Saturday, March 23, 2013

Stop apologizing for the things you like, even if it happens to be British boy-bands

So, here's the thing: I am completely over the concept of "guilty pleasures". Here is a list of things that I believe you should feel guilty about: kicking puppies, kicking my best friend who does a great impression of a puppy, chewing gum loudly in public, shoplifting, thinking about how easy it would be to shoplift (because I mean come on, it is a tiny nail polish that I could just slip into my purse, and I'm not saying I would do it but I totally could if I really wanted to but just thinking about it makes me feel like a criminal), etc.

Pictured: my roommate being really disappointed in how often I imagine being a kleptomaniac
Here is a list of things that I am sick of feeling guilty about: liking certain movies/music/TV/food/anything that makes you happy and doesn't hurt anyone else.

Now I'll make a confession (but not an apology): this post is a little bit about One Direction. If you don't know who One Direction are, they are a British boy-band who rose to fame on the X-Factor and sing some of the most aggressively teenage pop music since Tiffany left the mall circuit. And I love it. Their music is fun, it is energetic, and I think that they are genuinely good singers. And when I first heard a song of theirs and started singing along, I was embarrassed and annoyed at myself.

Because come on, I am way too cool to have such bad taste in music. I told my sister that I liked them, and she replied "you are so gross". And oddly enough, that was the reaction I was looking for. I specifically told her to get it validated that yes, this is something that it is not okay to like. And then I listened to the song again and danced around my apartment.

I know all the words to this and I am starting to know which member of the band sings which part. No shame. 

But then, sometime around the fifth replay of this song, I reached a moment of clarity: I used so much energy enjoying myself, I didn't have any left to be ashamed for the way I was enjoying myself. Something that some of you know is that I have had struggled with depression in the past. Because of this, I try to take every good mood, every smile and every little thing that makes my day brighter as a blessing. And it hit me that it was extremely counterproductive to feel guilty about the things that I enjoy. 

Sometimes my roommates and I have 'wolf pack' nights where we cuddle on the couch and then go outside on our deck and howl like lunatics. I am currently watching the most melodramatically staged "reality" show I've ever seen, in which a monkey wearing plaid just brandished a gun at a man who legitimately calls himself Urban Tarzan. I often reread a children's book series called Unicorns of Balinor, and last week I ate two donuts, a muffin and two cookies over the course of one day. And there are a thousand other things that fill me with joy but that I normally would never admit to, or would temper with one of those self-deprecating "I know it's awful and I'm so silly for liking it but I was probably hypnotized anyway" expressions.  

Oh, I mean, yeah, those are my Avril Lavigne CDs but I only like her um...ironically?

Really, if you think about it, it is all pointless. What are we really afraid of, someone judging us? I can almost guarantee that every super-cool movie snob who you think will despise you for liking Crank: High Voltage goes home, locks their door and reads the Twilight books for the fifth time with the same sense of skin-crawling shame. Or something. The point is, we all have our things, and I think it is about time we embraced them. 

So here's my challenge: like the things you like. Try to have the most fun you can in this life. Find the things that make you smile, make you laugh, make you dance around the room like an idiot, and embrace them. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch this One Direction fan-made cartoon for the third time. And I'm not even sorry. 

Monday, November 12, 2012

A feminist breakdown of ACDC's song "You Shook Me All Night Long" or, why this song never fails to make me do my sexy walk

Hello my wonderful readers who hopefully still exist! I am breaking my long radio silence to bring you a very serious topic of discussion: the classic, 1980 rock song You Shook Me All Night Long by those time-honored rock legends, AC lightening bolt DC.

The lightening bolt is not silent. You've been saying it wrong all these years. 
More specifically, I am here to discuss how this song is not only in my top-five songs to strip to (you have to be prepared) but it is also a feminist anthem. Armed only with a list of the lyrics and my only iffy (read: totally made up) knowledge of the feminist manifesto, we proceed!

Lets start at the beginning:
She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean
Was the best damn woman that I ever seen
She had the sightless eyes, telling me no lies
Knocking me out with those American thighs

First of all, the last line is my favorite line ever written from anything ever. (Note: slight hyperbole has been used for effect.) Also, I have no idea what sightless eyes are, but since it was the eighties I'm going to assume that is referring to someone who has used so much hair spray they have rendered themselves blind. And yes, the first two lines do present a woman as analogous to a car, but can any of you think of one thing men show more respect to than their cars? (Hey, I never said I wasn't going to make sexist generalizations) 

Besides, who doesn't want to be compared to this? It is sexier than David Beckham. 
Also they use the word 'woman' rather than (BE PREPARED FOR UNCENSORED VULGARITY GASP) bitch, ho, slut or skank. Which is nice. Not that I'm not a bitch or wouldn't be a slut if I wanted to, I just don't like being reminded of it in song form.

Moving on:    
Taking more than her share, had me fighting for air
She told me to come but I was already there
The walls start shaking, earth was quaking
My mind was aching, we were making it

Now this part is what I really like, because it is the part in the song where the singer doesn't just admit to, he revels in the fact that holy shit this woman is more than he can even handle. He's not embarrassed by it; he simply celebrates the fact that she can rock him like a geological event and he cannot even hope to keep up. It's like what I imagine it will be like if I ever get a chance to eat one of those giant challenge sundaes from Ben and Jerry's. 

Having you might kill me, but that's why I love you so much, ice cream sexy woman analogy.
The final reason why I think this song is a tender love song to the raw, fierce power of women everywhere is the feeling I get when I hear it (and by hear it I mean obsessively play it inside my own head as I walk to class.) I can be wearing a baggy sweatshirt, completely free of makeup (because internet or apply beauty products, easiest choice ever) and as soon as I even think of this song, there is a spring in my step and a swivel in my hips and right then and there, I am the owner of those American thighs. It is as uplifting to me as gospel music is to people with less ambiguous morals. 

So ladies, if you are ever feeling down about yourself, don't wallow in despair, don't drown your sorrows in the aforementioned giant ice cream (because that's for happy times). Just put on this song, grab hold of your sexiness, and go out and shake up the world. 

All night long. 

Sunday, June 10, 2012

I was mauled by a squad of angry pygmy goats (and other valid reasons for my lack of blogging)

Hello there, blog-land! It appears I was gone long enough for them to completely change the layout of this website...good for me. The following are things that would have been valid reasons for my absence:

  • I was possessed by the spirit of a Chinese Water Dragon who made me spend all my time watching Mulan and eating tuna. Also it didn't know how to type. 
  • I was mauled by a squad of angry pygmy goats. A cheerleading squad obviously, who got extremely testy after I insulted pygmy goat soccer (the soccer is regular sized, only the goats are pygmy). 
  • My butler Bumbley referred to me by my first name and I spent the last few months in a dark torture chamber re-teaching him proper employer-employee etiquette. 
  • I was on an extended reverse-Rumspringa to decide if I wanted to stay with this life or embrace the tantalizing glitz and glam of the Amish ways. In the end, I masterfully resisted temptation, but it was touch and go for awhile.
  • I was building a really big Lego tower. 
Sadly, none of these are what caused me to slack on my blogging duties. In short, I got depressed for awhile and wasn't feeling very funny. Then I got un-depressed but remained easily distracted. Then I really did start to build a Lego tower, but I ran out of those rectangle six-y blocks, which were necessary to form a solid foundation (it is basic architecture). 
Oh my God, they aren't six-y at all, they have EIGHT! My life is a lie. 
But I have returned! Summer awaits and I am finally feeling more like my carefree, borderline inappropriate, strange little self. So if anyone is still out there, brace yourselves for the incoming madness.

Edit: Also I made a Twitter today. So if you want to hear more things I say, go for it. There is a button and everything. 

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

We're like Charlie's Angels, but with less crime fighting and more arguments about food

I have recently been musing upon the complexities of cohabitation. Or in my case, tri-habitation (I am 78% sure that I made that up.) To put it bluntly, living with people who aren’t your family is weird.

Since I have been living with my two best friends for the last two years at school, I have yet to experience the bone-searing awkwardness of living with strangers. Most likely I would only survive that until my small talk ran out. (How are you? Still good? That’s good…)

So in terms of living situations mine is pretty tops. I’m not one of those people who can tell excellent, cringe-worthy roommate anecdotes. But I would like to take a moment to point out the little things that people never talk about but that are completely bizarre.

To point out something obvious: Heather and Courtney (henceforth known as ‘the roomsies’) were not raised by my family. They had their own families who formed their own habits. Teeny, tiny nothing habits that you never think about until holy shit why do they do that differently than you?

For instance: did you know that breakfast pie is apparently NOT a thing? In my household, if there was leftover pie (or certain kinds of cake) it was basically expected that it would be enjoyed in the early morning.

Neither of my roommates has ever enjoyed pie for breakfast. I weep for their misfortune. Also they eat a lot of things with whole wheat and enhanced fiber. And they talk about apples the way normal people talk about brownies. (“Ooh, yeah, I love honeycrisp! Honeycrisp is the best kind!” “Me too, although red delicious sounds good right now!” “MMMM yeah it does!!!” “…have you guys even tasted chocolate?”)

But I digress. Although I could rant about their obnoxiously healthy food habits forever, that wasn’t entirely my point. I don’t think. I tune in and out of my own thoughts a bit. There is only so much ‘me’ I can handle at a time.

Another example: I’ve never owned a wooden spoon. Which is apparently a big deal or something. I don’t think there has ever been a single moment when I felt the need to have a wooden spoon. But the roomsies act as though they are the most important utensil ever to grace the earth. Wooden spoons are second only to apples.

I often call my sister and tell her about these little quirks just to regain some sense of normalcy.

Me: “People eat hotdogs in tortillas, right?”

Sister: “Of course, that’s the best.”

Me: “Ok, just checking.”

That’s something about family: they are the only ones who will completely understand and identify with every little quirk and habit you assumed were universal. Because I’ve found out that just about nothing is universal, and part of what makes family so indispensable is that they do things the way you do because they are the ones who taught you to do it in the first place. (I’m pretty sure that sentence was impossible to follow. Well, my family will understand it. BAM, point made.)

But as much as I love my family, there is something to be said for living with friends. I have managed to find at least two people who, even though they don’t agree with it, allow me to cover the stove burners in tin foil. And then are totally unfazed when I use the excess foil to make tiny animal sculptures. Or decide to dry my fingernails by prancing around the dining room to ABBA. Or yell the word “train” in response to the train whistle (it just sounds so lonely).

Me and the roomsies are extremely different on paper: A blonde, a brunette, and a red head. (We're like a television trio.) A Christian biology major who is possibly dressed by birds and other woodland creatures in the morning, an Athiest computer science major who listens to dubstep and is wonderfully sarcastic, and an Agnostic, childlike business major with a tendency towards crazy. 

But we work. Because we all use words like “roomsies”. We can turn on a strobe light in our dining room and have an impromptu rave just because studying is killing us. Because they are completely into the idea of me recreating the Wuthering Heights music video over Christmas break. (Oh yeah, it’s happening. Prepare yourselves for the overload of awesome.)

So I think there might be two kinds of families: the people who form all of your weirdness, and the people who later have to put up with it.

But I still say breakfast pie isn’t weird. Only amazing. 

Monday, October 31, 2011

It takes a lot of work to look simultaneously disaffected and like you're attending a rave in the 80s

I started writing a full post about my Halloween costume (which I may still flesh out and post if I need a way to avoid responsibilities) but for now I decided to just let it speak for itself:

I also made the costume/did the makeup of my roommate Courtney. And decided on our band name, inspired by this video from The Mighty Boosh. If only we could find some musical talent this could really be something…

We may or may not have taken over forty pictures in different badass poses...

Happy Halloween Everyone!!! 

Monday, October 24, 2011

Stop destroying my childhood, United States Mint people

The other night I was feeling extremely hyper, energetic and incredibly bored. On top of that, my roommates had the audacity to leave me all alone when I was in such desperate need of amusement. Something about needing to study or going to church or freeing giraffes from captivity or something, I was pretty tuned out.
Sweet Freedom!!!!
The important thing is that they left me at home, all alone, knowing full well that I had recently finished watching all of my British comedy shows and had no way to mindlessly amuse myself. Unforgivable.

So I wandered the apartment for awhile, sighing loudly until I remembered there was no one around to hear how dreadfully I was being treated. Then I came across a penny, which made me happy until I realized it was one of those new pennies.

Whoever made the decision to deprive future generations of the joy of discovering the teeeeny Lincoln sitting in the monument on the back of classic pennies should go sit on a cactus. It was honestly one of the defining moments of my childhood.
Bask in the glory of tiny Lincoln! He's in there, I promise. 

Disquieted by my musings on minuscule presidents (or lack-thereof), I decided to be the bigger person. I wouldn't be angry at my friends by leaving me to my own devices; I would use this alone time to show them how much I care.

Thus I wrote nice things on seven-post it’s for each of my roommates and hid them around the apartment. It was a gesture that I felt was appropriately equal parts sweet and serial killer, which is just my style.

This took me about nine minutes. Or it may have been forty. I have a really bad sense of time. The point is that after doing this I was still bored, hyper and alone. After nixing the idea of covering the light fixture in tin foil (I just couldn’t come up with a feasible reason) and writing the word “Mummy” on the bathroom mirror with my finger so it showed up when my roommate showered, I retreated to the only possible course of action.

I am speaking, of course, of this song. Listen. Watch the video. Then go watch the other pretty much identical video (except she had a white dress instead of red and is indoors). And try not to get sucked in. I dare you. It is impossible. It is simply too glorious to be ignored. WATCH KATE BUSH DO WEIRD ARM DANCING. 

My roommate did not find it quite so glorious when she finally got home. Although she may have been distracted by me singing and dancing along. She simply narrowed her eyes at me and said “you know way too many of those lyrics. What even is that?”

It is my life now Heather. It is my life. 

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

I like my men like I like my knives

I am not ok with these miniature versions of attractive guys that seem to inhabit my campus. You know, the type of guy who is like, “hi, I’m really good looking. By the way, I’m five-four.” This is really annoying for someone like me who is 5’10 (5’11 on a stretchy day.) This would not be a problem if I were a tiny Asian girl. Also, if I were a tiny Asian girl I would look adorable in pigtails rather than like a cocker spaniel.
Pictured: Less adorable than Asian girls
 But I digress. I am not now nor will I ever be a tiny Asian girl, and I must come to terms with that. The point is that I do not like short men, simply for the fact that they make me feel like a freaky giant Amazonian. One might say that I have a “type”. However, apparently my “type” is considered odd by some (very judgmental) people.

Confession time: I like pointy men.

Ok, at first I had no idea what that meant either. It is a term coined by my sister to describe some of my celebrity crushes. It should also be noted that she does not at all share my thoughts on what is considered attractive (she is into the giant-teddy-bear type of guy). Perhaps it would be easier to explain this with an example or three.
I want to take him to the zoo
and buy him ice cream. 

Did somebody call a Doctor? 

They still shouldn't be remaking Spiderman

I could provide many more examples, but I think you can see the trend by now. There is something undeniably…pointed about all these men. What can I say; I like ‘em dark haired and scrawny in a way that might be painful to hug. But in a hot way.

This is not to say I don’t appreciate the more traditional look of male attractiveness. Everyone loves a good set of abs, and given the chance I would literally live inside Robert Downey Jr.’s eyes. I just think that the awkward, angular gents among us have a certain charm that is undeniable.

So, I guess that explains the ‘pointy’ part of my blog title. Well, that and my knife collection. Maybe the knife thing would have been the more interesting choice to expand upon…

Also I have a Samurai sword.