SHE SAID: Case of the Mondays?

January 3, 2011

Puma’s “After Hours Athlete” ad is pretty great.  In case you haven’t seen it …

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Speaking of athletes, I love the new soundtrack someone put to this little gem.

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Top ten Photoshop disasters of 2010.  In case you missed them before we start chronicling 2011’s.

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As of 2012, meat and poultry will be getting more detailed nutrition information. Sounds great, right?  Not so fast.  They are only including caloric and fat information, nothing about where the meat comes from, what kind of conditions the animal was born/raised/butchered in or what the animal ingested.  We still have such a long way to go and I still have to go out of my way to find meat that I’m not afraid to eat.

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The Ex-Blocker.  How many of us could have used this at one point in time?  I also have a few friends I’d like to pass the link on to.


SHE SAID: Brett Favre … really!?

October 8, 2010

Maybe we should switch this blog to consist solely of open letters to Brett Favre.  It sounds like he could use the input.  In addition to Jeremy’s requesting his official and final retirement, I would add a big “really!?”

I think teenagers are foolish for sending pictures of themselves naked or barely clothed.  Unfortunately, the inevitable release of these photos into the viral wilds of the high school halls leads to embarrassment, bullying, and at best, a life lesson learned.  As adults, I like to think we know better.  Although she’s an adult, I think Courtney Love is foolish as well, but her being cracked out most of the time is a legitimate defense.  Plus, the pictures are more of a life lesson in terrifying people away from drugs, so it’s almost a public service that she tweets so honestly about her life.

And then we have Brett, who has no drug addiction to back up his latest blunder.  No, I’m not talking about wearing crocs as a grown adult (which apparently he was donning in one of the texted photos), but Deadspin’s breaking news item.  And, as an older, married, seemingly intelligent man in a high profile position, I would like to think he would know better than to use MySpace and texts if he was interested in wooing someone.  The MySpace mention was enough for me not to believe the allegations (who even uses MySpace anymore?).  But why would a successful athlete put himself out on a limb and send those texts?  Did he not consider that might come back to haunt him?  Why did he figure that sending her pictures of him holding himself and possibly pleasuring himself would win her over?  Are our treasured athletes that removed from reality that he thought that would work?  And how idiotic do you have to be to provide that material (or ammo) to someone who isn’t a trusted confidant?

While I’m flabbergasted that someone who has the ability to lead a team would make such a grave alleged mistake, ultimately, I’m not sure that I care that much.  Mr. Favre has shown season and season again with his numerous painfully timed temporary retirements, that he is more interested in himself than his team.  Why am I surprised that this mentality carries over to other aspects of his life?  It’s his marriage to screw up, it’s his endorsements to lose, and it’s his lack of six inches that’s getting scrutinized online.  And so all I’m left with, in the words of Tina Fey and Seth Meyers, is … Really!?


SHE SAID: Case of the Mondays

October 6, 2010

I have a case of the Mondays on Wednesday, so it seemed more appropriate to post today.

For starters, here is an interesting grid from xkcd.

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Here are some fabulous paper cut outs by Bovey Lee.  Since I cannot even do the traditional boy and girl holding hands, I’m in awe.

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While in college at Duke University, this industrious student kept reports of all of her hookups.  Some of the highlights are listed here.  While she created a power point presentation for friends, she claims to never have intended the report to go viral or humiliate those named (too bad Deadspon included the names when it originally posted the list).


SHE SAID: Case of the Mondays

May 17, 2010

Keep paying attention to the Gulf as the tragedy continues to unfold.  According to NPR, the recent oil spill in the Gulf “could become the nation’s worst environmental disaster in decades, threatening hundreds of species of fish, birds and other wildlife along the Gulf Coast, one of the world’s richest seafood grounds, teeming with shrimp, oysters and other marine life.” Now possibly larger than the 1989 Valdez spill, BP’s CEO, Tony Hayward continued BP’s offensively cavalier attitude by calling the spill “relatively tiny” when compared to the “very big ocean”.  BP and the government continue to downplay the importance of the actual numbers of gallons of oil being released into the Gulf, claiming to be more concerned about stopping the flow of oil.  Scientists disagree, saying that the size of the spill is instrumental in finding out the amount of damage being done.  For a comprehensive slide show of images taken the past few days, click here.

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Frustrated with the limitations of Facebook and Youtube?  Meet Gink.

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The 19 most hilariously failed attempts at sexy album covers can be viewed here.

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I made a dried fig, prosciutto, feta and arugula pizza the other night that was based off my friend Lee’s concoction.  Her’s was better, because the crust was crunchier which went really well with the flavors and texture of the pizza, but mine was still pretty good.  The recipe is similar to this one, minus the rosemary, but the dried figs in addition to the jam were really what sent it over the top for me.  Lee wants to use some caramelized onions next time we make it, which I think will be pretty good.


SHE SAID: Navigating and Directions

May 13, 2010

Gentlemen.  Jeremy.  Let’s talk.

do you have any idea where you're going?

What is it with directions?  And not just directions, but navigating in general.  Not to be too specific as I get too specific, but I went on a trip once with a friend in college, a male friend who had not only gotten into a great school, but completed the necessary requirements and was about to graduate, and he thought the towns were located where the name was written on a map, not where the convenient little black dots littering the map were placed.  I wish a recording of this trip existed.  Because while I was confused and progressively more frustrated at the time, I think I would laugh hysterically were I to hear it played back now.

All stupidity of this specimen aside, his example does demonstrate the refusal to ask for help.  He knew, as we circled around for the second time, that the town we were looking for wasn’t where he thought it was.  It wasn’t, like Hogwarts, visible for a select few.  But still, he refused to say anything, and continued to lead me around for a third time all the while declaring his amazement at our inability to find it.  Yes, at this point you can point out my own idiocy for not grabbing the map and hitting him over the head with it, but I was trying to be patient and a good team player … for once.  Plus, I was driving.  Two hands on the wheel.  Ten and two.

Another time, quite recently while driving in a city, I was given no indication whatsoever where I should steer the car until about twenty seconds after I had passed through an intersection by the gentleman holding the map (it was actually a smart phone with a mapping application, but it’s easier to say map).

I realize these are two specific occasions both bordering on the ridiculous … but the stereotype of a man refusing to stop to ask for directions as he steers his vehicle into the great unknown stems from somewhere and I would love to hear your side having experienced it more than enough.

Yes, we women might take forever to get ready and we might have to ask you a few times what you think of the outfit we’ve chosen and then ask you to carry seven items in your pockets because we cannot fit our license, debit card, extra hair tie, tampon, phone, lipstick and keys into our minuscule/non-existent pockets … but once we get our act together and open that door, we know where we are going and how to get there.  Maybe, while you’re waiting by the door, tapping your foot and reminding us what time the get together started, you could use that time constructively and figure out the route to said destination.  And no, I do not have someone waiting by the door and tapping his foot, he is far more patient and supportive than that, which is why we’re still together and he is still sane.

So what is it?  It must be something more interesting than not wanting to admit you don’t know something.  Is each trip a rite of passage in which you, equipped with a steering wheel, pedal and the sun, are to prove your competence to your tribe?  Do you say nothing and ask no questions because you want us sitting next to you, badgering you about whether or not you know where you’re going so you can crack a beer with your teeth and tell all your BBQing buddies about how your old ball and chain nagged the heck out of you on the way over because she didn’t think you knew where you were going?  Boy did you show her!  Seems like a lot to go through for a remedial story.  Is it some territorial thing?  Would you prefer to be peeing out the window and marking territory periodically while we’re moving along and that’s what’s distracting you?  Is it that you lose interest in the task at hand and move on to figuring out what athletes you should drop or shift on your fantasy team roster instead?  Because, while I get that other topics might distract you (ooh, she’s hot; I’m hungry; oh, I love this song), I’m able to both consider my next nail polish color and figure out how to get from point A to B, and I would expect you to as well.  Or is it that you want to deliver us helpless females, unharmed, to a destination needing no help at all from map, or navigator or smart phone?  Am I missing out on a competitive conversation that happens regularly between men about who had the easiest time arriving somewhere with the least amount of information?

I know we don’t tackle too many of the obvious male and female stuff on here, odd given the name of our blog, but this time let’s dive in.


SHE SAID: Nicknames

May 7, 2010

My mom always said that nicknames meant you were well liked. This theory arose coincidentally around the time I was dubbed “sniffer” and I have a sneaking suspicion they might be related. My nicknames included Fire, Snifter, Brandy Snifter, and Kid Sister. I’m sure I’m forgetting some.

I tried to drop my lifelong nickname freshman year in college. I had everyone calling me by my given name, the unused one typed in on my birth certificate, for two whole weeks. It seemed, and still does, like someone else’s name and going by it was kind of like stepping into someone else’s skin, albeit briefly. My brief flirtation with normalcy was cut short when my dad came to visit and let the cat out of the bag. I see people from elementary school who are surprised I still go by my nickname. One of them said, “I thought you’d have grown out of that by now.” It appears I have only grown more and more into it.

I had friends called names that would make my mom blush. Names they would accept as monikers despite me being embarrassed to say the word aloud, much less address someone as such. I have had friends name their significant others something lame and terrible and oh-so-cheesy. I’ve had friends name their or someone else’s body parts, which I don’t really think is all that necessary. I had friends that fought nicknames tooth and nail, a tact which seemed only to make the name stick with more zealousness. And yet, I’ve had friends lament their nicknamelessness.

But if we are going to do a High Fidelity type list, as my co-writer is so fond of doing since everything seems to be rateable in his book, my favorite nicknames of the peer variety in no particular order are:

Log. One of my good friends was called Smokey after alerting the authorities to a fire. Since I was already called Fire, we got a kick out of the link. Our third friend, wanting to get in on the action, suggested we call her spark or flame. Smokey decided that no, Log was a much better idea.

FurPud. A guy I knew, called Pud by all who knew him, moved out West and dropped the nickname in the move. When some friends came to visit him, he reminded them that they were not to call him Pud since he didn’t want it catching on out West. His Eastern friends discovered, however, that his Western friends called him Furball, due to his extensive body hair, and when they all got together, Pud/Furball became Furpud.

Pearsie. When I was growing up, my best friend’s parents called his brother Pearsie. They said it was because he had looked like a pear when he was born. It always struck me as incredibly sweet, maybe it was the way they said it, and I remember it fondly to this day.

Kat-breath. I don’t know this woman, she’s a friend of a friend. But all her friends call her this both behind her back and to her face. Seems a bit … too specific. I hope she’s not a close talker.

America’s Guest. He came. Sometimes invited. He bummed a ticket, invite or twenty off of you. He was adored, stayed too long and entertained everyone the whole evening. Again and again and again.


SHE SAID: DJ or band?

April 29, 2010

Jeremy and I have already posted on our love of attending weddings and I can vouch for him being one of the more entertaining wedding guests OF ALL TIME.  Actually, I lie.  Jeremy and I have never attended a wedding together and so I cannot regale you with tales of his chicken dancing, his talent for toasting, or about that time when he tripped while coming off the dance floor and had to be rushed to the emergency room to get a splinter taken out of his palm.  But we both have some weddings under our belts and I know that he enjoys partaking in the merrymaking as much as I.

This past weekend I went to a family wedding and was a little disappointed, at first, to see a DJ’s table in the reception hall.  I don’t mean to offend any DJs or aspiring DJs out there, but I have to confess that when I get to a wedding, seeing a DJ setting up is almost as bad as seeing that the lead singer of the band is sporting a serious mullet and white platform patent leather boots.  You can’t help but start conjuring exit strategies and calculating how much time is appropriate to spend tolerating the music before you can ease out the side door without offending the new couple.  Things could be worse, I’ll admit; a cash bar or some Disney theme …

After the cocktail hour (during which my date and I dominated the bar and thusly were the most obvious candidates to welcome a DJ enthusiastically), we headed into the main room to welcome the bridal party fresh off their photo shoot, toast the couple, eat, and ultimately, dance dance dance.  Only, before the toasting commenced, the DJ had us twirling our napkins over our heads while he paraded around the room in a chef’s hat and managed to get one unlucky fellow (who happened to have said yes when I suggested attending a spring wedding in Connecticut) doing the twist as a demonstration for the whole table.  I was downing drinks faster than a pre-teen who had just discovered virgin piña coladas and anticipating high tailing it after the cake.

And then somewhere in there, the DJ became totally okay.  It was fun hearing songs I hadn’t heard in forever.  It was fun spending the entire night dancing.  I saw my date’s face light up with unbridled enthusiasm when a country favorite was played, my niece jumped at the chance to dance to some Train, and my mother almost cried when Lady in Red started to play.  There was some line dancing, some twisting, some Charleston-ing and some confusion explaining to my mom that it’s okay for two women to dance together – thankfully she got over it and I was able to throw her around on the dance floor a little.

And all of a sudden, my anti-DJ stance went out the window and I owned that dance floor, despite the pain my being out there caused any innocent bystanders.  And maybe the lesson here is that alcohol can make anything fun.  Maybe it’s that we shouldn’t let our stereotypes stop us from having fun or changing our hell bent stance on something.  Maybe it’s that with a little help (be it an informed friend, a strong drink, or an unexpected encounter), an experience we weren’t anticipating or even one that we were dreading, can be a hell of a lot of fun and even memorable.

Although, and this is the one draw back of a DJ, I come from a singing family.  An overwhelming, enthusiastic, and very loving family that happens to love to jump up on stage and start singing, especially at weddings.  My sister has one of the best voices I have ever heard and thankfully, it’s usually her that’s up there.  The one draw back of a DJ is that were one to sing, it ultimately sounds like karaoke.  No matter how stunning the vocals.  And that is where the band comes out the clear winner in this comparison.  Because while karaoke is fun at a dive bar with friends and a healthy sense of confidence, a wedding is neither the time nor the place.

And yes, I was most definitely trying to convince the DJ to let me up there for a few songs on Saturday.