start-up. He told me about the job and then asked what I thought. Our conversation went as follows:

Arielle: To be honest, this job sounds 100% administrative and that's really not what I'm looking for. I'd like to do something more strategic.
Recruiter: Well, this is a great career track role and is very challenging. Have you ever done scheduling before in Outlook?
A: Yes, we used Outlook at my last job.
R: Okaaaaay, but have you used Excel and PowerPoint before?
A: Yes, I've used them both quite a bit.
R: Okay, but I see on your resume that your last full-time job was in 2008. What have you even been DOING since then?
A: Um...I just graduated from business school like 3 weeks ago (which is obviously on my resume).

The conversation continued and the recruiter kept insinuating that I was a moron with no computer skills who apparently did nothing useful with the last 2 years of my life. Thanks.

Today I got a call from a temp agency asking if I wanted a short assignment working as an administrative assistant to some senior dude at a bank. She said it would involve answering phones, making travel arrangements, etc. I'm definitely happy to do any temp job that comes my way while I look for full-time work, so I said it sounded great. She then said she was looking at my resume but wanted me to elaborate on what experience I had with that type of role. I told her that I used to answer my boss's phone when she wasn't around and that I felt very comfortable scheduling and booking travel and whatever else, though technically I didn't have any full-time experience as an admin, as she could see from my resume.

And you know what she said? "Oh, I'm going to hold off on this one then because I really need someone who can jump right in and feel comfortable."

I'm sorry, did I not give you the impression that I can jump right in? I CAN JUMP RIGHT IN, LADY. I HAVE A MASTER'S DEGREE AND I'M PRETTY SURE THAT QUALIFIES ME TO ANSWER A PHONE.

I don't mean to get all high and mighty. I'm not even saying I'm above being an administrative assistant, but I AM saying that I'm insulted when someone implies that I can't do that job. Especially when it's a temporary role that only involves BS stuff until whoever actually has that job returns from vacation. And also because I did temp work all of last summer doing...exactly all those things. And have done them at several jobs throughout college.

Seriously. If people look at my resume and STILL think I can't schedule a meeting or answer a phone, why did I pay all that money to go to school?

I bet all of you, even those of you who may never have worked in an office a day in your lives, could walk into any of these temp jobs and kill it. Because they are EASY. And those of you reading this who I know have also done temp work, I'm sure you will agree.

Look, I may not be super hot or stomach-clutchingly funny or naturally talented at really anything, but I know that I'm intelligent and I know that I can use a computer pretty f'ing well and I know that I'm employable. DID YOU HEAR THAT, PEOPLE WITH JOB OPENINGS? EMPLOYABLE!

Until someone realizes that, though, I will enjoy my life of leisure.

The best and worst dream

I freaking hate really good dreams. Some people wake up from an awesome dream and think, "Man, that dream kicked ass. I'm going to be in the BEST MOOD EVER all day!" I wake up from a good dream and think, "Motherf'er, my life is never going to be like that. Sad face."

2 nights ago, I had a dream where I was dating Cory Monteith. It wasn't even a makeout dream (PS, who else loved when Kristin Chenoweth was all, "Will Schuester? I just had a sex dream about you!"). In fact, I don't remember anything that happened. We might have been on some kind of It's A Small World-esque amusement park ride where you sit in a little boat and see cool stuff, but even that detail is sort of fuzzy. The point is, DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE WAKING UP FROM A DREAM WHERE YOU'RE DATING CORY MONTEITH? It sucks.

If you don't know who Cory Monteith is, I mean, why are you even here and are we even really friends? Go away. But to fill you in, he plays Finn on Glee, hence why I already referenced Glee in this post. But my dream wasn't about the character Finn (hi, 16 is a little young for me and probably illegal in many states), it was about the actor Cory, who, according to IMDB, is 28.

And whatever, I don't care if I think about Glee too much or tweet about Glee too much. I love it.

For real, though. Cory, if you're reading this, call me. I don't even care that you're Canadian.

And for the future, I would much rather stick to weird dreams over good ones. That way I don't walk around all day in a "Boo hoo I'm not actually dating a totally adorable TV star" funk.

Why online dating is not my bag, baby

I've found myself in a number of conversations over the last few weeks about online dating. And then I read Jess's post about it. And then I felt the need to tell the world why I am anti-online dating (for me, not for anyone else. You all do what you want). And here I am!

I've done the online dating thing. Sort of. And by that I mean I don't think I really gave it the old college try (PS, what does that even mean? Raise your hand if you really tried all that hard in college. Ahem, crickets. I tried hard at playing beer pong). I mean, I talked to a lot of guys. I met a few. I had one surprise attack me with half-naked (the wrong half. Or right half, if that kind of things excites you) jumping jacks via a video chat function I didn't even know existed in the site's IM system. You know, the usual.

I started putting myself out there on the great internets because I was bored, I wanted to meet new people, and I was under a lot of peer pressure. But after a relatively short time I got sick of it and vowed to never do it again and here, my friends, are the reasons why:

1) I am too skeptical. In my world, all men are guilty until proven innocent. Or should I say, unfit to date me until proven otherwise. When I read online profiles, I don't see a wealth of potential soulmates or even potential I'd-be-willing-to-let-this-dude-buy-me-a-drink-and-see-if-it-goes-anywheres. I see dead people losers.

2) Everyone sounds the same. Every guy out there loves to travel, likes to go out and have fun but occasionally just relax at home on the couch with a movie, and wants a chill girl he can take home to mom. I'm sorry, but I have yet to meet anyone that's all "Fuck traveling! I hate vacations!" I am not a generic woman and I have no interest in meeting a generic man.

3) I hate dates. Some people like going on dates because you at the very least get to try new bars or restaurants, sometimes the other party even pays for your food or drinks, you get to meet someone new, and maybeeee it evolves into some kind of romance or at least a lustful encounter. I am not one of those people. I find small talk painful to engage in and free drinks or no free drinks, my time is more valuable to me when put towards...most anything else.

4) I just don't care enough. The whole aspect of meeting new people, whether you're hoping they turn into spouse material or you just want a fresh face to talk to, really has no appeal to me, I realized. Sure, I like meeting new people, but I like meeting them organically, not in some weird pre-determined setting that's rife with hope and expectation even if no one admits to that being the case. I don't feel that my life will suffer in any way if I DON'T find out who might be waiting there for me at match/eHarmony/Jdate/whatever. Especially because I've never gone on an internet date with someone who I wanted to see again, platonically or otherwise. So what's the point in meeting new people once? Unless they're single service friends, which these are not.

The point is, online dating is a waste of my money. Not yours necessarily, just mine. And despite Dan's advice, I am not about to start craigslist dating. Friends don't let friends meet people on craigslist. Or at least, they shouldn't.

The trials and tribulations of NYC-BOS travel

I've mentioned this before, but I consider myself an expert on the multitude of options for traveling between New York and Boston. I've been making the trip on a fairly regular basis for the 5 years since I graduated college, and that doesn't even include the many times I did it during college. The best most amazing wonderful fabulous thing about graduating from b-school next month and peacing out of here is the fact that, for the first time in 9 years, I will have no reason to come back in the foreseeable future. The fact of the matter is, I am sick and tired of this short yet often painful journey. Every time I head to NYC, as I did this past weekend, I'm excited for what awaits me, yet a part of me dies inside from the very thought of getting on the bus.

Here is a list of things about traveling that I am excited to not have to deal with anymore, excluding even the ridiculous debacle from last month. These are pretty much all related to buses since that's what I do most frequently, but I am more than happy to complain about trains and planes too on request. =)

1) Broken wifi. My laptop is heavy and when the wifi promised to me doesn't work on my bus trip, it turns my computer into dead weight and my intention of being a productive student to crap.

2) Seat buddies who, even if they probably weigh no more than 100 pounds, somehow find a way to not be able to stay within their own seat and encroach on my space.

3) Phone conversations I'm not interested in. Today on the bus I learned that Amber is available to work the Stonyfield job on Sunday if they still need her to. She told this to at least 6 different people in whatever office she was calling.

4) Delays. Waiting for an hour and a half in the dead of winter for a bus that never shows up is fun. Not.

5) Stopping at a rest stop an hour from Boston. SO many bus companies insist on stopping at one of the various rest stops available to us at the tip of Massachusetts. This is annoying on the way to New York because hello, we haven't been on the bus that long, and it's annoying on the way back because hello, we're almost there just get me home already. There's a bathroom on the bus for anyone who needs it and all travelers should know to bring their own snacks.

6) People who talk to me. Do I look friendly? Do I give off the impression of caring that you're going to a bachelorette party? Well, I don't. Leave me alone.

7) Drivers who like to mix it up and take the most traffictastic routes through Manhattan. Note to all drivers: shockingly, Times Square traffic moves at the pace of molasses at rush hour.

8) Lack of temperature controls. I do not like being hot and I do not like being cold. Sadly, I don't often get the opportunity to be somewhere in the middle.

9) Overhead lights that don't work. I used to carry a flashlight with me for just such an occasion. Now I just try to travel during the day.

10) People who get on the bus while sick. Yes, I would love to listen to you sniffle or cough up a lung every 5 seconds, not to mention that I would also love to actually take your illness with me when I leave this bus.

I'm going to stop because I'm getting aggravated just writing this. However, it does bring me some comfort that I won't be getting back on that bus for 6 glorious weeks. Hell. Yes.

"I'm one stomach flu away from my goal weight"

Any woman who has ever wanted to lose even one pound would be lying if she said she wasn't secretly jealous of people who lost weight from being violently ill (you've thought this too, don't lie).

As I have finally recovered from my first stomach virus in...13 or so years, I am here to say that IT IS NOT WORTH IT.

Having to run off the bus when you're only halfway home because you think you're about to be sick, and then calling your roommate to come pick you up because there isn't another bus for 45 minutes? NOT WORTH IT.

Laying in bed for 7 hours and not sleeping at all because of intense nausea interspersed with bouts of stomach pain that feel like someone has a death grip on your internal organs? (Plus, you know, the intermittent trips to the bathroom to vomit). NOT WORTH IT.

Missing both work and class because you can barely walk from the couch to your bedroom to get a hoodie when, by the way, there is no reason for you to be in a hoodie, fleece pants and nap socks when it's almost 80 degrees outside? NOT WORTH IT.

100.1 fever? Every muscle in your body aching? Being hot, cold, light-headed and nauseous all at the same time? NOT WORTH IT.

I lost 6 pounds in 36 hours and friends, you could not pay me enough to go through that again.

But on the bright side, I am alive and well and my appetite is back and I can actually go downstairs to get the mail. And no, it was not food poisoning (I'm not sure why everyone asks that right after I blatantly say "stomach virus") and yes, I know where I got it from and you can read about it here! If you read the article, which about 1 of you will, you will see that even though I was alone in my apartment, I was clearly not alone in my suffering.

Why I hate Twitter

Yes, I'm on Twitter. I don't know why, though, because I don't tweet that often and I get annoyed by at least 90% of tweets. I guess I stick with it so I can stalk the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck. Which I only visited about 6 times last summer.

Here are some specific types of tweets that drive me nuts:

1) FUCKING FOUR SQUARE. Full disclosure: if I had a smartphone, I probably would have joined it. However, I haven't, and I DO NOT GIVE A RAT'S ASS WHERE YOU ARE. I don't care what dumb place you're the mayor of or what you're doing there or anything of the sort. Didn't anyone read about that website that's something like pleaserobme.com that utilizes stuff like Four Square to know when you're not home so they can STEAL YOUR CRAP? Doesn't that worry anyone? Obviously not.

2) Tweeting to tell me you blogged. Newsflash: if I wanted to read your blog (and if I follow you on Twitter, I do), I WOULD SUBSCRIBE TO YOUR BLOG. I don't need you to tweet me a link to your newest post. I HAVE IT.

3) Too many back and forths between the same 2 people. If you want to have a conversation, I should let you know about this great invention called calling/texting/gchatting/whatevering. If it only concerns the 2 of you and you're going to go back and forth "@"ing each other, please understand that I will want to taser you.

4) Excessive tweeting about niche subjects I don't care about. I know I can't really stop this one because people get involved in whatever they get involved in and you want to tweet 100 times an hour with the same hashtag that I don't even understand. You're free to do what you want, but after awhile I will unfollow you. Sorry.

5) Telling a story through multiple tweets. Hi, it's called microblogging for a reason. You get 140 characters. If you have something lengthier to say, take it to your blog (just don't tweet to tell me you took it to your blog, mmkay?).

After writing this, I feel like maybe I should delete my Twitter account. Except seriously, I do love following food trucks. Dilemma.

I can get my own toilet paper, thankyouverymuch

I hate bathroom attendants. And I need to talk about it.

Look, I am all about creating jobs, particularly in a recessionary environment. But I support the creation of real, meaningful jobs. Not stupid and flat out useless ones.

Bathroom attendants make me uncomfortable. They are people who sit in a room that is essentially designated for people to do gross things. Would YOU want to spend several hours at a time in a bathroom? No, you wouldn't. The only benefit to working in a bathroom is that the bathroom is never far away. But you can't take snack breaks (unless you eat in the bathroom, in which case, don't touch me) and you have to just sit or stand there while girls pee and vomit and partake in inane chatter around you. Have you ever heard a group of drunk girls of which you had no part talking in a bathroom? 9 times out of 10 it makes you want to jam a pencil in your ear.

The real reason I hate bathroom attendants, though, is because they are trying to get me to pay them to do a job that not only am I capable of doing by myself, but that parents worldwide spend a lot of time trying to TRAIN and ENCOURAGE children to do by themselves. My parents potty trained me so that I can use the bathroom, wash my hands, and dry them. Alone. Without help. I've been successfully going to the bathroom by myself for most of my 26 years, why are you trying to help me out now? I mean, how dare you think I'm about to give you a dollar for handing me a paper towel. If I can drive a car, I'm pretty sure I can reach for my own damn towel.

Now, don't go all jumpy jumping down my back about not tipping. I tip everyone else who normally receives tips. In fact, I usually tip well. Now, I understand that I am perfectly capable of jumping behind a bar and making myself an excellent vodka soda. Yet I still tip the bartenders who make them for me. Why? Because a) alcohol is how bars make money and they need people to regulate its distribution, b) alcohol comes with legal liability if distributed and thus consumed improperly, and c) society has never taught me that it's okay to hurl myself over a bar, shove the bartender out of the way and do it myself. Do bars make or lose significant money off paper towels? No. Can I overdose on paper towels and then sue the bar when I get hurt? No. Has society taught me that it's okay for other people to assist me in peeing? No. If you told me you couldn't go to the bathroom by yourself, I would tell you to stop talking to me. Because you would be gross and weird.

When I was in New Orleans, we stopped at Pat O'Briens for some legendary hurricanes. When I went to use the bathroom, I found that there was an attendant inside distributing toilet paper. TOILET PAPER. As in, they purposely removed all the TP from the stalls and if you did not get some from this woman, you did not get toilet paper. I was appalled. I paid the bar $8 for a delicious beverage, and along with that beverage there are some perks. Namely, I get to sit in one of your chairs and use your bathroom. It's how the hospitality industry works. If you think Starbucks drinks are overpriced solely because of higher quality ingredients, you're wrong. It's a way of charging you (in a palatable way) for taking up their comfy chairs for 4 hours.

The business-y thing that bothers me about this is that bathroom attendants are essentially a completely random middleman (ahem, middlewoman) inserted into the supply chain. People generally like to minimize the number of hands that any product has to pass through before reaching the end consumer. That's why there's a huge push to buy locally sourced goods - the closer it starts to you, the easier and cheaper and greener it is for it to get to you. I realize that bathroom attendants are not exactly harming the environment, but they are harming my sense of comfort and, quite honestly, provide no value except annoyance. If you want to pay extra to have a valet park your car because you're too lazy to do it yourself, that's all fine and well because they're adding a convenience to your life. Bathroom attendants do not add convenience - they only add an extra hoop to jump through to get what is rightfully yours - some motherf'ing toilet paper.

I know myself too well

I would just like to mention that at 11:24 PM, not quite an hour after I hit "Submit" on my last post, I walked into my chair and stubbed not one, not two, but three toes in the process. If you read my last post you would realize why this is significant. I suck at life.

The trials and tribulations of being Jewish

This Saturday, I will be attending a holiday party thrown by a classmate. There will be fancy dress, eggnog, and all other sorts of delicious "let's call it holiday but really it's just all about Christmas" appropriate fare. Despite the fact that eggnog is one of my favorite things of all time - and PS don't be like me and look up the nutritional information for eggnog online because you will discover that one cup of it is nearly half the fat and calories of what you're supposed to consume in an entire day - I decided that this "holiday" party needed some Jewish flair. So I offered to make latkes.

I think you unchosen ones know these by their heathen name, "potato pancakes."

I've never made latkes before, but I figured it wouldn't be too hard. However, I knew I should give them a test drive before the actual day of the party, since I am a terrible cook in all respects and can ruin pretty much anything.

I was gearing up to make some kickass latkes today. I bought a fancy 7 dollar cheese grater at Bed Bath and Beyond, and was grating the crap out of some potatoes.

Then it came time for me to grate the onion. As soon as I picked it up, I remembered exactly how horrible I am at dealing with onions. I have an obscenely high pain threshold for things like stubbing my toe (which I do a LOT), but for some reason, onions are my kryptonite. So I was having flashbacks of onion-related pain and then I was all, "well, I'm not chopping onion, just grating it. So maybe it will be fine."

To say this logic is flawed is to give too much credit to the fact that I am even daring to call this burst of stupidity "logic."

Sometimes I cook with sunglasses on so as to try to prevent the burning. Actually, I should just rephrase that to say, "Sometimes I cook." Period. I can't even remember the last time I made something that involved me manipulating an onion in any way. But whatever, I didn't have my sweet shades anyway.

So as soon as I start grating, my eyes feel like someone poured boiling water in them and I can't even rub them because one hand is covered in potato and one hand is holding an onion and I'm desperately trying to rub my face into my shoulder but IT DOES NOT HELP and then I can't keep my eyes open anymore but I must keep grating in the name of the preservation of the Jewish people so I grate with my eyes closed which is nervewracking because how do I even know I'm getting the onion in the bowl, plus you lose your balance when you close your eyes and then even with closed eyes IT STILL BURNS and I'm grating and grating and WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG and then my roommate walks in the door and I look like I just went through a horrible breakup with my puffy eyes and tears streaming down my face and I'm all "OH GOD, THE ONIONS I CAN'T HANDLE THEM" and my roommate is laughing RATHER INSENSITIVELY and finally I decide I don't need anymore onion in my latkes and I grab a wet paper towel and throw it on my face and all begins to be well in the world again.

My latkes turned out well except I think they need more salt. I look forward to perfecting the recipe but I do NOT look forward to doing onion battle again in just a few days' time. But I'm at least satisfied that I have proven my worth as a potential Jewish mother though it is unfortunate that I can only do this by sacrificing my eyesight to feed people something that is essentially deep-fried and artery-clogging. So my latkes are going to join the eggnog at this party and maybe it'll turn into a "which religion can kill you the fastest?" theme (what you got Islam?). Except at least we Jews have the miracle of Chanukah (which involves oil) to blame for our 8 day oil binge but to my knowledge, eggnog holds no religious significance.

Jews win!

Life is like a box of chocolates...

I have a picture of my outfit for today but I'm going to post it later because this is more pressing.

Awhile back, the professor I work for gave me a present as a thank you for the work I've done for her. When I got home, I unwrapped the gift to find that she had given me a box of chocolates, which I clearly need as much as I need a punch in the face. Though I probably could have (and wanted to) eat all the chocolates right then and there, I approached the box as any normal adult who would like to not get diabetes would. That is to say, slowly.

Just now, a few short minutes ago, the time arrived for me to eat the final chocolate in the box, a good decision considering I already ate about 800 pounds of food today at Friend Thanksgiving and am now getting ready to leave for volleyball and doesn't everyone know that chocolates are a good pre-exercise snack? Right.

One of the worst things OF ALL TIME is when your last bite of food is ruined. Am I right? I am. You all know what I'm talking about. Like when you have one cookie/cracker/whatever left and you're all set to eat it and then someone walks over and snatches it. Or when you're waiting for the bus eating a granola bar because you just worked for many hours and the caterer decided not to feed you even though THEY ARE ALWAYS SUPPOSED TO FEED YOU and you drop the last fucking morsel of granola bar on the ground and the 5 second rule does not apply to sidewalks.

When the last chocolate in the box is one of the gross ones, it sucks. And unfortunately not all delicious chocolate makers like to print a little grid that tells you what all the chocolates are (WHY NOT?) so it's one big game of guessing and surprises. To avoid this problem, I hand-selected a chocolate to be the last one that I was SURE was going to be delicious and not some gelatinous fruity nasty excuse for sweets. It was one of those ones that's shaped like a mini Reese's peanut butter cup and usually contains some kind of rice crispie-esque stuff. So I was pretty pumped to eat it.

I don't even need to say what happened because I bet you all know.

I bit into the chocolate and, instead of crunchy goodness, I got some kind of sub-par nut-based nonsense. It wasn't the worst thing ever, and it wasn't even so bad that I threw away the rest of the chocolate as you know I did with a bunch of the other ones, but it was still a disappointment. Not the way I wanted to end a box of chocolates.

And this is not the way I wanted to end this blog post, but I need to leave for volleyball exactly 1 minute ago so a witty conclusion is not the cards today. Peace out, cub scout!

On women in business

Warning: this post is ranty. However, it's less bogus than usual, I think. Stay with me.

A few weeks ago, I was reading BusinessWeek when I came across a piece where 3 female senior executives were interviewed about being in business, being a wife and mother, and the cross-sections of the two. There was a nice little sidebar called "Myths about the lives of women," which stated some myths and then addressed them. A few of these myths were nice to read, such as, "Women are relegated to lower-level roles at work." Lots of women are managers these days, so hip hip hooray for the fairer sex!

Some of these myths, however, made me want to punch a wall.

Myth 1: "Children want to spend more time with their working mothers."
Truth 1: "1,000 kids were asked what they wanted from their working moms. 10% said 'more time.' More than a third wanted mom 'less stressed and tired.'"

I'm sorry...what? Let's pick this apart here, shall we? Okay.

First of all, you polled 1,000 kids? Well whoopdeef'ingdo. Who are they? How old are they? What kinds of positions do their mothers hold at their workplaces? Do you realize how small a percentage this is of all children (presumably in the U.S., but that wasn't stated) who have working moms?

Second, what did the other 55+ish percent want from their working moms? Ponies? Lucky Charms for dinner? This goes back to my last point. If you don't tell me what kids you're polling, I'm not just going to assume your data comes from credible sources (sorry, small children, but your opinions are not always valid and/or relevant. Suck it up).

Finally, do you, dear author, really expect me to be stupid enough to read these statistics and legitimately believe that the 90% who didn't say "more time" really DON'T want more time? That if I were to go up to those 900 children and ask if they wanted to hang out with their moms more, they'd say no? Because I don't buy it. The possible answers, at least from the 2 given, don't seem mutually exclusive.

Myth 2: "Flexible work options like paid leave allow women to feel happier at work."
Truth 2: "Studies show a negative correlation between taking advantage of such options and a woman's self-reported daily happiness."

WHAT STUDIES? Don't I deserve a link or a researcher's name or a year or SOMETHING? How many women? And what exactly did the study look at? Women who take paid maternity leave vs. women who didn't take the full amount that they could have, or vs. women who didn't take leave because they didn't have a child, or vs. women who don't work because they married rich and are thus just supremely happy because they have no daily obligations? Or..none of the above? Are we not even talking about maternity leave? What. The. F. Details, I need them. Pronto.

And you know what? I used to work in HR. I dealt with maternity leaves all the time. And from my (admittedly limited) experience, women love maternity leave. Why? Because it allows you to get paid! For staying at home and taking care of a tiny baby! Thinking logically about this, do we really want to say that taking paid time off is going to make a woman LESS happy? Because let me tell you, despite my company's relatively generous 12 week maternity leave policy, almost every single new mom that I dealt with (I supported 2000 employees for 3 years = lots of babies) used her paid vacation days as a way of extending her maternity leave because CLEARLY it made her SO VERY UNHAPPY. Mhmm.

Here's why reading these "myths" made me so angry. I hate, HATE, the dichotomy of the woman as mother and the woman as high-power business bitch but NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET.

The myths listed here are clearly trying to push people into the businesswoman camp and away from the mom camp. Aside from the fact that this is a case in point of how you can take any set of data and manipulate it in a way that supports whatever you want to say, this is obscene because we don't need that kind of pushing anymore, damnit.

Yes, I realize that there are still some inequalities in the workplace and that sometimes women are paid less for doing the same job and this, that and the other. But the fact of the matter is, women who want to be in business are out there proving themselves and proving US (sorry men, you are not included in this sentiment). Female CEOs are all over the place! (I'm looking at you, PepsiCo, Yahoo, NY Times, Kraft, Xerox, and so on). What we need now is not the encouragement to get into the business world, but the encouragement to do it ALL.

This is why I hate Suze Orman (I've been meaning to post about that for probably 2 years now). I read an article awhile back where Suze Orman talks proudly about being a 55 year-old virgin who has never been in any semblance of a relationship. Let's assume she's now closer to 60 and still in the same boat. Look, you make whatever life choices you want to make, and I'm not going to judge you for not doin' the dirty. But I don't want Suze, or anyone else for that matter, trying to pass herself off as someone I or anyone else should consider a role model. Yes, she's very successful, financially-savvy and has some kind of ridiculous net worth. But I can't look up to a woman who feels as though she needed to make a choice. Because it doesn't have to be a matter of having a family OR being successful in business. Why not both?

I'm hardly ever one to go on a femi-crazy rampage, but this idea is so ludicrous to me it almost seems backward. We pride ourselves on being a progressive society and the fact that more and more women are getting themselves into those top C-level spots only helps to bolster this train of thought. But true equality means that women and men have the same opportunities and can do the same things and let me tell you something, friends. Having families while being successful in business is something that men have been doing for YEARS.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, BusinessWeek.