Who's That Girl?

I know I’m a little late to the party on this one, but I just got around to looking at Hot Chicks with Douchebags, and oh holy Jesus is it scary. Funny, but still scary. True enough, these dudes are total douchenozzles*. The Ab Lobster, the Joey Porsche Experience, Rooster Wank – all world-class, grade-A chodewheels*. But the only thing that keeps me from giving this site “Daily Reads” status is the women. They make me so, so sad, and also kind of angry, for all of womenkind. These are the kind of ladies who think that flashing your boobs gives you power on par with say, owning your own business or holding a congressional seat. I also imagine that in their bedrooms they have A LOT of photos of themselves and their friends holding drinks with the sides of their faces pressed together. What is that? I have friends who were in sororities in college and apparently they teach you that at pledge week.

So what is the correct pejorative to describe this girl, the girl who yammers on her cell phone while on the elliptical at the gym about what she ate for breakfast that day? The girl who starts raging passive-aggressive bitchfights with other girls with the statement: I love you, but… As in: “I love you, but...you’re an evil horse-face”? I mean, I want to support all women in this world, because god knows it’s hard enough without stabbing each other in the back, but won’t someone let her know that she’s ruining it for the rest of us? At the very least, can I just watch "Rock of Love" on the treadmill in peace?


*Credit: Annie A.
*Credit : Jessie S.

A Typical Sunday

Last weekend, while walking home from brunch, we saw a large clump of Hasidic children milling around on a corner down the street from our building. As I’ve mentioned before, we live in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, which has one of the highest concentrations of Hasids in the country, so we often see families out and about. But a large pack of shouting, unruly boys – this is unusual. As we drew closer I could tell that they were unloading crates off of a truck. Crates of LIVE CHICKENS. Before I knew it there was a 10-year-old boy with sidecurls barreling toward me holding a squawking chicken by the wings. Behind me his mother yelled and he darted past.

All I could think was that those kids were in for one fucking fresh chicken.

It's Our Reunion

My ten-year high school reunion is in a couple weeks, and though I have no plans to attend, I have thoroughly enjoyed the emails that I have been receiving through the ELHS Class of ’97 listserv (there’s also a website, featuring arcade games and a CNN news crawl(?)). The reunion was organized by our senior class president, a young man who went on to earn his bachelor’s degree in just nine years. Predictably, the whole thing is a clusterfuck. Here’s a sample email:

I have already purchased my flight to EL for this occasion. I am sure many others of you have as well. I am concerned because I have NO information on times/dates/venues, etc...

Um, yes. I booked a non-refundable, cross-country airline ticket based on one email from a dude who barked like a dog in my 8th grade French class. You’re seriously surprised that the plans are half-baked? Unlike our class prez, who was always fully baked. Zing!

Initially, the reason for my not going had more to do with the cost of air travel than a fear of reconnecting with the past. When the reunion website went up, I checked every day to see who posted new photos, eager to see who had been smacked around by the hands of time. Only it wasn’t all that satisfying, because it turns out that I had completely forgotten that half of my class ever existed. I recognized maybe 12 people. The same 12 people I was focused on impressing in high school.

I considered posting a photo of myself, but I don’t think I can take the rejection.