Starred Review

Can I Get A Good Hot Cocoa?

2009-12-16T15:04:00.000-08:00

Now that I'm living in Seattle, my caffeine intolerance is a bit of a hassle. Baristas look down their noses at me when I order decaf; I can almost hear their silent snorts of derision. Coffee is such a thing here, and I can appreciate that, but what I don't appreciate is the pretension that sometimes goes with it. I should clarify, not everyone is this way. (I am clarifying, carefully and quickly, because I already learned my lesson on Yelp when making general statements about this city's services/inhabitants. They really don't like it.)*

Most of the cafes I've been to so far don't even brew decaf. The anti-corporate activists can rail against Starbucks all they want, but guess what? Starbucks lets me order whatever I want, and then they make it without rolling their eyes. And they paint snowflakes on their windows!

So my second choice has been, lately, hot cocoa, and let me tell you, no one can make it. It's been, simply, a cup of artfully steamed milk with a small drip of chocolate lying on the bottom. At my old job in Brooklyn (right next to the park and a billion different schools) I made hot cocoas all day long. The trick is, it takes a lot more chocolate syrup than you'd think. Enough that the people watching you make it wonder if they even want it anymore. And you must mix with a spoon; don't think the heavy steamed milk pour with do the job for you. Nix the latte art, plop on those marshmallows!

Hovering parents were always fond of instructing me on the precise temperature of the milk, as we don't want to burn any tongues, do we? Like a hot cocoa was practically a loaded gun. Once a particularly horrible woman micromanaged her order so intensely that her kid then spilled hot cocoa all over the floor about two seconds after she put the cup in his hand. Enter me with a mop, at which point horrible lady taps me on the shoulder and says, "Do I have to buy another one, or can you just make it again?" And then, when I silently nodded and pushed the mop around a couple more times so that other customers wouldn't slip coming in the door she looked at her watch worriedly and sighed.

And then I made the worst hot cocoa I've ever made, with way too much milk and not enough chocolate and a whole lot of spite but no marshmallows, and the boy who had spilled it took one sip and whined quietly to his mom as she pushed her brood out the door, "It doesn't even taste like chocolate."

Perhaps this is penance for that. Because it wasn't his fault for having a completely horrible mom. But what am I going to do now to appease the hot cocoa gods?

(*But you know what? No. Seattle is NOT very Christmas-y. Grinches! Even Bob Dylan celebrates the season. With Polka! All I'm asking for is a few twinkle lights in my neighborhood.)

Costco, Seduced

2009-11-30T15:57:00.000-08:00

My Thanksgiving was quite delicious this year, and happily without hitch or difficulty. Our good friends even had a baby!, and we spent some e-mail time cooing over the darling newborn pictures. I avoided Black Friday and managed to get all my Christmas shopping done with the help of Etsy, we put new tires on our Jeep, and as of this morning I've even got a job interview coming up this week.

It's funny how things like this work, all together, all at once, all at the same time that I baked brownies Saturday night. But, I suppose, I'm not the type to want good things to spread themselves out. The week I got married was also the week I was first published. Two sets of my friends got engaged at the same time and now their weddings are two weeks apart. Today in the mail I got a coupon for bagels and my credit card upgraded me to platinum!

But last week was a little dim. After this many weeks of applying for jobs and getting no leads, I was beginning to frown a little around the edges. And it turned out, the Jeep had a different sized tire on it than the other three.

We weren't even planning on getting a Costco membership; Joe's sister already had one. But then I saw the DVD section and I almost lost it. Gone With The Wind Box Set for $40?! The complete series of The Wire for just under $100! And things I don't even need to buy--like Six Feet Under for 12.99 a season--but I almost do just because the price tag is really just a form of brain-washing and I am its soft-bellied victim.

And--I convince Joe--think of how much money we can save on food and household items. And they take your picture and put it on the card! And we each get our own card! And there is frozen yogurt at the concession stand!

So we did it, and then yesterday we went on our first money-saving shopping trip. I felt like a teenager, because I couldn't help but giggle at all the ridiculously giant products. The ketchup almost made me lose it. And the image of me wrestling open a can of black olives that big?! But no one else was smirking, laughing, making inappropriate jokes; it was like being in church. People were buying it because they legitimately needed that much food. They had people to share it with; families, organizations, and yes, churches. This was serious money-saving business. If I, on the other hand, bought a giant jar of pickles, I was going to be eating it all alone. Joe hates pickles.

And so the big money-saving plan resulted in our purchase of the following: a box of 8 chicken pot pies, a bundle of 5 packs of crackers, 8 bundled cans of tuna fish, and a huge mess of granola bars. I wanted to get more. I wanted to be the kind of person that has stuff stored away, and you go to their house when the zombie apocalypse hits. But joblessness means practicality. Resisting impulse, assessing reality.

Hopefully, in the next 11 months we'll find a better use for the Costco card. I sure am tired of being practical, and I do love pickles.

What Up With That: New Moon

2009-11-23T13:18:00.000-08:00

Two things fairly dominated my weekend. The first was getting the theme song for Keenan Thompson's SNL skit, "What Up With That" stuck in my head for two days, as it still is stuck in my head. The second was capping off an otherwise enjoyable weekend by going to see New Moon on Sunday night.

I've already talked about my feelings on the Twilight series, book form. I saw the Catherine Hardwicke-directed first movie alone in an empty theater in Spokane after the Twilight craze was already full blown and still contagious. I subsequently read the books but, for me, it has always been that first movie that captured the best of overblown teenage melodrama on par with The Breakfast Club and Say Anything. It was lovelorn stickiness glossed over with a gorgeous and haunting Carter Burwell score, "I love you" a million times and still somehow barely stale, even amid sparkly skin and googly-eyed montage. It was teenage melodrama Art.

If the first movie took everything that was good about Stephanie Meyer's books and made it better, the second movie takes everything not good about the books and makes it worse. But what do you expect from a male director, much less someone responsible for the American Pie franchise. (If anything, Pie movies are the antithesis of what the Twilight story is; a boy fantasy full of pants-off shenanigans, while Twi-heroes Edward and Jacob are girl-swoon gentlemen all the way.)

And so, the Art is gone. Same goes for any continuation of the Carter Burwell score, which is heartbreakingly substituted with a generic Hollywood Movie mix that blends into the background. All the Hardwicke details are gone, replaced with terrible ancient-vampire wigs. Supposedly fashion-forward Alice Cullen is dressed in clothes only a grandmother would find stylish. Bella's night terrors? Laughable. Conscience-ghost Edward appearances? Stupid all the way to their swirling-smoke disappearances.

The worst is that Twi-hards having gotten over-obsessed to the point of loving any film adaptation that stays true enough to the books, and not realizing that it isn't the books alone that make these films. Because the source material isn't The Grapes of Wrath; making a good film from them takes an artistic sensibility, a gentle-enough perspective, which Chris Weitz doesn't have. Doesn't anyone see what could have been?

It was just a year ago that Twi-hards successfully rallied to keep Taylor Lautner in the role of Jacob Black when producers wanted to replace him with someone more buff. They should have rallied around Catherine Hardwick as well. (I'll just unleash my rampant feminism here and say,) But a woman hardly ever gets that same kind of support.

Franco, Artist Slash Murderer

2009-11-21T13:49:00.000-08:00

If you are wondering what I thought about James Franco's appearance on General Hospital this week, go here.

Otherwise....it was awesome! James Franco stepped on a guy's throat!

Jon Foster, Reviewed

2009-11-17T15:21:00.000-08:00

I was thinking of titling this post, I Hate Jon Foster, but then I had a moment of conscience, thinking but wouldn't you feel bad if you came across a website with a article that read I Hate That Girl Who Writes For StarredReview?

But since our readership is what it is, a fairer comparison would be like me coming across a hate-article written by my neighbor's cat. It's there, it doesn't particularly bother me, it's an eff-ing cat. Problem solved. I thereby re-title this post, I Hate Jon Foster.

No, I don't know him as a person, but as an actor he is ruining my Monday-night television routine. Because sometimes after How I Met Your Mother, I forget that I can change the channel and Accidentally on Purpose comes on. And really, the show is not good, but Jon Foster makes it worse. In its best moments, the show reminds me of how far we have come, socially, since Dan Quayle got so outrageously offended by Murphy Brown. Jenna Elfman plays a mid-thirties career gal who gets impregnated by a 22 year-old slacker, who then moves in with her and we're supposed to find this situation very, very funny. Except that it's not. Because of Jon Foster.

Yes, I have a history of hating actors for no reason at all. (See: Matt Damon.) And Jon Foster's brother is Ben Foster, who is lovely (Six Feet Under, 3:10 To Yuma) and I adore him. But Jon Foster has offended my eyes permanently with Mysteries of Pittsburgh, a movie that makes no effing sense. None. At all.

And not only that, but Monday night TV is starting to be ruined, and Monday night TV--in the midst of my life-changing cross-country move and resulting unemployment--is what has been keeping me alive and not just a wisp of sweatpants on the couch. So Jon Foster, get out of my face. And One Tree Hill, get rid of your two new boring characters. And Two And A Half Men, go off the air permanently, which is Joe's request more than mine.

Thank you.

Failed Roadtrips and the Mercury Grand Marquis

2009-11-08T11:53:00.000-08:00

About a month ago, when my dad asked me to pick up a 2009 Mercury Grand Marquis that he had just bought here in Seattle, I started planning the roadtrip of a lifetime. The kind that Joe thinks requires a tour of the Grand Canyon and firebombing the roadtrip car at its conclusion. Because the Grand Marquis was the perfect car--not for the firebombing, but the trip itself--with a bench front seat, sprawling back seat, trunk big enough to fit two grown men, and an absence of road noise so sweet you could listen to music on near mute if you wanted to. The kind of luxury old person's car that you can be doing 110 down the freeway and not even realize.

When my dad first called to ask me this favor I wasn't too keen on the thought--we had just moved, I had just traveled across country and still hadn't adjusted (still haven't adjusted)--and my dad has a tendency towards saddling you with more caveats than you can handle; e.g., the time he fixed my car by instructing me to "take this screwdriver, lean over the engine, reach down here and touch these two bolts together if it doesn't start." To my surprise, however, the car was all parts intact, which hardly ever happens when my dad asks you to pick up a car for him. Between my sisters and I, we've driven cars without windshield wipers, without headlights, without brake lights.

But before I could convince my roadtrip buddy to skip out on her normal life for a the 3-day trek across the west with no notice, my dad found an auto transport, which called yesterday morning to arrange a pick-up. Since our apartment is on a hill, on a series of skinny little streets, I knew a semi-truck wouldn't make it up here. We agreed to meet in the Whole Foods parking lot.

The guy from the transport company had his kid in the cab, and as we filled out the papers and inspected all points of the car before loading, the kid wandered around, scuffing his shoes on the curb, kicking rocks, passing time until his dad was ready to go. It kind of broke my heart, because all of a sudden I realized, that was me.

Twenty years ago, I was that kid, tagging along with my dad in his tow truck, amusing myself while he hooked up cars. Because we were always going with my dad to pick up cars, tow cars away, buy cars from auction, pick up parts, drop off parts. My dad sells cars, but he also fixes cars and tows cars. My sisters and I were dropped off at school in that tow truck. We accompanied him on flat tire calls, where my sister once met Andrea Zinga from KWQC-TV, and Detroit auto auctions, where we made friends with a long haul trucker name Zorro, talking on my dad's CB.

Standing there on the side of the road, I wanted to say something to that kid. It really brought me back, watching him. But I couldn't think what to say. I used to go with my dad to pick up cars, too didn't seem appropriate. Neither did, This builds character or You'll appreciate it later. I don't even know if I appreciate it! Except that, mostly, I do. My first year of college, when my friend dragged me along with her to sorority rush, I told the girl at Chi Omega, as an experiment, that my dad was a mechanic when she asked what my parents did. And it was the only sorority I didn't get asked back to. Funny, huh.

But, you know, it makes me who I am. Our family didn't tour Europe, we saw Wisconsin Dells. We practiced basketball in the back of our dad's shop. In high school I drove an old Jeep that my friends' parents didn't want to let them ride in. My first job was washing cars and doing errands around my dad's garage, and once two of the popular guys from high school came in to pick up their car and smirked at me covered in dirt, throwing a stack of old radiators into the back of a truck.

And also, because yesterday when I got back into our car with Joe, who had followed me there, the first thing he said was, "That kid reminded me of how it used to be when I went out with my dad." And I laughed out loud and thought how glad I was that I was married to this guy, and why we get each other like we do.

Reviewed: Random Little Devils, and TV

2009-10-22T13:25:00.000-07:00

It's funny how many ads there are for Egg Donors in the "Jobs" section on Craigslist. Is that a job?

I'm reading job listings every morning, since I'm in a semi-jobless limbo of just having moved combined with a really yuck job market. But I'm starting to work everyday again, and by that I mean, that old devil the writing life. And that makes me feel somewhat normal again.

But it's a new normal, and hard to get used to, because I'm a creature of habit. A homebody. A girl crazy with nostalgia and comfortable old shoes. I hate moving, which you probably wouldn't realize about me considering I've moved six times in the last ten years.

So I'm trying to take comfort in the little things:

1) Becoming crazily obsessed with the ABCFamily network, including their 13 Nights of Halloween and the best show ever, Greek. And before you think anything, know that I am not ashamed...and maybe you, my friend, should be watching as well: Greek is hilarious, subtle, exciting and completely entertaining. You are missing out. I cannot even tell you how much you are missing out. (I heart Casey and Cappie! Eeek! Squeal!)

2) Ranting about what the frick happened to One Tree Hill. It's no secret that I watch terrible TV. I love it. I live for it. If terrible TV didn't exist, I'm not sure what other joy I would get out of the world. Formerly the mac-daddy of bad television, One Tree Hill captured the gold every year purely by continuing to give Chad Michael Murray, the master of the tortured brooding look, multiple broods an episode. Not to mention the sadistic character of Dan Scott, the ultimate Bad Dad!

But CMM is gone now, explained away by having vaguely, "moved somewhere" which is curious given his character's previous penchant for asserting over and over again how the tiny town of Tree Hill was where he belonged. But now he has been replaced with whining, overly-brooding characters: a sports agent with a stupid, tragic past they aren't quite letting on about but you know is going to be idiotic, and another character's never-before-mentioned-newly-reappeared sister, who broods and broods and broods and broods about her impending divorce (she just needs to "find herself" guys, and it's terrible that she's hurting her husband, but something is "broken" and she "can't fix it" and here is where is ends up again and again and again about ten times an episode and I do not care.)

3) Listening to the Brothers Bloom soundtrack, particularly "Penelope's Theme".

4) Shopping for slippers.

5) Re-watching Kill Bill. Re-watching Terminator 2. Re-watching In The Army Now. Re-watching Adventures in Babysitting.

6) Wondering what Keith Coogan is doing now.

Reviewed: Aquafresh Extreme Clean

2009-10-12T15:50:00.000-07:00

This toothpaste is disgusting. It tastes like cough drops.

And today I made a PB&J (heavy on the PB, heavy on the J) and it just wasn't great. Because things aren't the same in the West, and nobody sells Polander All-Fruit. Which makes me regret the half-full jar of seedless raspberry I had to throw in the trash the day we moved, because moving means you find yourself, regretably, throwing away perfectly good things. Mustard. A can of creamed corn. And I'm still feeling the weight of that garbage bag on my conscience.

About a month and a half ago now, we were moving and packing and discarding and there isn't a harder place to try and do good than New York City. Because it's not easy to lug 6 bags of clothes and shoes and books and CDs and various other castoffs twenty blocks away to the Goodwill when your only wheels are a shopping cart.

And it wasn't just clothes and books, but trying to recycle things like old computers, stereos, printers. I had to throw my broken DVD player straight into the trash because after Googling in vain I found that the only place to recycling electronics was somewhere in the Bronx. Do you know how far that is from Brooklyn? It's completely ridiculous in a city of 8 million. Like telling the entire state of Virginia they have to drive to Cleveland to recycle...and no one has a car.

But despite the lack of All Fruit, and Black Cherry Schwepps, and Thai delivery, one of the many things I appreciate here is that Seattle recycles everything. It's practically composting against your will. New York could never pull something like this off; the rats would start overtaking people. And so my tread-lightly points are going back up.

Sometimes when I throw something away I take a minute to imagine where it will go. Because remember the movie Unfaithful? When Richard Gere dumps that body rolled up in a rug straight into the landfill? I mean, he just drives back there and his loafers are crunching around in all the trash with a dead body? It left an imprint in my mind.

And tomorrow when I wake up and take Joe to the airport for a funeral back in New Jersey, I'll also go buy new toothpaste and throw this full bottle in the trash and have the whole rest of the week to think about it.

0 stars.

Reviewed: General Hospital and James Franco

2009-10-10T19:39:00.000-07:00

I know I'm treading on dangerous ground here. But for the last 6 months at least, I've withheld from yammering about General Hospital. There has been no yammering, no mentioning--not even minor references--and that was good for me. People didn't want to hear about it. I know that now.

But, you guys, James Franco is going to be on General Hospital! (Proof lies here.)

And today Joe was cleaning out his computer, erasing all the crap I collect there when I don't want to sully my Mac. And to his credit, he asked me before deleting this clip I recorded on General Hospital. And I screamed across the room, "Send it to me first!!!!"

I used to blabber on about General Hospital at the bakery where I worked in Brooklyn, and my good friend there was kind enough to listen. It's just that sometimes I can barely believe how lucky I am to see the kind of crap that comes up in peoples' minds and actually makes it to television on GH. It's really astounding, and entertaining and maddening and hilarious all at once. I love it, I really do. I can't help it.

The clip below is my favorite story line, the Hitman and the Nurse. The Hitman and the Nurse are in love but no one can know, because it is dangerous. Their secret love becomes more complicated by the child they share, which has to be kept even more secret because the hitman's "enemies" might try to use it against him. And it happened, too! It totally happened!

The secret kid gets kidnapped and held in a room with a bomb and then when the hitman goes to rescue the kid, he comes in and is shooting up this room full of all these bad guys dressed in black sweatsuits and as one of the sweatsuits is dying he pushes the button on the bomb detonator!!.......but luckily the hitman's ex-girlfriend--who is a PI and during this giant shootout was ninja-kicking a Russian mobster's blond seductress lawyer--manages to grab the secret kid and jump out the window....but the hitman just escapes the blast and watches the building blow up and screams, "JAKE!!!" (because that is the secret kid's name, because the nurse who is tortured by her love has named him after his hitman father) and tears, actual honest-to-god tears are in the hitman's eyes and his bewildered face looking at the explosion like, 'my crazy, dangerous life just killed my own secret kid' and then, miraculously, his PI ex-girlfriend who likes to wear leather jackets runs up with the secret kid and the day is saved.

Really, where else* can you get this stuff?

So now James Franco is headed in, and it's crazy, it really is. But it leaves me a little satisfied that he picked General Hospital. Because you know what this means, right. I have taste.

100 stars.

*I'm sad to report that One Tree Hill just isn't good for it anymore. Chad Michael Murray really was holding that show together, and now he is gone. And with him go the glory days of the heart-eating dog.

Whoopi Goldberg Is An Idiot

2009-09-30T09:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was disappointed with the list of writers, actors and directors I have admired who decided to sign the ridiculous Roman Polanski petition. Today I'm starting a Dwight Schrute-style shun on Whoopi Goldberg.

Jezebel collected the most idiotic of the comic's statements regarding the issue from The View the other day, and made the point that something is wrong when Sherri Shepard, the woman who thought the earth was flat, is making the most sense.

Goldberg makes a distinction between rape and "rape-rape" claiming that Polanski didn't "rape-rape" anyone. In addition, all the women agree that the victim's mother is just as guilty as the 44 year-old man who raped her daughter, because she brought her daughter to the house of a man who was known for "that kind of reputation." Funny how women always find a way to end up blaming other women. Nevermind that it was supposed to be a professional job, a photoshoot, of which a supposed-professional was paid to be in charge of, a photoshoot for a leading fashion magazine, which probably meant a pretty big career milestone for a model. (Or maybe the mother was the 1970's version of Toddlers & Tiaras in which case rape-rape is a moderately acceptable tradeoff for the crown.)

So the shun begins. No more watching The View for me, nor Jumpin' Jack Flash, nor Corrina, Corrina, nor Sister Act, nor Christ!--Ghost.

Reviewed: the Hollywood petition, and Thank You, Luc Besson

2009-09-29T15:29:00.001-07:00

I'm a little behind on news, mostly because I hardly ever watch or read it. It started because of Dr. Weil who advises cutting out local news for the ridiculous amount of stress and fear it causes. Then, during the year and a half of writing my novel, I found that day after day spent struggling in front of a computer screen was frustrating enough, might as well cut out the everyday depression of what is going on in the rest of the world. (I'm not proud of this decision.) Part of it, too, is being a former activist and remembering how passionate certain issues made me, and also, how futile everything felt.

So, anyway! Today I read about the Hollywood petition to free Roman Polanski.

And Christ, so many people have signed it. And I'm sad about that. Wes Anderson, Pedro Almodovar, Tilda Swinton, Scorcese, Woody Allen, Milan Kundera. As if being an artist means you can't be a rapist.

If you're cringing at that word, you should also cringe at all the rest of the details; a 13 year-old, pumped full of qualudes, sodomy, etc. It seems the courts back then might have bungled the case, abused the system. Supposedly the judge had it out for Polanski. I'm told the HBO documentary explains all this. I didn't see it. Polanski served a handful of days in psychiatric evaluation, and expected to get probation and time served, but fled when he heard the judge was ready to put him away for a long time.

The argument seems to be that he's paid his dues, that it was so long ago, that the 13 year-old today wishes for his release, that she has forgiven him, that she wants to put it behind her. The man is such an important artist, they exclaim in disbelief.

I know artists who are also assholes. I started out believing, in both cases, that they were amazing, could do no wrong. But like all people, the closer you get, you see the whole picture. Some peoples' flaws are bigger, badder. You have to pay attention to them, even if they can also do beautiful things.

French director Luc Besson did not sign the petition, though he is reportedly a close friend of Polanski: "This is a man who I love a lot and know a little bit,” Mr. Besson said in a radio interview with RTL Soir. “Our daughters are good friends. But there is one justice, and that should be the same for everyone. I will let justice happen.” He added, “I don’t have any opinion on this, but I have a daughter, 13 years old. And if she was violated, nothing would be the same, even 30 years later.”

The man behind the petition, some philosopher guy named Bernard-Henri Levy, says Polanski "perhaps had committed a youthful error." (Polanski was 44 at the time of the rape.)

What makes you sign a petition asking a rapist to go free? Hm, Wes Anderson? Because all I know is that now, unfortunately, I'm not so admiring. It's the little things as well as big ones, you see, that matter.

Reviewed: Monkey Bars (Gone Bananas)

2009-09-23T21:25:00.000-07:00

I've been waxing poetic lately. Life changes will do that to you, I think, but the purpose of this blog is reviewing things, darn it! For the betterment of peoples' lives! And that is not something to take lightly!

Now that we live close to a Trader Joe's we're pretty much feeding ourselves solely from their shelves. But...they don't carry Ben & Jerry's. And since half my diet is made up of assorted candy and Cherry Garcia FroYo, I've been hurting.

A couple days ago I stood in front of their frozen section and pondered these chocolate-dipped frozen bananas. Healthy, right? Plus, they have chocolate. And, on a stick. Win-win-win. After I bought them I kept forgetting what they were actually called and referring to them as the Monkey Bars. The first night, after dinner I thought, "I'm going to have one of those Monkey Bars."

I went into it badly. I kept thinking, this is what I'm eating instead of ice cream. And that's not really giving it a fair shot.

To be honest, it isn't that much different, consistency-wise, than a frozen, chocolate-dipped ice cream bar. But I was still thinking, this is what I'm eating instead of ice cream. And I was asking myself, is it good? Do I like it? And Joe was looking at me, and asking, is it good? Can you handle it?

I took 4 bites...and then I realized, no. No, I cannot handle it.

I put the rest of the Monkey Bar back in its package and dropped it back into the freezer, knowing full well that Joe hates bananas and also hates when I leave half-eaten things lying around. But's its a frozen half-eaten thing. And it's called Gone Bananas, which is really a much stupider name than Monkey Bars.

25 Stars. Do-able, but only if you already hate ice cream.

In Memorium: Powerbook G4

2009-09-13T16:22:00.000-07:00

This is all I have left of my Powerbook G4, the first computer I ever loved.

I've never really had something stolen from me like this, and it hits hard. I understand now why people are so affected by being robbed. And it could have been so much worse! I have 2 good friends who have disturbed their robbers mid-act, and in both cases it was something they needed time to get over (and, I am guessing from my recent, barely comparable experience, never completely have.)

In some ways, I had protected myself from it already. I had backed up both my finished novel and the one I am currently working on. I had backed up most of my photos and music (though unfortunately not all.) But there was tons of writing on that computer that is lost forever. Files that were merely a sentence long. Files that were a scattering of words. Files that were pages and pages and hadn't gone anywhere...yet. I thought I would come back to it.

It's silly, I know, but the things I miss most about that computer are these two things:

the E key, which was worn down to a dark grey spot,

and,

the fortune cookie fortune I had taped just above my screen that read, "It's up to you to clarify." Half of the time I spent writing my book was staring at that little phrase. It's up to me, I would think, all wild-eyed, and give it some crazy-profound meaning that worked just well enough in my writing-adled mind to keep me in my seat for a little bit longer. Silly me.

Oh my, I miss it.

Reviewed: Spiders

2009-09-10T11:04:00.000-07:00

So we left New York, where the cockroach was king, for Seattle, where yesterday we killed what people around here call a "giant house spider" but might as well be called a terrifying, horrifying, disgusting spider that should not be in my house.

The surprising thing is, I'm already over it. Joe's the one with the fear of spiders and he's gone manic. We bought a spray yesterday at noon and today before noon it is already almost gone. He has patrolled the apartment endlessly. He keeps encouraging me to look for spiders so that we can "handle the problem" though I'm not sure there really is a problem.

There are things I'm scared of worse than spiders. Snakes are towards the top of the list. Ghosts, of course, are number one. I would find it a much bigger problem to find that this apartment was haunted by ghosts instead of a spiders. (Criminy, this building is over 100 years old.)

I'm also scared of robbers. Thieves. Burglars. No good criminals.

We've tackled this topic before here on Starred Review in the form of my paranoia. And in the meantime, my darling Powerbook was stolen. Right out from under my nose the day we moved out of New York. I know exactly when it happened and exactly who did it, but unfortunately since the thief covered his tracks so well, I didn't even notice it was missing until the next day when we were in Hazleton, Pennsylvania.

If you can't file a police report in person the NYPD won't do anything but listen to me rant and cry and plea with them on the phone. I did all three to no avail.

The thief is a sketchy friend of my downstairs neighbor, Scott, a 40 year-old, no-good, alcoholic skinhead with a Hitler moustache whose apartment is a revolving door of 19 year-old small time drug dealers who think they are badass.

His name is Angel.

He lives in the building two doors down from my old one, which was at 487 5th Avenue in Brooklyn.

He is a 5'9, light-skinned Hispanic with dark hair and very noticeable light blue eyes.

He has a tattoo on his left forearm.

He was recently released from jail for stealing mail, and also for defecating in front of a woman's door. (This last act was caught on camera.)

I've got lots of revenge fantasies, but unfortunately none of them will happen. But if you happen to see him, I wouldn't mind if you called him a useless, despicable f*ck.

Reviewed: Heat, Skins

2009-08-21T19:41:00.001-07:00

It's one of those nights when I'm not really drunk but I've reached my wine and a half limit (equal to me wandering around the party with a plastic cup always a quarter full of sparkling) and I come home and bang around the kitchen until I can get a decent bowl of cereal going. New York has been hot as hell and my apartment is full of boxes. I admit I only packed two of them today, and they were both full of shoes. The thing is, we're leaving New York.

I'm sad about it, truly, I'm sad. Or I just want to think I'm sad, I can't really decide. Joe and I, we've moved around a bit in our 10 years of being together, and this time, this move feels different, like when I moved out of my hometown in '98. A puzzling sadness, a wonderment that after years of swearing I would leave, I felt suddenly sad to be doing it.

Because I just found the Sheep Station on 4th Avenue a mere month ago! The meat pies are delicious! And Jude Law is coming to Broadway in October!

And it's been too hot to eat on the deck at Barbone in the East Village. Though we did last night anyway, with friends that we'll miss, and it was too hot, even, to wear a necklace.

Here in our apartment we've got one little air conditioner stuck in the window of our bedroom and it's too small to really cool anything, and so loud that at night when we sit down to watch another episode of the BBC's Skins we really can't hear anything. Which is a shame, really, because the series is so addicting, so smart, that I can't believe I ever watched The O.C. and enjoyed it. Plus, Skins has a character named Cassie, and it makes me happy.

And outside it isn't so hot anymore, because earlier it rained, and the heat finally broke. And tomorrow I'll go to work at the neighborhood bakery one last time. And I'll wake up at 6am and walk three avenues over in the dim light of the morning and make coffee, and make coffee, and make coffee.

15 Stars.

Reviewed: Your Husband Gets New Glasses

2009-08-02T17:38:00.000-07:00

Here I am in the new Jetblue terminal at JFK and it's full of people; everyone is delayed. This morning we had rain, lightening, thunder that cracked and you could feel it in your heart. Everyone's in the same boat. Tired, waiting, milling around.

And Joe has gotten new glasses and sometimes when I look for him I have to look twice. He's looking good, this guy I love, but different than usual. A good different.

I'm terrified of flying. Hate it. It's not the crashing, it's the claustrophobia. And this flight I'm waiting for is a really doozy. Six and a half hours in the air, in a tight little cylinder, where the door is all the way at the front and our seats are all the way at the back. Six hours! What if I need to get off before six hours has gone by?!

For me, sitting in an airport is worse than sitting in a hospital. At least in a hospital you're just waiting to get out. Here, you're waiting to get on.

So I need lots of support. Hug me, don't hug me. Listen to me whine, don't let me whine too much. Invent some new meditation to calm me down, don't talk right now. Let me concentrate on my magazine, make me wait to take the little pills for when they'll be most beneficial. And this guy with the new glasses is pretty good at doing all that.

100 stars.

Reviewed: Pepperface

2009-07-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been developing an increasing fear of intruders. I get these kinds of irrational fears often; I'm a bit neurotic. Not too long ago, if my glass of water left my sight for too long I would start to think it had been poisoned, and I would have to ask Joe, "This is crazy, right, but you didn't happen to put any poison in my glass did you?" Not that I think he would, but when I was young I remember my sister once started to take a swig from a 2-liter Coke bottle sitting on our kitchen counter only to find that it was full of dirty oil, not Coke. My dad's a mechanic and he often used bottles like this.

Last week I was wrenched from sleep by a clattering in the apartment, like a bunch of pots had fallen, or an intruder had jostled something loose in the dark. Aren't the first words always, "What was that?!" to a noise at night in the dark? Immediately after that, when I followed Joe down the hallway in the dark I whispered to his back, "I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared" like I was stuck on repeat.

My heart was beating like a rabbit, like a hummingbird. Everything felt prickly and wrong. My arms and legs were moving without me feeling them, and I manically went forward, looking, looking. I kept expecting something to happen, to startle someone out of their hiding place. I clutched my pepper spray.

It turns out that Joe never even thought for a second it was an intruder, but he knew something had fallen and he was trying to find what had--it was the soap dish, slipping off the edge and clattering into the tub. He said he didn't realize I had been so scared, that I should have told him, and that made me realize, uh oh, I've cried wolf too many times.

I wouldn't say I'm an abnormally scared person, but I've got kind of ridiculous fears (the aforementioned poison, seeing ghosts, aliens) that I probably talk about too much. Most of the time I'm not really, truly scared, I'm just needy for a little reassurement.

In the winter, walking to the bakery at 5 in the morning, it's dark and creepy. I wanted a weapon, so I ordered pepper spray. I'm not just needy, I'm also shallow, so I wanted a pretty one. Pepperface was just the ticket.

It's basically designer pepper spray ranging in price from 35 dollars to 300 (but that's for the super fancy one, with Swarovski crystals in the shape of a skull.) I got the basic Prevention Purple for 30% off on one of their specials, which they run fairly often. What else can I say? It's dangerous and it's pretty, and even though I'd rather have a switchblade, it's a good substitute. Every gal should have one.

90 Stars.

Reviewed: The Hurt Locker

2009-07-13T05:53:00.001-07:00

Maybe one of the biggest things I'll miss when I move out of New York will be the movies, specifically, the ability to see anything you want; the lowest budget, the smallest indie gem, the movies that only make it to limited release. (I won't miss, however, the higher probability that your fellow moviegoer will be eating pork rolls and fried rice, or having a ten minute long conversation on their cell phone.)

The Hurt Locker is the best movie I've seen in a long time. It follows a small unit of bomb defusing soldiers (Jeremy Renner, Anthony Mackie, Brian Geraghty) as they try to survive their last 40 days in Iraq. As with any bomb movie, you're gonna expect tension, but this thing is Tense to the very end, so that when the soldiers finally make it home you're still sitting on the edge of your seat, waiting for one of them to fall off a ladder or slip in the shower.

But it's beautiful, too. The way a shell falls delicately into sand. Dust on eyelashes (and Anthony Mackie's got some killer ones.) Jeremy Renner, too, is amazing to watch. I'm still in an meandering depression over the cancellation of The Unusuals. I predict this guy will blow up soon (hardy har, I swear that wasn't intentional) because he's really, absolutely, that good. The movie wouldn't be what it is without him.

And The Hurt Locker is one of my favorite kinds of movies, where I can revel in my useless movie database brain and delight in everyone who pops up: pretty Evangeline Lilly from Lost, Christian Camargo (psychopath brother from Dexter), David Morse (creeper from Disturbia, the Hack), Guy Pearce, and my favorite, Ralph Fiennes, who shows up for a brief but memorable role as a Blackwater-type dude, looking as rugged and bad-ass handsome as he's been since The English Patient.

100 Stars.

Reviewed: The Quest Kayak

2009-07-07T07:09:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I came into a sizable amount of cash. Let’s just say I finally graduated and was rewarded with many white envelops stuffed with cash. Although I wrote in every single thank you note that I would use the money for books in graduate school, I instead spent it foolishly on myself. I live in a mid-western land-locked Illinois town; so, of course, I bought a kayak. And a paddle. And a life jacket that I am too cool to wear, so I just stuff into the ample space at the front of the kayak. And a roof rack for my Nissan to tote the kayak around.

It may seem weird that I bought a kayak, but it really isn’t. Being on the water is my second favorite thing to do; right under watching TV on my couch. The problem is I spend a lot of time by myself indoors. Most of my friends are spread out across the country and R-Man works during the day. I needed something I could do alone and outside. A kayak is the perfect solution. I just put it on my roof, drive 30 minutes to the closest lake, take it down, and I’m free at sea.

The Quest Kayak is a smaller one person kayak weighing about 45 pounds and measuring about 10 feet. Mine is a vibrant red orange coloring, which keeps the fishing boats and pontoons I share a lake with from hitting me. Although it doesn’t weight that much, its awkward shape makes it difficult to lift and put on the roof of my car. However, other than trying to lift it above my head, it doesn’t seem that heavy. I can easily carry it around on one shoulder from car to water. I have taken it out several times without much hassle. Really the only trouble I had was the first time I went out. I tried to launch from the boat ramp, but to my surprise it was covered in slimy, green moss. My sandals went out from under me and I fell on my ass. Luckily the guy who has just asked if I needed any help had already driven away.

There is nothing more relaxing than paddling to the middle of a lake and riding the waves. I usually take a book along and find a place away from everyone to read for awhile. I even rest my legs on the top of the kayak in an attempt to get them from pale to pink.

77 stars: It is seriously difficult to get it on the roof of my car, but as it becomes easier my arms should start to look like Michelle Obama’s.

Reviewed: Leinenkugel's Summer Shandy

2009-06-30T11:03:00.000-07:00

The Midwest is experiencing a debilitating heat wave, which means I haven’t left the house in the past three days. Alright, so Mad Men season 1 is the reason I haven’t left in three days; but it is over now, and I’m still not going to leave the house.

But, if I were to leave the house, it would be to buy some refreshing lemonade to quench the thirst a heat wave like this brings . . . or some beer. Introducing Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy! (That is Shandy with a “d” not shanty with a “t.”) Shandy is a harmonious blend of beer and lemonade, popular with the British. Okay, not real lemonade, but real lemon flavor. When pulled from a draft, it is so cold and refreshing it tastes just like lemonade. Only, after a couple, you’re light-headed and telling stories a little too loudly. After even a few more, you need to make sure you know where the deck ends on your friend’s half finished summer project in order to not fall off the side.

So far it may seem as though I have simply described Mike’s Hard Lemonade or a vodka lemonade. That’s where you are wrong. Ordering a vodka lemonade says to the world, “I’m fancy and don’t know how to relax and knock back a few.” Whereas ordering a Mike’s Hard Lemonade says, “I’m super lame and boring.” However, ordering a beer always says “I’m carefree and here to have a good time. I know how to let my hair down and shake out the curls.”

I do have one complaint though. The shandy doesn't seem to get cold enough in the bottles. However, it is still better than the rest. Just don't ever turn down the draft if it is available.

Oh, and for those adventurous enough to try, the Leinenkugel’s web-site says to mix it with their Berry Weiss for a raspberry lemonade taste.

This seasonal has been around for three summers now, but will be off shelves and out of bars in about a month. Until next year that is.

93 stars: As the evening rolls on, it becomes harder and harder to say: Line-En-Coo-Gulls.

Reviewed: Talking On The Phone To Someone Who Is Kayaking

2009-06-29T15:10:00.001-07:00

It's time for me to make an announcement that we're actually getting serious. Blogging, that is. The partnership of randomly reviewing is back on. I pick up the phone and it is my fellow reviewer. She informs me that she's kayaking.

Now? I say. Yes, she says. Right this minute I'm hanging out in this little cove. Cool, I say.

I try to picture her, in her little orange kayak on the lake, paddling and holding her phone. Apparently, it's wedged between her shoulder and neck. She's not wearing her life vest because it would screw up her tan.

We start to talk blog stuff. She can't hear what I am saying. The wind has picked up. It is blowing her further into the cove. She keeps saying, What? What are you saying?

91 Stars. Nature.

Twilight Remix

2009-06-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

I'm not one of the Buffy people (though all you Buffy fans recommend it to me all the time), but I can't help but heart the Twilight movie, and this is so incredibly well done and hilarious that I couldn't resist posting. Seriously, it's funny.

Reviewed: Smart Start Original Antioxidants

2009-06-17T13:18:00.000-07:00

I am a cereal person. I eat cereal pretty much every morning, even on weekends when we sleep late and much later slide into the kitchen to begin the happy work of pancakes and eggs and, maybe, sometimes, bacon. And this is true because secretly I've gotten up much earlier and already eaten a bowl of cereal.

For a long time, cereal was the first thing I thought about when I woke up. Sometimes I even thought about it while still sleeping, so that cereal popped up in my dreams. I'm kind of....obsessed.

But I'm that way with a lot of things involving breakfast, because writing is all about mornings that stretch way past their end. I have dozens of pajamas, different combinations to satisfy all types of temperatures, seating arrangements (working at the desk this morning? couch? a pile of pillows on the floor?), and holidays. I eat yogurt and fruit, cereal and cereal and cereal. By six o'clock, I haven't been outside all day. I go to water my plants and see that they're dying of thirst. The mail is lonely and waiting in the mailbox. I've missed a package from my mother. My legs are stiff from sitting cross-legged in a chair for hours on end.

Smart Start is one of those double duty cereals. Yummy in milk (and it's gotta be skim in cereal, whole milk in coffee) but almost better by the handful as a snack. I admit, in the morning I usually reach for Honey Bunches of Oats first. Second choice, Smart Start. Third choice, Cheerios. And when I'm sick of sugar, Basic 4.

Listen to me, people. I know about cereal. If I know anything, it's cereal! I am the sister of one girl who ate Cinnamon Toast Crunch every morning as long as I lived with her, the other who couldn't decide if she liked Captain Crunch Original with Crunchberries, or Peanut Butter Crunch better. I am the daugher of a man who mixed Grape Nuts and Cracklin' Oat Bran in a big cup with milk, who later ate tomato soup mixed with chicken soup for lunch. And my mother gave no pause when buying her kids Cookie Crisp, a cereal that is literally a bowl of cookies for breakfast.

My taste has somewhat refined since then.

(I love cookies.)

92 Stars.

Reviewed: The Overshare

2009-05-08T07:37:00.000-07:00

I realize that if I'm not careful this blog is going to turn into nothing more than boring work stories, BUT....people are weird! They are really, really weird!

A guy came in the other day and we offered him a small plate for his muffin. He got super excited about it, bemoaning the fact that the bakery down the street charges $3 for a muffin and they don't even give you a plate.

My co-worker says, good-humored, "What do they do, make you share a napkin?"

No, says he, "but I got hepatitis that way in Morocco."

!!!!! 40 Stars !!!!

Reviewed: Yellow Cake

2009-05-07T08:54:00.000-07:00

My wedding cake was white--delicious and gorgeous all at once--but I have no idea where it came from. Since our wedding took place in New Orleans just 7 months after Hurricane Katrina, a lot of the details were left in the hands of the thoroughly elegant and lovely general manager of the Hotel St. Marie. The cake appeared, we cut it and everyone else ate it, so it wasn't until a week later I realized how awesome it was.

Now I work at a bakery and it seems at least once a week someone comes in from somewhere ridiculously far away to gobble up some nostalgia. "I had this cake at my father's 70th birthday party, ten years ago!" they say. Or, "All my mom wanted for Mother's Day was to have a piece of your cake again." Our specialty is chocolate cake, the famous Brooklyn Blackout, but if that's not your cup of tea we make yellow cake. Not white cake, yellow cake.

People want it to be named differently, I can tell. Especially the snobs in the bunch. They say, "is it vanillla cake?" or "is there a little bit of lemon in this?" and I imagine saying, "Nope, that thar's just the yeller cake" to make them flee the store. Everyone wants to feel special.

The customer that makes me feel special is a high school kid who loves yellow cake with chocolate frosting. He comes in almost every day. Sometimes I save the good slice especially for him. I wish I could go back in time and be 17 again and have him be my boyfriend. He's got these incredibly nerdy glasses and an incredibly nice smile.

He never comes in with friends like some of the other kids do--the boys talking loud and obnoxious, asking us in their most manly voice which cookies cost 50 cents, the girls that crush on them sipping hot chocolates and giggling. If he was part of that group, I would totally flirt with him in front of them. And I wouldn't even mind if he told them he was 'doing me'. I hope some 17 year-old little lady pretty soon figures out how awesome he is.

79 stars.

Reviewed: Applesauce Jars, Eggs, and iPods

2009-05-04T12:16:00.000-07:00

There's been this issue at work lately. An issue involving thieving. It's irritating me. The past few years of living in New York and Philadelphia, where there is actual, real life, honest-to-god crime, have slowly jaded my naivety. (I grew up in a place where I never even thought about locking my car, where my best friend didn't even have a key to her own house.)

My grandparents once got robbed in the small, corncob of a town in Illinois where I am from. It happened either before I was born or shortly after, and as a little girl I remember whenever the subject of jewelry came up my grandmother went on and on, mourning the things she lost, the violation she suffered. She never could forget it, and didn't replace any of the items lost out of sheer dread it would happen again.

Recently, I've felt a little more empathy on the subject. Imagining some of the things that I've come to possess in my life being snatched away, never to be seen again starts to break my heart. Nothing I have is wildly extravagant or even close to it, but...the delicate heart-shaped pendent I wore at my wedding, my collection of blue-glass birds. Even newly acquired things, like the simple little antique ring with garnet stones my grandmother just gave me as a birthday gift. Yes, I would live without them, but there would be things...missing. Oh, ouch...just thinking about it.

This is all to say that ipods are being stolen from work. Mine was the second one. It happened a few months ago, where my previously mentioned naivety kept me from realizing the theft for a week. (I kept assuring my coworkers, "Oh, I probably just misplaced it somewhere around here" like a fool.) The third one happened recently.

Now we've targeted a culprit, who recently showed up with a similar-looking iPod and last night I was enlisted for a mini-suberfuge: check the questionable iPod for the stolen iPod's serial number without arousing suspicion.

Here's the thing I'm leaving out. I used to be good at this stuff, i.e. filching things. Always stupid, inconsequential things. Back in the day my friends and I (my fellow reviewer included) got our hands on quite a few random ridiculousnesses that did not belong to us: pantyhose, Tootsie Rolls, a bottle of iodine, a baby Jesus, sale stickers taken from an unlocked delivery truck. Things that no one would miss, the more ridiculous the better. Success was infinite glee. None of it mattered to anyone, we were sure.

Last night when the task required those sticky fingers, that quick reflex, that easy casualness upon completion, my heart was hammering like crazy. I couldn't even read the number. Mission: Failed.

The youthful nerve is starting to waver, that quick abandonment of ethics starting to fade. I was thinking, what it is for. How does it matter. There have been many nights I want to throw eggs, applesauce jars at the neighbors porch. I don't do it. I would have before.

My iPod is long gone. I want the one just taken to be returned. I want justice. Terrified of theft, I have started to hide things. A necklace goes in a little jar in the corner over here. Slip the Hummel figurine into the bottom of that pot over there. Soon I will be sewing bills into the curtains, putting my wedding rings in the freezer. Soon I will spend my afternoons being entertained by the birdbath.

Hm. Stars.

Reviewed: Maoz

2009-04-30T11:39:00.000-07:00

It's Day 2 of my No-Sugar Life Betterment Plan and I just microwaved some popcorn, which is odd because I absolutely hate popcorn. A lot of things aren't making sense since I stopped eating sugar. Last night I almost burst into tears when Joe forbade me from drinking lemonade with dinner. We were having shrimp quesadillas and I kept whining, "But lemonade goes perfect with this!"

I never realized before how much of my life is devoted to eating sugar. I work at a bakery for god's sake. I have candy all over my apartment. The answer to the question, if you could only have one food for the rest of your life what would it be, for me, was always candy corn. (Like a good Midwestern girl.)

It's hard, I'm telling you. I feel like my mind is changing, my spirit, my body. Everything is different. It's like when Tom Cruise tells Brad Pitt, "Now look, with your vampire eyes." I want sugar all the time! I am not responsible for my actions. Last night we were woken by a buzz saw at 2am coming from the building next door and Joe had to stop me from tossing a glass jar of Mott's applesauce out the window to shatter on their back porch. (And I wasn't even the one who almost got arrested--the cop getting in Joe's face when asked to do something about it, "Are you asking me or telling me?")

So this is all to say, before I eventually give in and devour a plate of glazed donuts and chocolate syrup, tonight we're going to eat falafel pitas at Maoz. It's delicious. They have a little bar full of cooked carrots and cabbage slaw and roasted cauliflower and sour pickles. The store in Union Square can get a little tight, and it isn't always fun to eat next door in the park next to a hobo, and one time I saw a guy use the salad bar tongs to take a piece of cauliflower, deposit it in his hand, then pop it in his mouth (which really, I suppose, because of the mechanics of it, is completely sanitary even though it made me think about germs for the next two hours.)

Maoz. No Sugar. Life Better.

85 Stars.

Reviewed: Delivery Guy

2009-04-29T07:36:00.001-07:00

It's been a while since I had to pull out my old college days constantly-offended feminism, and yesterday when I went reaching for it, it was barely there. I was, and remain, completely horrified at myself.

So this delivery guy walks in and, in work-mode, I look up with that automatic tip-me-if-I-have-to-use-the-steamer smile. He says, "Hey, Beautiful."

Revulsion. (And here's where I admit that if he looked even remotely like Jake Gyllenhaal* I would have gotten all giggly and done the lip-bite-chin-tuck thing. I'm shallow.)

I made a face that I thought conveyed "Ew. Gross. Quit it. Now." But instead, he says, "What? You don't think that you're beautiful?"

Good God, there are so many things that I should have said. Wish I had said! Needed to have said! That's the end of the story. It doesn't get better. He hung around creepily while waiting for a signature. I busied myself making lemonade. The end.

0 Stars.

*Oh my god, I'm so good at spelling I totally got it right on the first try.

LOVE her: Kate Micucci (Gooch, from Scrubs)

2009-04-27T12:26:00.001-07:00

Reviewed: RR/RW The Duel II

2009-04-20T07:09:00.000-07:00

This show really should just be called Boobs and Muscles II. And I'm totally disappointed in myself because I hadn't watched MTV for about 6 months! My life was better for it! I'm definitely "too old for that sh*t". Too many flashy graphics and commercials for text message astrology. Too many frat-boy jokes. Too much winning useless uber-hip electronics for doing nothing.

Of course, MTV and all its players are too hip to be homophobes! The women are strong, 21st century gals--no way would they allow themselves to be used and played by those muscley men!

And yet....every bulked-beyond-belief musclehead that goes into the show's famous "duel" picks a skinny, gay man to test his immense strength against, then gives 30 seconds of talking head about how this game is all about "pushing yourself."

And yet...every season involves clip after clip of meatheads with hilarious funky hair strategizing on how to "trim the fat" (translation: get all the chicks off our team!)

Why does MTV even spend the money to go to these exotic locations? Nothing on the show requires any skill or design beyond what would be capable in my dad's garage.

Here's a solution: Buy a bunch of matching speedos and bikinis--don't forget the cool logo bandanas!--and drop these life-rejects in a warehouse in Akron, Ohio with TJ whats-his-face. You'll save a bunch of money (hey, maybe you could use it to hire more creative, intelligent people that will design worthwhile programming!) and I won't have to stomach any more of Brad and Evan thinking that they are really cool guys.

0 stars.

Reviewed: 2 Things I'm Telling You to Watch But Don't Want to Write About

2009-04-10T11:12:00.001-07:00

1. Speed Racer starring Emile Hirsch, Christina Ricci, and (excitement!) Street from Friday Night Lights...whose Rex Racer gets plastic surgery to look like Matthew Fox (ugh, see left).

2. The Unusuals, Wednesdays @ 10pm, ABC.

Combined 170 stars.

Reviewed: TLC's I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant

2009-04-06T09:50:00.001-07:00

I'm not going to be coy here. You don't need to scroll down to see the star rating, because it would feel wrong to withhold the vital information that this is the

Worst. Show. Ever.

I might even see about getting TLC permanently removed from my cable box.

Yesterday was hangover TV day, which meant an afternoon of movies like Speed Racer (review to follow), The River Wild, and whatever else came on HBO since it hurt too much to find the remote. But then something happened where I started out watching a home improvement show on TLC and next I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant came on.

The dramatizations on this show are even worse than the glory days of Rescue 911. (How do they cast these roles? Is there a special corner in LA where all the dramatization actors wait for casting directors to come by in a pickup truck?)

Here's what happened on last night's show: (Warning: I summarized the following to Joe last night and he made me stop before he threw up.) An overweight woman starts having severe abdominal pain. She goes to the emergency room, where they send her home with muscle relaxers, but the pain doesn't stop. The next day she goes to her chiropractor, who does some funky magic medicine which also does not help relieve her pain. That night, she wakes up with intense pain. She gets up and runs to the bathroom.

Okay. Here is where they show a woman sitting on the toilet in her nightgown. The voiceover is of the real woman saying, "I felt the most intense pressure and urge to push something out of me. I kept pushing and pushing to get it out, and all of a sudden it came out and all the pain was gone." The dramatization shows an actor resembling the woman's husband come into the bathroom. The actress resembling the woman is on the toilet and the actor resembling the husband stares at her. Then the voiceover says, "I heard a cry."

The actress resembling the woman looks at the actor resembling the husband and says, "Did you hear that?" He says, "No."

The actress stands up from the toilet in her nightgown and turns around. Close-up of a bloody infant head peeking out of the toilet. Both actors stare in horror before the woman picks the baby out of the toilet and cradles it to her, exclaiming, "Oh, I love you, my baby!"

Gross. Just....gross. Gross to the reality of that situation, gross to the horrific dramatization, gross to TLC for following these images with footage of the real mother cradling her surprise toilet baby in the park and smiling.

0 Stars.

Reviewed: Rob Pattison in GQ

2009-03-12T16:27:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. Two Twilight-centric posts in one day. Slay me.

But this Rob Pattison interview has got to be one of the most hilarious interviews ever. Love him.

90 Stars.

I Am Almost 30 And I Love Twilight

2009-03-12T09:41:00.001-07:00

Since Christmas I've been wondering what it was that made me read all four of the books in Stephanie Meyer's Twilight series.

The truth is, I didn't just read them, I voraciously read them. It was the most fun I've had reading a book since I discovered JSF's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I read the first book over the Christmas holiday, swearing that I just wanted to see what was up, swearing that I wouldn't enjoy it, or read the next one--but then I read the next one. I finished it completely unaware of anyone else at the laundromat, my clothes waiting already done in the dryer. And then here's where I get a little fuzzy on the third and fourth books, because I'm pretty sure I read them both--all 1380 pages of them--in three days. I remember particularly, towards the end of Breaking Dawn, that my eyes had gotten so bleary I could hardly see the words.

I should have known I would like them. I'm an unapologetic romantic; I practically live on a diet of The English Patient, Atonement, and Cold Mountain. I'm pretty much a 14 year-old girl and always will be.

Which is why this explanation of the Twilight phenomenon in The Atlantic really explained a lot for me.

And recently I read this critique in Bitch magazine, about why Twilight is really just abstinence porn. (This is a good read.)

I agree with both articles even though they contradict each other quite a bit. Bella and Edward's love is both saccharine and dark, delightfully appealing in every way. The books appealed to the pre-teen dreamer in me, the girl who daydreamed crazy fantasies about a particular high school senior that involved emotional rescues ("But how did you know I needed you right then?" "I just knew. I know everything about you.") and odd locations I thought would be romantic (e.g., the middle of a cornfield at night.) I remember once in the locker room before gym class, a girl a few years younger than me stormed in visibly upset and threw herself against the lockers, practically stage crying. She gripped her fists against her heart and said, "Why does he do this to me?" I turned my head and laughed to myself at her over-drama, but that girl was seriously who I was inside my own head.

Of course now I'm completely ashamed of how I behaved in my head--that silly, romantic girl--which is also how I feel about Twilight. I love the books, but sort of hate that I love them. I try to tell myself, you have a master's degree.

Because most of the great love affair is quite silly, particularly the unique abstinence between the couple--Bella continually gets "carried away" and longs to be taken by her vampire prince, while the stoic Edward again and again keeps both of them under control.

And maybe that's who we all wanted to be back when we were 17 years-old; the girl who wasn't a buttoned-up prude, but really quite fiery and sexual. And just so we wouldn't have to give in to being terrified of actually doing the deed, there would be a guy there who wouldn't let us do it, retaining for us our image of being wildly desirable carefree vixens, so that we'd never have to show we were ever scared.

Reviewed: Smashing Pumpkins, making apple pie, snow

2009-03-02T11:16:00.000-08:00

It's snowing today, a swiftly falling pelt-you-in-the-face kind of snow. This weekend I did all kinds of things for once. On Thursday, when Joe said, what do you want to do this weekend?, I said, I want to watch a whole bunch of movies at the theater. My ambitious plan was to watch all the Oscar movies I had meant to watch beforehand, maybe even two-a-day if I could handle it.

We ended up seeing one a day (like vitamins!) with my friend Ellen replacing Joe on Sunday night's Wrestler date. All in all, I was kind of...blerged out. Milk and The Wrestler certainly were better by far than The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (undeserved best actor nom, Brad Pitt, undeserved!). But nothing was surprising, or even particularly transporting (Sean Penn excepted.) The movies were...okay. I want another Grindhouse! Or, at least, something like The Departed! I want something that makes me forget I'm in the theater, but also, thanking god that I am seeing such an amazing movie as this in a theater. I want to see a movie that makes me want to watch it a second time the minute its over.

We also wandered the Village and got some books for my new sexy book club (Murph, you WILL join) and also--my favorite of the weekend--Smashing Pumpkins Siamese Dream on LP.

Which I am listening to now, while I make an apple pie out of the apples I bought on Friday and didn't have time to make (since I had more than my hands full blackening shrimp and simmering red beans and rice, on top of the brussel sprout, tomato and fresh corn salad!) I was ambitious this weekend, and it kind of worked out. I cooked food. We slept in. We watched the season 2 finale of Dexter. I went uptown. We walked back home from the BAM down 5th Avenue. We ate John's pizza. We tried to get in to Rissoteria. I caught 20 minutes of Alive on HBO. Since I minused out the normal weekend couch-lounging and General Hospital-catching-up, it felt like having a week of vacation unzipped from a weekend's worth of time. So nice.

But this music makes me think about how idiotic of a teenager I was. Ah, Smashing Pumpkins. Sophomore year of high school. The guy I crushed on was uninterested, heart-breakingly so. My sister and her HighSchool boyfriend (the worst of the lot, perhaps) went to a Smashing Pumpkins concert, and I stayed home inwardly pouting for not being able to go. I tried so hard to be cool back then, that when they got home I questioned my sis and her HS bf about all of the songs I was able to name ("Did they play 'Whir'? How was 'Disarm'?") and when HS bf confessed that he had gone to buy a t-shirt during "Disarm" I scoffed and said to all my friends later, "I mean, who would leave during "Disarm"? It's only the best SP song ever."

My oh my. Memories.

75 Stars for today.

Reviewed: Presidential Address

2009-02-25T08:48:00.000-08:00

Last night was the presidential address, which in the past has really annoyed me by taking place instead of Gossip Girl, but I had just gotten home from a drink with a friend and Obama's quite nice to look at so I curled up on the couch with Joe and shared a handful of Reese's Pieces. Of course, the mood in the room was so different this time around, like I could spookily feel it through the television. Obama's our celebrity, but it's more than that. It's the way he addresses, not just the Congress, but "Madam First Lady" and looks for Michelle, and she smiles and blows him a kiss and mouths, I love you--and oh my, it's so nice to see an American President so in love with his wife!

I'm an easy kind of girl these days on politics. I could have just watched the first ten minutes of that speech--ha! the first 30 seconds of the speech--just long enough for that I love you and that's all I need to know. (If you're looking for in depth political analysis--yikes!--go elsewhere.)

All I can say to the rest of the world is--jealous? I am, and I live here! I wanted to be that little girl who got a hug from our gorgeous First Lady. I wanted to be the First Lady. And that made me think, how many little kids in their homes tonight are looking at the television thinking the same thing about Michelle Obama, about Barack Obama. That means that a bunch of little minds are inspired to be something more than 'making a living' or just the generic 'being successful.' Growing up to really be something. Something not generic, something extraordinary.

Oh, I'm getting cheesy. It must be the sun coming in the window this afternoon, saying, February is almost over, Spring is coming...

100 Stars.

Reviewed: Unexplainable Taste

2009-02-13T06:36:00.000-08:00

I want this. I'm not sure why.

I think because it reminds me of Lord of the Rings.

Reviewed: Nordstrom's

2009-02-12T11:14:00.000-08:00

Oh, Nordstrom's, you disappoint me. Yesterday I got your catalog in the mail, which is usually a happy occasion because the pretty pictures of things I can't afford combined with things I can barely afford lulls me into a daydreaming sleepiness.

And usually, thinking about you, Nordstrom's, is a happy occasion. Since you don't have a store in NYC, I only get to see you in Washington when we visit Joe's family, and there you are so beautiful and clean and full of helpful, smiling workers that I would never encounter where I live. You have William Rast jeans that I like to try on for fun because Justin Timberlake made them and named them after his grandfather. You have Frye boots and Flowerbomb perfume and the most glorious selection of tights. You have a coffee stand that sells sugar cookies with thick, pink frosting and orange juice so pulp-y the straw gets clogged.

BUT...

...the economy is in shreds; here in New York everyone is losing their job and even Manhattan rents are falling so quickly tenants are renegotiating their leases.

It's cool that you included a letter recognizing that "these are challenging times for us all" and promising to "focus on what we can do to make a difference to you, our customer." Which is why it's funny that the very first item on the next page is a darling little Bluemarine dress, printed silk with a delicate ruffle at the neck and an azul satin belt, for the budget-friendly, depression-friendly, challenging-times-friendly price of $1,795. (Belt sold separately for $355.)

"We think of these extraordinary times as yet another chance to earn your business." Signed, Blake Nordstrom, Pete Nordstrom, and Erik Nordstrom.

Blake, Pete, and Eric--excuse me, Erik--I hate you all. 2 Stars.

Reviewed: Drunk Food

2009-02-06T12:49:00.001-08:00

Joe makes the best drunk food. While I come home and throw my coat on the floor, fall over while trying to take off my shoes, spill a river of water while pouring a glass, and collapse on the couch, Joe is efficiently and effortlessly throwing together a feast in the kitchen. He even uses spices! Last night he made turkeymeat tacos and it might have been the most amazing meal I have ever eaten. One time he put together a BBQ chicken quesadilla out of the leftovers from my fancy French restaurant food. And his grilled cheese is so good I only want to eat while I'm drunk from now on.

100 stars.

Reviewed: General Hospital, 2009

2009-02-05T13:19:00.000-08:00

Oh, GH, what are you doing? Let's get this straight: I'm no TV-snob. I'm consistently pulled in by any show airing on the CW (last night's Privileged--nice!). I love so much about what makes you bad: the mob bosses, the hitmen, the crazy paralyzed guy who can secretly walk, the deadly airborne poison that was just let loose in the hospital, Sonny Corinthos. I even love it that every character has been on the verge of death multiple times, purely because now that only 3 of the main characters actually have anything to do with the hospital you've gotta work it in somehow.

But now?

The brain-damaged mob boss/former hitman is the person in charge of the airborne poison disaster at the hospital? His ex-girlfriend is "looking for stuff to do" to keep her busy, like running around in leather pants with a gun? The FBI agent/terrible-acting dude is handling the disaster from his office pacing around on a cellphone? And his main contact with the quarantined hospital is the brain-damaged mob boss/former hitman (recently shot in the arm by his ex-girlfriend while he's in love with a dying nurse who is about to get back together with her ex-husband for the safety of hitman's secret baby)? And you killed Leyla?!

Stop it! Even others are noticing.

50 stars, purely because of the above clip, one of the more enjoyable moments.

What I'm watching today...

2009-01-30T11:19:00.000-08:00

Reviewed: Miss Sixty New Shelly Pump in Brown

2009-01-30T08:30:00.000-08:00

Yesterday the lemon that is my apartment was infiltrated by a dust haze from the demolition work going on two floors below me. The dust was so thick I couldn't properly see across my living room, and my body was rebelling from inhaling, so I decided to get the heck out. I could have gone down the street to the cafe on the corner, got a cafe au lait and worked on my book edits, but instead I decided to go to the shoe basement at Century 21 where I purchased some new Miss Sixty oxford heels.

They were marked down to 49.99 from 159.99, so what is that, like, 70%? I hate wasting time doing math.

I shouldn't have bought them. I should go return them right now. The economy sucks and it is getting worse. Everyone is losing their jobs. No one wants to publish books right now. I only make about $150 a week at my current job. Fifty dollars could buy me food or pay down some of my credit card debt. Fifty dollars could feed a bunch of starving kids for a year, I think. Because of all of these reasons, I am a maniac for refusing to relinquish them.

They are just so pretty.

70 Stars.

Reviewed: Stonyfield Farms Organic Nonfat French Vanilla Yogurt

2009-01-26T10:35:00.000-08:00

As a little girl, when my Girl Scout troup went to Baskin Robbin's and all the other Scouts ordered Pink Bubblegum ice cream, I always went with plain vanilla. (And occasionally, Gold Medal Ribbon, the best ice cream ever...but that's for another review.) Thankfully, now that I've discovered French Vanilla, I can thank the French for giving me something slightly less boring and lame to order than Vanilla. While vanilla may be a staid and dull, please-and-thank-you kind of flavor, French Vanilla is pink-cheeked and demure, with black lace underwear.

Which is why every time I go to the grocery store and they are all out of the Nonfat Stonyfield French Vanilla, I'm convinced there must be a bunch of skinny, exercise-obsessed, wannabe-interesting, leggings-wearing bitches with the same idea buying up all of my favorite yogurt. Why can't the store manager realize the demand and order more Nonfat French Vanilla and less Peach? And seriously, Key Lime? Gross!

58 Stars.

Reviewed: Martha Stewart Living

2009-01-23T11:31:00.000-08:00

Lots of things have changed in the last five years; my location, hair color, scowling at babies and dogs, etc,. Another thing to change is my preference for Martha Stewart's magazine.

Living in New York, for me, means trading out a lot of things. Big, open skies for bustling streets. Comfortable proximity to nature for uncomfortable closeness to unnatural things (my downstairs neighbor.) Hiking through a lush, temperate forest for carefully avoiding that pile of puke in Times Square (or Flatiron, or the Meatpacking District, or the LES, or Herald Square.)

I love New York--there is so much to love. But lately I've come to miss some of the things I traded to live here, and top of the list is, though a simple idea, one I hadn't stopped to think of for quite a while: beauty.

Of course, beauty can be found in everything, including this city. Coming up the NJ Turnpike, in that little incline before you descend into the Holland Tunnel, the skyline is a magnificent sight. The Statue of Liberty as seen from the F train on a clear day. Even, sometimes, just happening upon a quiet street in the Village and trying on a pair of red satin slingbacks that remind you of the ones you used to play dress-up in as a child.

But for the everyday kind of life--passing the grizzly old dudes hacking up a lung at the OTB on the corner, the seemingly-normal woman slip out her false teeth on the subway and take a mouth-open nap, watching a bum relieve himself in the corner--all of these things make Martha Stewart necessary. I just quietly open up my copy of Living and turn to the arrangements of creamy roses in vintage vases on a rustic farmhouse table dressed in crisp white linen with scalloped edges. Ah.

87 Stars. Say what you will about Ice-Queen Martha, she is good at what she does. I have attempted to make tons of the things in her magazine with varying degrees of failure, but you know what? I never stop trying.

Also, one day compare your regular run-of-the-mill wedding magazine with Martha Stewart Weddings and you tell me if you see any midriff-exposing, torso cut-out's, rhinestone bridal gowns.

Reviewed: Deadwood, the Complete Series

2009-01-22T11:54:00.000-08:00

In the first sentence of this review it would probably be prudent for me to admit that I haven't actually even looked at all of the DVD's in this product. BUT...Deadwood is hands down the best television show I've ever watched. I kind of don't even need to finish this review because A) the box is super pretty and shiny, B) the DVD's are housed in a booklet of shiny cardstock sleeves and not crappy plastic molds, and C) Bullock.

"The Meaning of Endings: David Milch on the Conclusion of Deadwood" included as one of the extra bonuses you don't find in any of the three individual season DVD's, shows all the frustration, heartache and bitterness most fans felt over the show's cancellation. Milch walks around the deserted Deadwood set--a really extraordinary full-size city set--while bitching about the demise of his show. He's really an entertaining guy.

But the design of the pages is really magnificent--full color stills from the series side-by-side with authentic black-and-white images of the real Deadwood. The portrait of Molly Parker dressed up in all her 1800's city-woman finery is to die for.

99 stars.

Reviewed: Rachel Ray's Cast Iron Reversible Grill/Griddle in Green

2009-01-22T11:45:00.000-08:00

A few months ago I received the cookware set consisting of pots and pans. They are really pretty to look at and make me feel like a person who cooks dinner rather than ordering in for almost every meal. By this point I have used each piece at least once and have found they do cook evenly and nothing sticks to the bottom. In order to protect the paint and non-stick coating they must be hand washed. This is a drawback to using them. Despite this, I became obsessed with getting the rest of the set and making restaurant-quality grilled cheese sandwiches. My prayers were answered and I received the griddle/grill for Christmas.

Boy, was I disappointed! The main reason to have this expensive cookware is the looks, and my griddle came with the majority of paint chipped off the corners. When I picked it up to inspect the damage more paint chips fell into my lap. Since the griddle was a gift from Rusty's parents I did my best to hide the bare corners and then quickly put it in the cupboard with the rest of the set. Although they had purchased it for me, they did so over the internet with the help of R-Man. If it were to be returned we would be the ones to do it, therefore there was no reason to upset them.

In the end we decided to just keep the busted up thing because we wouldn't have to be careful with it. After grilling or griddling I could just throw it in the dishwasher rather than scrubbing it with my baby soft hands.

Also, I wanted a sandwich.

So far we've made some grilled cheese, grilled some pork chops, and griddled some pancakes. The thing gets really hot and cooks as evenly as the cookware. Overall, there are no complaints about the cooking which is that main purpose of the piece I suppose. Since there is no scrubbing involved in the clean-up, we use it more now than any other piece.

70 stars: It cooks amazingly, but the chips still anger me when I see them. I should have sent it back in attempt to get a discount or free stuff.

Reviewed: CoverGirl Outlast All Day Lipcolor

2009-01-12T14:35:00.000-08:00

I've never been a giant fan of make-up, especially lipsticks. No matter how carefully I apply them I usually have a ring of color outside my actual lip line or some on my teeth. More to the point, I'm not that big a fan of my mouth/smile so I try to bring as little attention to that area by playing up my eyes and keeping a bare lip. Right.

Anyway, I was in Wal-Mart when I saw a two for one type of deal and thought to myself: "I am about to graduate and get married. I am a woman of the world. It is about time I learned to wear lipstick."

This isn't the thick, waxy lipstick of yesterday. It is more like a less sticky lipgloss. As the directions state it takes only 2 easy, breezy steps to have lipcolor all day. I applied the color from the first tube and waited the approximate thirty seconds before applying the top clear coat that gives you the shine and locks the color in place. Then, I ate a cinnamon roll forgetting what I had done the previous minute. I ran back to the bathroom and found the color still vibrant, but shellacked some more sealer on anyway. I bought two colors, but the color I tried for the day was "nude" and wasn't too far off from my natural color. It took Rusty a moment to notice anything, then he told me I had to wear it every day.

Overall I was pretty pleased with my purchase. I was impressed that is lasted all day despite my attempts of removing it by eating, drinking, and licking my lips. Each color comes with the clear gloss so I left one in my coat pocket and used it throughout the day for that added shine, but as a sort of chapstick, too.

97 stars: 2009, year of the grown-up.

Reviewed: LL Cool J's Microphone Stand

2008-07-25T10:41:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, but have you SEEN it?

100 stars. 'nuf said.

Fun Boss Movie Day: Hiding Out

2008-07-24T11:54:00.000-07:00

Here's the tagline for this movie---ready?

"There's only one thing more frightening than murder...high school."

Really, that's all you need to know to deduce that it was made in 1987. Why were people in the 80's so fascinated with high school? (I say, hypocritically, with a printed off e-mail from my high school crush that I can't bear to throw away.)

Hiding Out was on Showtime last weekend and I was in heaven. I have a weakness for Jon Cryer. Not only because of Ducky--although it goes without saying that the character will live forever in film history--but also because I have a soft spot for cute, neurotic and slightly cocky underdogs a la Michael J. Fox.

So here's the plot of the movie: a successful stockbroker witnesses a murder and goes on the run, taking refuge with his cousin and pretending to be a high school student while he hides out from the mob. A really great performance by Jon Cryer as a 30-something guy (or maybe 28? I was trying to figure out what they could get away with) who unwittingly inspires the student body and falls in love with a high school senior after she writes a paper about how big of a crook Nixon was.

Best scene ever: Sitting in class as the grumpy history teacher berates the high school beauty (Annabeth Gish) for having the audacity to say such things about the old lady's hero, Nixon, Cryer guffaws and looks around for some shared sense of disbelief at her idiocy. The joke is, he's the only other one old enough to remember.

Yeah, it gets a little creepy sometimes thinking that the love story is probably statutory rape, but I'm pretty sure they never actually do the deed during the movie. And Cryer is incredibly boyish. That makes it okay anyway. Right?

91 stars in all it's 80's-montaging gloriousness. Netflix it immediately.

Reviewed: July

2008-07-24T11:24:00.000-07:00

It's so not fair that a grumpy (not even) two weeks can ruin a whole month. And I'm still on the path of misery, since I said I was going to go to the gym today and I still didn't do it. I suppose I still could, but that might put me in a better mood and I'm so cranky I can't imagine being in one. It was a little under two weeks ago that I got back from a really great vacation in Florida and wish I was still there.

July is usually one of my favorite months. Nice and hot and you go on vacation or you think about vacation and you sometimes even do things you don't usually do, like outdoor concerts or playing frisbee. You get to wear sundresses! And sandals! And sunglasses (RayBan tortoise-shell wayfarers--exciting!) And at night when it cools down a bit you roam around the city and it's different and you love it and you think it will never feel the same again...but then the very next night when it cools down it does, and that's an even better feeling.

This is the first July that I've started to feel old. Not old old. But you know, like that shelf on your shoulders now holds a lot more stuff. And then yesterday after 8 hours on my feet at work I noticed that my heels were dry. This morning when I shamefully (vainly) confessed to Joe he joked, "Uh-oh, do you need a ped-egg?" Ew! No way!

The point is, it's not something I ever had to worry about. For one thing, for seven years I lived an hour from the beach where the natural wonder of sand kept my soles youthfully soft. (I miss the beach.) But now I get it why they do all that buffing and lotioning and heel waxing in a pedicure, and not only do I get it but I friggin' need it. I remember my mom complaining about this fact of nature, buying fancy lotions to rub on her feet, but it was one of those things I only half-heartedly listened to. Advice I didn't need.

July, you jerk. Or maybe, it's just New York. All that walk, walk, walking around and then walking around some more. When it's hot I'd rather kill myself than descend into the smothering heat of waiting for the subway underground. Ick. I miss the Julys of my youth, driving around the midwest in my oil-slurping old jeep with the top off, playing stupid cat-and-mouse games with idiot rednecks, laughing it up like we were so above it all, and most of all, that long drive home alone, through the cornfields and the crickets and up the gravel driveway to my house where everyone was asleep, and I'd turn off the engine and walk inside and the stars would be so crazy up there and bright like hell.

Aw jeez, it's 70 stars for the difference of 8 million more people and 10 years later.

Reviewed: Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

2008-07-17T11:28:00.000-07:00

Hurry up, guys. Go see it while it's up.

But first--our deepest apologies. We reviewers have been a little behind on the blog lately. I wish I could use the excuse that it is summer and there's stuff like sunburn and mosquitoes and finding illegal Tennessee fireworks to deal with...but I know that you know this neglectful streak has been going on since December. Some day we might get our stuff together and start posting more regularly, but for now we're irresponsible. Sorry.

I had to return for a brief bit to share with you the little project Joss Whedon (of Buffy fame...even though I was never a fan of the show...or, for that matter, anything else he did like Angel or Firefly--granted I never saw it, so maybe I would have been) took on during the writer's strike. With Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Fillion, and Felicia Day in the main roles, Whedon's penned a "unique little epic" of a musical, told in three parts and available online for one week. Acts I and II have premiered earlier this week, and Act III premiere's Saturday, with everything going offline on Sunday at midnight. They will later be available for purchase on iTunes.

But trust me, go see them now. NPH is fantastic. Completely and totally hilarious and darling and I love him so much. You won't be disappointed...but you will if you miss out.

One billion stars.

Warning: Diatribe

2008-06-17T16:27:00.000-07:00

I’m very reluctantly (almost angrily) addicted to Chrissy Coppa’s Storked! Blog at glamour.com. It happened after the original Slaves to Fashion blogger left (got fired? or the more genteel ‘let go’?) and while that was offline, bored, I clicked over. The blog is about Coppa’s experience being single and pregnant at 25. I abhor it, and yet, I keep reading it, perhaps in the same way I would be irritatingly glued to the profile of my arch enemy or ex-crush on facebook.

Maybe I’m just being a jealous jerk because she has a book deal, but Coppa annoys me in so many ways. She writes about her life in New York pre-pregnancy—how glamorous, how witty, how sassily independent she was, as were all her friends, and oh how the men came running after them—so heavy on the narcissism it’s like she might as well stand outside the theaters of Sex and the City crying “that was my life!”

I’m being mean. I am just a jealous jerk. But seriously…today she wrote a haughty post about how a young, single woman in the grocery store didn’t smile at her baby. And she was pissed about it:
“I watched as she looked at him. Looked away. Looked at him, again. No emotion. Would it have killed her to smile at my BABY? No.” And then, “Suck it up. Smile at my baby, because I strongly believe if you can't smile at an unassuming BABY then you really need a reality check.”
Coppa acknowledges that maybe the woman was having a bad day or (horrifically) “might have had an abortion or something.”

I’ll easily admit that I’m one of those people who doesn’t smile at babies, and it’s not because I just had an abortion. Sometimes I just get tired of the Mom Smile I get in return. The “Yeah, I know my baby is the most adorable/cutest/sweetest, and now you know, too” Mom Smile. It just irks me. Sometimes I know the Mom in question is waiting for me to notice, and something just won't let me give her the satisfaction. Hey, I never said I was nice.

Your baby will get a smile, ONLY if he or she deserves it. You see, Chrissy, I take smiles kind of seriously and not all babies earn them. And if I’m having a bad day or just got an abortion, I kind of think that it might be your kid’s job to really put it out there and make me smile….and if he or she is not up to the task, what do you want me to do.

Reviewed: Feeling like a kid

2008-06-17T10:31:00.000-07:00

Today I’m cooking one of my newfound favorite lunches—Amy’s Organic Alphabet Soup. I accidentally stumbled across this soup, which tastes exactly like Spaghetti-O’s (only healthier with green beans and other vegetables) after having half my mouth numbed at the dentist and nothing else to eat. Obviously, I spilled it all over myself.

Even in a normal day as much as I try to be careful, invariably, I spill food all over myself. Joe witnesses these messes and just shakes his head like he can’t believe it. I guess I wouldn’t limit it to food either, since last month I dropped an inky pen on my chest. No one was around to see me do it, for which I am glad, because it involved some borderline-idiotic pen flipping.

I have many painful memories of childhood spills, one of which involves French dressing on the carpet in front of my dad and the other involves the worst fight I ever got into with my little sister, who ended up spraying carpet cleaner in my face.

Anyway, I’m in a dilemma right now as to whether or not I should give in to fate and change my clothes—out of the Robert Rodriguez dress I got at Beacon’s Closet for $24 and which retails elsewhere for $400, and into my Derek Jeter shirt—or take the risk that I am capable of eating grown-up Spaghetti O’s without ruining my clothes.

11 Stars. The soup, however, is delicious.

Reviewed: DIY

2008-06-03T19:22:00.000-07:00

So today I watched Georgia Rule instead of working on my DIY project. I guess what I’ve come to realize is that I don’t really believe in DIY. Perhaps it is because growing up my father was so pro-DIY that it was the only option, which is the reason why none of the toilets in the house flush without having to hold down the handle. I would rather DIWSWKWTD(*) which means Do It With Someone Who Knows What They’re Doing (and they do all the work).

And you know what? Georgia Rule was actually kind of good. I might even be enchanted enough with it to remove the “kind of” and just go for the good. It’s weird, too, because I usually hate Lindsay Lohan. I mean, that stealing thing was kind of yuck. But I think the biggest part of the problem with the movie was that it was marketed as a feel-good comedy when it is far from it. LiLo is the scene-stealer of the movie as a victim of sexual abuse, and Felicity Huffman is almost just as good as the mother who just then finds out. Jane Fonda, you know, whatever. I wasn’t impressed. And also, how does Cary Elwes, aka As-you-wish-Wesley, manage to be so child-molester creepy? Yikes.

So the thrift store dining room chairs I’m going to repaint got about half-sanded. Sanding is hard work. Don’t they make machines that do that?

30 Stars. And, Georgia Rule’s on HBO On Demand right now. It will save you the embarrassment of renting the movie.

Reviewed: American Idol Gives Back

2008-05-27T17:28:00.000-07:00

Today I finally got my e-receipt for my donation to Idol Gives Back. It’s probably not in good form to reveal all my amazing charitable donations but since I only did it for the chance to talk to Ryan Seacrest on air I get a free pass. I’m proud of myself (Pat, pat).

Aw geez, you know I kid, right? It was actually Bono that made me do it, and made me cry a little, to boot.

The charities under the Idol umbrella were all ones that struck a chord and always have with me. You can make fun of Idol all you want from your I-don’t-watch-TV platform high in the sky, but to me this was a good example of all the kind-of, sort-of amazing things that can come out of crazy American suburban tv-watching. The crazy viewership of Idol raised over 60 million.

The tv-watching public is beautiful after all, don’t you think.

99 Stars.

Reviewed: Dirty Dishes by Cynthia Rowley

2008-04-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

After my wedding it was only about 6 months before all those beautiful dishes our friends and family bought for us started cracking and chipping and looking like hell. In fact, MACY’S, you jerks, I should probably be reviewing your shoddy craftsmanship (ahem, the Cellar) instead. Especially after I even nerded it up by taking the time to write you a letter and then you insisted it wasn’t your problem. Huff.

So, just two years later when we had to replace our dishes we went with the brighter whites collection from Fish’s Eddy, which is a fantastic place to get quirky and classic dishware, or hunt through their exhaustive vintage stuff for some unique finds. I couldn’t resist, while I was there, snagging a set of the Cynthia Rowley-designed “dirty” coffee cups, adorned with half-naked ladies lounging around the top.

Bright white with a fancy gold border-line where the lovely chicks lie exposing themselves, the cups are sweet little conversation pieces in my cupboards. Unfortunately, Joe is opposed to the idea that all of our dishes have naked ladies smiling back at us, but I’m hoping I can sneakily expand my collection.

93 Stars. To top it off the whole collection is currently 50% off.

Reviewed: Now What? By Ann Patchett

2008-04-24T11:41:00.000-07:00

As it is nearing May and the time for graduates is upon us, Harper’s has done us a big ol’ favor and published this book. Now instead of buying Dr. Suess’ Oh, The Places You’ll Go, moms and dads across the nation have a new option. The book is the published essay of the commencement speech Ann Patchett gave at Sarah Lawrence College, tricked out with some “life-pondering” photography.

I should disclose that I’m a huge fan of Ann Patchett. I met her a couple years ago in Tallahassee and she is not only an amazing writer but a really lovely, charming lady as well. The essay is a perfect example of what I like about her—that she’s honest, unflinching and humorous and perfectly describes the post-college malaise so many of us find ourselves in. The essay caters to our kind, and by that I mean you, Gen Y, with your whiny find-yourself-self-involvement. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not criticizing—I’ve got it, too. Gone are the days of emerging from youth to suck it up and go to work in the coal mines. Now we get to ask ourselves, where do I really belong? Ugh, it’s atrocious. I sometimes get tired of myself.

So I was, of course, shiny-eyed with recognition at Patchett’s admission of too many years of wandering lost, waitressing at TGIFriday’s, trying to figure it all out. The essay is something us crazy kids should read, if we’re anywhere between 20 and 30, but the package it comes in, on the other hand, might make you want to poke your eyes out. I suspect that, to stretch the page count, the publisher stuck in as many inspiring images as they could. I mean, the amount of illustrations and photographs used to demonstrate for us dummies the idea of indecision (e.g., footprints in the sand going around in a circle, a lone figure standing before a giant maze) is really astounding.

The essay alone earns 90 stars. The packaging it comes in is so atrocious, I give it 4 stars. Moms and Dads, Grandmas and Grandpas, don't let me dissuade you; it will make a nice graduation gift.

Update: I just realized that, including the cover, there are no less than 3 pictures of mazes in this book.

Reviewed: August Rush

2008-04-10T16:42:00.000-07:00

I really wish I didn’t—I truly wish it wasn’t true—but I watched this incredibly ridiculous movie this afternoon and enjoyed it. I don’t know, maybe I have diabetes or something, because this is the most idiotic movie I have seen in a long time and that means something coming from me; I once sat through feardotcom in the theater. But I’m the kind of person that, for the sake of a good story, I can usually suspend my disbelief easily. I do it willingly. It may be one of my only positive character traits.

In order to enjoy this movie, here’s what I had to convince myself of: when you are unconscious your dad can forge your name on your newborn’s adoption papers and then tell you your kid is dead, The Julliard School will take a runaway kid under their wing without calling the police because he’s a music prodigy, The Julliard School will then get that crazy runaway kid his own concert with the New York Philharmonic in Central Park, and if the dude who unknowingly impregnated his true love doesn’t know her last name in 1995 he can pine away for eleven years and then suddenly very easily find her address on the internet.

This is a bad movie. Yes, I liked it but I also like Young Guns 2.

27 Stars. Jonathan Rhys Meyers is gorgeous. I saw him at Jacques-moi’s in New Orleans about four years ago and he was bouncing around the bar looking all coked up. He looks better now.

Reviewed: Strathcona Hotel, Toronto

2008-03-26T14:19:00.000-07:00

A lot of people wonder, why Toronto? We ignored those people. We went, we watched hockey, we ate some Tim Bits. It took us 12 hours to drive from New York. Google said it would only be 7. Of course, Google didn’t add in necessary breaks for candy and giant fun cranes.

Being in charge of the Toronto leg of the trip, I decided to treat my fellow reviewer and pull out the big (moderately priced) guns. When we pulled up to the hotel I let her take the bags up herself while I parked the car, so that she could open the door to our swanky accommodations first and drink in the hipness. She told me later that she gasped, and she even met me in the lobby and handed me the key so I could do the same when I went up.

Later that night, as we watched Juno on our 15 inch television, I laid on my bed underneath the two rectangular windows along the ceiling and thought about what the guy at the front desk said about window-breaking hobos in the parking garage. The city lights were shining in through the blinds and maybe that guy in the hallway near the ice machine was still talking about how the government knew about 9-11 and let it happen. Maybe. For now, I was just a world traveler, kicking up my feet after a long day, relaxing in my twin bed.

79 Stars.

Reviewed: MissGuided and Perez-Hate

2008-03-21T07:37:00.000-07:00

There are lots of things I am able to forgive the American public for—Dancing with the Stars, Taco Bell, Hummers—but not Perez Hilton. I guess as a writer it incites a mini-rage in me to see a total and complete moron become successful for being bitchy. Because, really, I wouldn’t exactly categorize Perez Hilton as a bitch; he’s way too retarded for that. I guess I don’t really know what he is and what made him successful, but I really wish that the viewing public could take it all back.

Anyway, it has seemed so far that for whatever reason no one wants to mess with Perez...until now. Last night the Ashton Kutcher-produced new series MissGuided totally ripped the gossip idiot apart and it was hilarious. The show revolves around Judy Greer’s role as a guidance counselor at a typical high school, with Chris Parnell playing the hilarious assistant principal. When Parnell hunts down high school gossip blogger “Lindsey Lopez” who had posted a suggestive picture of him with a student wrestler on the mats, the mystery blogger behind the computer turns out to be a surly, overweight student with pink hair and attitude—ha!

Catch the show next time it is on, especially if you’ve been missing Parnell (I have.)

88 Stars.

Reviewed: Toronto Maple Leafs Vs. Philadelphia Flyers

2008-03-20T13:03:00.000-07:00

The one and only thing we could think to do in Canada was attend an NHL game. As I tried to point out to my boss, what else do they have in Canada? It's not like they have the NFL, or the NBA, or the MBL. He counteracted with the Toronto Raptors and the Toronto Bluejays. Regardless, Canada is the home of hockey.

We arrived at the game and found our seats after perusing the Maple Leaf memorabilia. Our seats were a few sections from the top, but really good. We could clearly see the rink and all the action, including the fight that broke out during the second period. It was the first game for both of us, but we have now become hardcore Philly fans. The goalie, Martin Biron, was amazing (editorial note: hot). Although he let in the 4 goals that ultimately won the game for Toronto, he saved about 50 others. Shots were constantly taken at him. The Toronto goalie even skated off the rink near the end, so another defensive player could take the ice. Other than Biron, Philly lacked a solid offensive strategy.

Since hockey is made up of three periods, that means there are TWO half-times. The half-time shows were some of the best I have ever seen. The first consisted of two 10 year-old hockey players attempting to make goals and win money for their respective little league teams. A montage of the player in action flashed across the jumbotron as his stats blared over the loudspeaker: "Josh has made a record 57 goals for his team the Mini-Rangers. He loves watching the Suite Life of Zach and Cody and hates his dad."

During the second intermission two dudes dressed in huge hockey puck outfits came to center ice in order to shoot goals and win money. The second guy only managed to make about 2 goals, so he was booed by anyone still in their seats not buying the $5 pizza slices. Cassie got our pizza just before the second break in order to miss the crowd; we should have just skipped the pizza. We should have gotten some beers instead. That way we could have toasted our drinks with the "ever-standing-drunk-guy" in a Flyers jersey.

82 stars: I know why fights break out in the hockey stands now. It is because of the eight year old girls screaming SHOOT in a tone that makes my ears bleed and their annoying father who won't stop uttering "you never know what's going to happen" in a slightly drunk lilt.

Also, take a moment to check out Biron up close.

Reviewed: Chevy Aveo, roadtripping

2008-03-19T12:31:00.000-07:00

“Jail or Canada. Both of them suck.” -Max, Across the Universe

You’d think with all my neuroses and travel anxiety I would be a terrible candidate for a roadtrip, but there’s where you would be wrong because I actually LOVE being on the road. Now all I need is my own car.

We started our roadtrip with a backbreaking trek to the Jersey City Dollar Rent-a-Car, carrying our bags down into the subway, up three flights of stairs to W 4th St., four blocks to the PATH, down the stairs, up the stairs, through the Jersey City mall, across the mall parking lot and finally into the sweating hot office of Dollar, where a lady with super long fingernails took an hour to type our info into the computer. Even though we were trying to be badasses and deny it, our bags were heavy. Plus, I had packed a whole mess of CD’s for the road, which was awesome when I found out our economy Aveo didn’t have a CD player, tape player or even electric windows. Do you know how many tolls are in New Jersey? Welcome to handcrank city.

The Aveo is an okay car, I guess. I’ve never really known anyone who drove a Chevy except for my sister’s boyfriend back in high school and his was blue. I always thought of him as driving fast, but maybe it was just his driving pose, because in this Chevy even though it hit 80 with the rest of cars on the road I didn’t go above that because every time I did the car started making a weird sound and we thought we might crash. It was severely lacking in the comfort department and Murph kept stealing my arm rest to get close to me (in her defense, it does seem lame that only the driver gets an arm rest.)

There’s two kinds of roadtrips—really fast and just dicking around. I only like the really fast kind when it starts to become a kind of dangerous game—like how fast can I go without killing us all, and dammit, no we aren’t stopping so you can go to the bathroom. But mostly, I like the slow, dicking around kind because you get to do great stuff like stop in Scranton and go to the Steamtown Mall, or play every single fun crane machine you find at travel plazas (Fun Crane 8, Us 3). On the way home we tried to make time and cut our drive down a couple hours, but then we saw this pirate ship next to the road
and it was about the coolest thing we saw in Canada, besides hockey of course.

Chevy Aveo: 41 stars, roadtrip: 99 stars, Canada: 30 stars.

To be continued with…hockey, Steamtown Mall, giant fun crane, border agents, etc.

I Can’t Believe We Ate the Whole Thing

2008-03-04T11:19:00.000-08:00

You know what else I can’t believe? We forgot our one-year anniversary. (February 16. It all began with a pillow from Calvin Klein.) I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Lots of stuff has changed in both of our schedules since starting this blog. We’ve now both watched every episode of every season of Six Feet Under. And we’ve both gotten our passports, leading to much anticipated international travel (Canada, watch out!) I've finally learned how to cook fish and braise leafy greens. Murph tells me secrets about her boyfriend. She also manages to keep four jobs and go to school.

Today is my second wedding anniversary and tonight Joe and I are going to go out for delicious food and wine. Last week the one thing I have been working on for the past year ended at 4:30pm on Friday when I mailed my book in. I’ve been bordering on wreckage ever since. So when a good friend invited me over to her apartment for a drink Tuesday night I readily agreed…until I got off the phone and Joe said, “Tuesday night, as in our anniversary.” My friend even called me back to say, “Isn’t that your anniversary?” This is but one example of the mess that is my brain. I am not fit to re-enter society.

Next week look for Reviews from the Road where the reviewers will be blogging our trip north.

Reviewed: Lindsay Lohan Poses as Marilyn

2008-02-21T09:58:00.000-08:00

Not only do I own the Mean Girls DVD, but I also saw it in the theater twice. I initially saw it because I am a fan of Tina Fey and enjoyed her work on Saturday Night Live almost as much as I now enjoy Andy Samburg (Hot Rod shoutout). The second time I saw it I took my high school age sister thinking she would pick up on its feel good themes. By the end of the movie, I was wondering if my sister could teach me to dress like Lindsay. Before she dyed her hair blond and got scary skinny she was a beautiful, talented actress.

I'm not going to make any comparisons between her and Marilyn Monroe because, quite frankly, I don't think there are many to be made. However, remembering her acting skills of past, I thought she might do an adequate job recreating the Monroe photos. I was sadly mistaken.

I should mention, the amount of time I spend watching America's Next Top Model has allowed me to become a premier photo critique.

Her hands looked dead in most photos, limp and solid not indicating any fluid movement. Her eyes in many shots lacked emotion. She needed to dig deeper with the scarves, seduce the camera in the ways she certainly knows how (see above photo.) Had these pictures been for the pure amusement of my boyfriend --who commented on his appreciation of her big boobs-- I would understand the lack of feeling. However, these pictures were for New York magazine by a noted photographer. If only Nigel would have shot them.

35 stars: I do appreciate her freckles weren't airbrushed over.

Reviewed: Possible D2 Sighting

2008-02-19T19:48:00.000-08:00

Yes, I’m talking about D2: The Mighty Ducks. I should say D2 and D3, actually, because Dean Portman was in both of them. The Bash Brother from Chicago. Today I was totally walking down the street in my neighborhood headed to the bank and this attractive guy in a long wool coat crossed my path. In my head I went, hey Dean Portman.

Anyway, at this point I’m not really sure if it was or wasn’t him. I mean, Dean Portman doesn’t exist no matter how much I wish he did. But I imdb-ed him and found out that the actor who so delightfully portrayed him, Aaron Lohr, is no stranger to Broadway. I just can’t see what reason he would have to be in Brooklyn on 5th Avenue ‘round 11th Street. There was a Payless, a sidewalk pillow sale, and a lunch cart selling meat pies.

But wouldn’t it be fabulous if it was him? Turns out besides being a Bash Bro, Aaron Lohr has played parts in tons of my other favorite shows; Sister, Sister, Family Matters, Step by Step, the Disney movie Newsies, and best of all….ready?....St. Elsewhere. Man oh man, Ed Begley, Jr. I can’t even imagine getting to meet that guy.

Oh, I don’t know, how about like a million stars. Cake-eater.

Reviewed: Life

2008-02-08T07:50:00.000-08:00

I, too, will soon have a passport to call my own. I will put it carefully in the ancient blue folder/envelope that reads "Important Documents" on the outside my mother gave me with about a dozen notarized copies of my birth certificate. Like the birth certificates, I hope to one day find a use for my passport, but I am certainly glad to finally have one.

I started the day at Walgreen's where a strung out hippie, hands covered in blue ink and gold rings, took my picture. He pulled down a screen at the end of the aisle for me to stand in front of while a lady with a cart waited patiently to pass. Apparently I had my eyes closed in the first one, so he took three more. He never offered to show them to me and I didn't ask to see them. Despite his use of a digital camera and the modules anyone can print a picture from, he informed me it would be thirty minutes until my pictures were ready. Like Cass, I am unable to take a good picture; however, unlike Cass I don't possess a natural beauty. When the Ian from High Fidelity lookalike finally handed over my pictures I saw I was smirking and my eyes were barely open. As a matter of fact, the lady at the post office had to question Gary "The Picture Guy" if my picture was even acceptable.

Speaking of the Post Office, I had to make an appointment to file my application, which they clearly didn't want to make for me. I showed up and was told to go into a small room with a table and chairs. Finally a woman walked in through a secure, locked door on the other side of the room. She sat down and meticulously looked over my documents, crosschecking my application information to my birth certificate and periodically asking me questions like when I was leaving and where I intended to visit. She then scribbled a signature and slid the paper back for me to sign. She told me I could say the oath aloud, but I silently stared at it before scribbling my own name.

10 Stars: $90? I paid $100 for the ten year humiliation that is my passport picture.

Don't Miss the Cutedown!

2008-02-05T07:59:00.000-08:00

Finally! The Cute With Chris Live Show is online. Kitties with laser eyes galore.

Reviewed: Life

2008-02-04T16:05:00.001-08:00

It’s not anything noticeable, but something is different about me. Can you guess?

The answer is I’m finally a passport holder. (Forget the guessing thing, I was never into that game anyway.) Well, I will be in approximately two weeks. I was talking to a friend the other day who was appalled to discover I didn’t have mine. He’s a savvy traveler whose destinations constantly make me jealous. Someday I’m going to make him take me on a trip. (Which will be hard considering I hate flying, and considering what an awful traveler I am in general.)

First I got my passport photo, which is awful and completely my fault. I figured there was a 50/50 chance that not smiling would be better than smiling since smiling has gotten me nowhere in the past (ahem, check card.) At the moment when it counted I kind of thought that I was doing a barely noticeable half-smile, or at least a smile with my eyes, but the evidence proved contrary. The photo-clerk even gave me the option of going again, but I stupidly declined out of embarrassment that I might take such an awful picture twice.

Anyway…

Our loyal readers know my feelings about the post office, and once again today I wasn’t disappointed. Photo upset aside, I was legitimately excited to apply for my passport. I waited patiently and never once had bad thoughts about any of the postal employees or the other people in line. I was saintly. I practically pranced to the window. But then the lady behind the bulletproof 3-inch dingy plastic squashed my hope and sunshine right through the little change slot where I slid my papers. I don’t think she even once looked up between barking at me for a second form of ID and scrawling illegibly and trying to get her pen to work all over my carefully prepared application.

Ninety dollars, please.

15 Stars. On a side note, have any of our readers been to Niagara Falls? Recommended trip or not?

Reviewed: Walnut Dining Table from Target

2008-01-31T11:45:00.000-08:00

First of all, I just want to say that Super Tuesday is next week so go and VOTE…for Obama.

Secondly, the Walnut Table from Target is a pretty sweet deal. I don’t know how many of our readers are in the market for home furnishings, but if you are you’ll find out soon enough that things get expensive. Did you know that dressers not made from MDF are upwards of 1000 bucks? I’ve run the gamut of furniture shopping; Room & Board, Crate & Barrel, Target, JC Penney, craigslist (although, someone told me a bedbugs story the other day and it totally freaked me out), the flea market on the corner and Pottery Barn. The trick is doing a little something called “mixing hi and lo” (this term may seem too fancy for your blood, but just think about it and you'll understand.) Not everything in your apartment needs to be super quality, so save some money and find some low cost items that can be paired with something expensive to look chic.

Recently I purchased this stunning, elegant table for $99. It got to my house in, like, two days, and it only took me about an hour to assemble (good ol’ alan wrenches!) It’s the perfect size for our short-on-space apartment, since if you’ve ever shopped for dining room tables you’ll see that most of them are gigantic…and 1 out of 3 people on craigslist spell it ‘dinning’. This one is only 47X30, making it easy to seat 4 and maybe 6 in a pinch if you all bumped knees and elbows (nevermind, that is a terrible idea.)

The table is just as good as it looks in the picture—nice dark stain, real wood, smooth surface, sturdy and simple. So far the top seems to be pretty scratch-happy. Yesterday all I did was set my cereal bowl down and it looks like a tiger attacked (a miniature one, with tiny claws.) It's definitely not good because we’ve had the table for a week and are continuing to eat hunched over our coffee table, but then again big deal. I don't want to be one of those people who obsesses about the condition of my furniture--it's too easy to end up with a plastic-covered couch and tennis balls on the legs of the chairs. Speaking of chairs, we found two vintage ones at a shop down the street for $30, which I'm going to repaint and recover the seats, and then added two chairs from C&B and now I'm kind of proud of myself for putting together a dining set.

88 Stars. Convenience, price and style factors still outweigh functionality in this case. I can always invest in patriotic placemats and plastic-coated floral tablecloths.

Reviewed: Looking Back

2008-01-25T10:01:00.000-08:00

I always get this way on the eve of finishing a big project—emotional, nostalgic, introspective, regretful—and most of my friends know to expect a round of e-mails asking, “remember when?” Currently the project I’m on now is the biggest project I’ve ever attempted to finish and the fact that I’m finishing it—that in some respects it is already done—is pretty mind-blowing. I’m in the emotional/nostalgic danger zone for sure, which is probably why the other night I had a pretty strange dream involving a kid from high school who has completely disappeared from my life, in fact probably disappeared the day after graduation and I have not thought of him since.

I’ve talked to a couple friends about this and they have both insisted that everyone is emotionally retarded in high school, that none of us ever knew what we were doing and can’t be blamed for the things we said or the actions we took. They are, of course, right. But it doesn’t help me in this state, feeling way more jerky and awful than I probably should.

Here’s what happened: we rode the same bus (yes, in high school before I got my driver’s license I occasionally still had to ride the bus home from school.) We rode the same bus and one day before he got off he shoved his Green Day Dookie CD at me and said, “I think you’ll like this. You can borrow it.” He was shy, like me. We were both shy, awkward.

A while later, when we both could drive, he stopped me in the hall and asked me to do something with him. I said I couldn’t because I was taking the ACT the next morning and had to wake up early. That night, while my dad was watching television in his underwear in the living room, the dog started barking and it was him, the kid from the bus, at my door. We stood awkwardly in the entryway of my house—I think we talked about Kurt Cobain—for about five minutes before I confirmed that no, I couldn’t go out. I wasn’t convinced that he actually liked me—it was new to me, to think that someone liked me. The next day he came to a basketball game that I was at (he never went to basketball games) and after the game he followed me and my friends for about one minute out of the parking lot in his truck. I, of course, being the emotionally immature brat that I was—and probably deep down totally scared of boys in general—told my friends he was stalking me, and relayed the entire story from the night before. We turned it into a game (stalker, high school girls love it) and laughed at him, and the next day when he left a note in my locker telling me that he wanted to get to know me better, I ignored it and ignored him.

The only reason I am obsessed with this now is because of the aforementioned emotional/regretful state of my brain in the aftermath of artistic exhaustion. But I can’t help but feel like the most awful brat alive, particularly because one of the only things I can specifically remember from the locker note was this line, “It took a lot for me to come out to your house…”

Does anyone else ever have those realizations? What do you do about them? There’s no way I would ever find this guy and say, “Hey, I’m sorry about that.” It would be totally crazy and he wouldn’t even care, or remember. But maybe it’s just enough for me to write down, right here, that I know I have done stupid things before and I regret them. I swear to god I’ve friggin’ matured.

6 Stars.

Reviewed: Epson Stylus CX6600

2008-01-24T10:59:00.001-08:00

Three years ago for Christmas Joe got me this 3-in-one copier/printer/scanner. The wrapped box was so big I practically had a nervous breakdown trying to guess what it was (the entire Criterion Collection on DVD? a pony?) I had just gotten a digital camera and the Epson came with photo paper so Christmas afternoon I printed off a bunch of pictures...which might have been the last time, since now I’ve forgotten how to do it (and not in a grandma can-you-set-the-clock-on-my-microwave kind of way, but a how-does-iPhoto-work-with-this-printer kind of way.

Anyway, this review might be a bit outdated because Epson probably doesn’t even sell this model anymore and I can't even really remember the last time I actually needed to print something (although it does give me pause when I buy something online and they're like "For Safety, Please Print a Copy of This Receipt" even though I know they are going to e-mail me a copy anyway. You never know!) But I’m posting my thoughts anyway, because I’m betting the corporate moneymongers at Epson haven’t changed one truly irritating feature: once the printer is out of ink, all functions shut down.

This means that even if you run out of Cyan or Magenta—colors that, otherwise, you can totally get by without refilling—not only can you not print, but you can’t scan either. The machine literally clams up and continuously flashes the “Refill Ink” sign until you get up, comb your hair and change out of pajamas, go down the street to the Office Depot and purchase the Epson ink cartridge for $15-20. Then about two days later you run out of Yellow. This annoying feature has kept me from scanning in some old photos like this:

And this:

And even this (staged photo):Wait a second...what was I talking about?

37 Stars.

Reviewed: Brown Faux Leather Open Top Media Storage from BB&B

2008-01-18T14:36:00.000-08:00

This week I’ve been engaging in one of my nerd-time hobbies, organizing my DVDs. I’ve been searching for a good media storage system for a while now, since my collection has outgrown this (see picture) old spinning shelf I got from one of my favorite friends, Tony. I’m reluctant to give it up—it has kind of been special to me, since it’s usually hard to find cool revolving pieces of furniture and I liked to sit in front of it when I was bored and twirl it around. Before my DVD’s, I’m pretty sure it used to house one of Tony’s roommate’s porn collection.

Anyway, I stopped by Bed, Bath & Beyond the other day and picked up one of these fake leather boxes. It was kind of annoying because the tag said it fit both VHS and DVD and I’m pretty sure they designed it that way on purpose, since the replica leather sides are about an inch and a half shorter than the height of a standard DVD. Seriously, who has videos anymore anyway? Grandmas who own The Mirror Has Two Faces and Because of Winn Dixie? It took me a long time to give up on VHS, but I’m young so I had to. I don’t yet have the luxury of living in the past.

The pleather box fits about 25 regular DVDs and I only bought one. I did that on purpose; it didn’t say how many it held on the tag--I sure as heck didn’t think I would fit all 60 or so of my DVDs in one small bogus leather box--but I just thought I would try one out first before investing in more. Probably a bad plan, because now I do want to invest in more and that just means I have to go back to BB&B.

56 Stars.

Fun Boss Movie Day: Atonement, Speechless

2008-01-16T08:07:00.000-08:00

Having finished the second major leg of a huge project I’ve been working on, yesterday I decided to become Fun Boss again and award myself a movie day. I went to the Regal at Union Square and whaddayaknow, got a free popcorn (which I realized had more to do with them getting rid of the stale afternoon popcorn than with me being lucky.) But I was lucky enough to be sitting behind the lady who answered her phone during the movie, in prime kicking distance (take that!) and finally winning one battle in my attempt to teach people not to be annoying in theaters. But I should probably say something about the actual movie, hm?

It was as gorgeous as The English Patient or The Thin Red Line. Full of deliciously repeating lines (“Come back to me”) and dialog exchanges that were sparce but full to brimming with subtext--especially the library scene, how two characters admit, I love you.

I love movies that make me want to move to the English countryside. I wanted to see it again the minute I walked out of the theater.

But as I was leaving, I inexplicably thought of a Geena Davis/Michael Keaton movie that I haven’t seen in ages. It has nothing to do with Atonement. I repeat, nothing. But guys, have you seen Speechless? If not, queue it up immediately. (I heart Michael Keaton.) It’s a rom-com about two speechwriters who work for opposing candidates/parties of a New Mexico senate race and fall in love during a shared bout of insomnia. Yeah, the ending gets a little cheesy, but lots of movies do. I recently caught Bird on a Wire the other day on HBO—come on, shootout at the zoo? Anyway, it is worth it alone just to see Christopher Reeve's hilarious performance.

90 stars.

Reviewed: Gossip Girl vs. The O.C.

2008-01-10T08:53:00.000-08:00

If you haven’t gotten it by now, here’s a confession: I love cheesy, melodramatic television and I fear I always will. The networks keep producing cheesier, more dramatic stuff every season and I eat it up (although I’m following Jace’s advice a la the WGA strike and resisting the urge to watch stand-in shows.) My goodness, I was practically salivating at the 2 hour premiere of One Tree Hill this week….which, by the way, was glorious (Nathan in a wheelchair! Brook on the red carpet! Lucas with a bestselling book! And only four years after graduation!)

But I did have that moment last night during Gossip Girl—the one where Blair is about to leave on a helicopter (to get to JFK? Wouldn’t it just be faster to take a limo? Enough with the excess, B) and Serena talks her out of it. They always gotta have those moments, don’t they, when you’re supposed to be tricked into thinking something dramatic is about to happen but you already know it won’t because someone is going to come in and save the day. Someone always saves the day.

That kind of stuff happened on The O.C. all the time, and considering both GG and OC are Josh Swartz and Stephanie Savage projects they’ve got a lot of similarities. Music and clothes (although New York style beats the West Coast), insightful teens and adventurous parents. Serena practically is Marissa; completely gorgeous and messed up, but generous and fair with a true heart of gold. I have love for both series, but I still think The O.C. was a superior show.

My beef with Gossip Girl is that it’s a little too much—the money and glamour and the fact that gosh darn, they give Brooklynites such a hard time. And I know he’s super rich and all, but why does Chuck get so easily served in every bar? For god’s sake, I’m 27 and people still give me a hard time sometimes (little girl face, erg.) Little brother Van der Woodsen can psychoanalyze Serena and solve the who-spread-the-rumor caper in less than 3 minutes and the show suddenly resolves.

I’m going to keep watching because that’s what I do, but I’m just saying. More stars to Marissa Cooper.

Reviewed: Pureology Hydrating Shampoo

2008-01-08T11:52:00.000-08:00

This morning I was in the shower thinking about reviewing razors (I had one of those winter WHOA leg hair moments) but I didn’t because I realized I had already done so, and because I was sickly thinking that, while it’s warm in New York right now, there are definitely some super freezing days in the future where I might want that extra layer. So instead, I looked to the line of scented bottles at the back of my shower.

Lots of girls are picky about their shampoo, probably because some pseudo-scientific commercial has done it’s misleading job and convinced us of its merits. I’m more of a sampler, mostly sticking to salon brands and whichever bottle is prettiest at Trade Secret. However, about 4 years ago my stylist started using Pureology in her salon and I have coveted the ridiculously expensive brand (about $25 a bottle) every since.

It’s supposed to be super healthy for your hair because it’s all sulfite-free and whatnot, but it also smells awesome and it’s a delicious purple color that reminds me of My Little Pony. Plus, I have to say that my hair, which is always difficult—dry and frizzy—has been somewhat behaving lately. It might be that awesome prayer I did the day I was really sick (ha!) but it might just be the shampoo. I’ve only made the plunge and bought one bottle so far, and now that this one is about out I’m sad because I’m currently on a budget (which always is so hard, especially knowing that these Frye boots are just out there, existing in this world.) I’ll probably just end up using the rest of the cheap bottle I buy for Joe and instruct him to use instead of mine (he has amazing hair and can handle generic Suave and no conditioner.)

89 Stars. Also, the conditioner smells like mint, and I imagine is kind of a nice wake-up in the shower.

Reviewed: Myself (Extended Version)

2008-01-04T11:43:00.000-08:00

I was thinking, why the heck should anyone take my word for it if they don’t even know who I am? Well, hmmm…You don’t know Lindsay Lohan either, do you, but American Apparel sold thousands of grey fleece hoodies when she blacked out and drunk drooled in one. But the point is, how am I ever going to sell you on Swiss Miss Hot Cocoa Mix or the entertainment value of One Tree Hill if you don’t trust me? Ergo, I compiled some tidbits.

1) As a kid my claim to fame was that I possibly had the largest personal VHS collection in town, including such gems like The Pest with John Leguizamo…or that I pronounced “breakfast” as “breaf-tast.” Either one.
2) I was disappointed that Hillary Clinton didn’t win the Iowa caucus last night but then I watched Obama’s victory speech and now I’m in love.
3) I think having a favorite color is stupid.
4) Tomatoes are the most excellent fruit.
5) I once spent an hour in Nerdland creating an alphabetical, cross-listed spreadsheet of my DVDs. (Crap, I wasn’t going to reveal that to anyone.)
6) My mother, in a moment of weakness that is hilarious upon reflection, broke down and called the 12 year-old me a dumbass. (I totally deserved it. My mom's awesome.)
7) I got a 27 on my ACT the second time. Wait, actually I think I got a 26.
8) Olive Garden is my favorite restaurant.

I just realized that I’m totally out of touch with anything other than pop culture, which is making my interactions with new people sort of odd. I can talk for an hour on the WGA strike, but stare dumbly when you ask me about the presidential election. This is mainly because of 1) Dr. Weil, whose 8 Weeks to Optimum Health recommends staying away from the stressors of local and national news, and 2) the Iraq War was getting more depressing than ever and the writing life is depressing enough. But apathy is kind of unfamiliar territory for me and I felt like I had accidentally killed a bunny the other day when I didn’t know anything about the Bhutto assassination. “Who’s Bhutto?” I said to Joe. Ugh, I know. I’m disgusting. In college I was the girl in the long batik skirt asking you to sign a postcard for endangered species. Now the most significant thing about politics I know is that Edwards has got a pretty f-ing good haircut.

Anyway, I’m totally undeserving of all the Christmas presents people bought me. Joe bought me this:
Or rather, he did after I exchanged what he bought me for this. I got him the DVD of Big Trouble in Little China. (Among other things, geez. The gulf of expense wasn’t that wide.) My grandma got me cute red leather gloves and a red knit scarf. My mom got me seasons 1 and 3 of 30 Rock and The Office, respectively. My aunt sewed for me the most amazing needlepoint. And my sister got me Marc Jacobs Daisy. I love the little gold pouch.I also got the stomach flu and cried and vomited and laid on the bathroom floor moaning, had to cancel my flight, decided not the put the $1000 change fee to go a day late on my credit card no matter how tempted I was, lost 4 pounds, couldn’t eat a real meal for a week, went to the Met to see the baroque Christmas tree and convinced Joe to leave with me before the lighting (I was weak from flu, and geez, it wasn’t even a REAL tree---come on, Met, get with it), was sad about zoo-kept tigers and the WGA strike, and accidentally killed the rosemary plant that I had brought inside for the winter and then forgot to water. And now I’ve created the longest post ever, entirely about me. Can you believe it?

Hmmm. 47 Stars? (Barely.)

P.S. #8 is a lie. Double ew.

Reviewed: Papermate Sharpwriter Pencils

2008-01-03T11:12:00.000-08:00

Of course it happens now that I’m to the revising process of my book--the pens and pencils stage--there are none in the house. It is moments like these that make me realize how attached I am to my Powerbook, and also how much things have changed. It’s like looking at the signature (circa 9th grade) on your social security card, the way each individual letter is formed in perfect cursive, and you realize that you’ll never go back to that ever because you can’t remember anymore how to write the cursive r.

So I’m going to the store this afternoon to pick up some Papermate Sharpwriter #2’s. Those are the plastic mechanical pencils with a twisty (instead of clicky) graphite dispenser. These guys are truly the masters of mechanical pencils, showcasing the same yellow color as the old school woods, but without the annoying scratchy thing that happens before you need a sharpen. Sharpwriters served me well throughout my education and I hope to continue utilizing them in the future, that is, until we start living in a paperless society and the government breaks down so that the police become on-the-spot judges and cities are contained within walled enclosures and cars fly and I’m totally looking to Sylvester Stallone because he’s had experience with this before.

84 Stars.

Reviewed: Beards

2007-12-20T09:03:00.000-08:00

Last week I met Murph’s new boyfriend for the first time. For some reason I started talking about how I am jealous of men because they can grow facial hair, and now I’m a little worried about the impression I made. I mean, it’s not as if he didn’t know about my crazies (Murph had to inform him of my fear of going to new people’s houses [it gets so claustrophobic]) but this time, after half a vodka tonic, I think I was a little too adamantly sincere.

But beards are cool, so I am kind of jealous. Men are so lucky! It’s like expressing your personal style—on your face! It’s not like I’m going to go out and take some hormones or something, but I’m just saying if women had the ability to grow beards naturally and it was socially acceptable--if not applauded--to do so then I would totally do it. Even just to have the option of growing a beard seems more free. So we all agree it’s completely unfair. Periods, breast cancer, date rape, FGM; women always get shafted.

Now I’m going to list some of my favorite beards: Aragorn, Ryan Gosling, Al Gore, Casey Siemaszko in Young Guns, John Goodman, John Lennon, Lincoln, Dumbledore…hm, I’ll probably think of some more later.

66 Stars.

Reviewed: Christmas Gifts for Mom and Dad

2007-12-19T10:08:00.001-08:00

It’s a pretty safe bet that my parents don’t read this blog considering they don’t even have internet in their house (which, come on, is practically sacrelig in 2007 even though it probably has more to do with cheapness than being unconnected to the modern world [which I also feel safe saying, since that’s where cheapness gets you!]) so I can totally review the amazing presents I bought for them this year.

Joe always makes fun of me because I usually pick out presents that I would want and then give them to other people, which is to say I’m not a very good gift-giver (ahem, the homemade pillows of 2003, that coconut purse I got Tesch for her birthday.) Anyway, this year I feel is going to be completely different. I’ve spent the last 11 months writing my novel and the first three of those months following Robert Olen Butler’s method of exploring the unconscious and I think, somehow, that advice allowed me to transcend my fallbacks and get things people would really enjoy.

My dad always comes home from work and empties out his pockets, and since he’s a blue-collar-my-pockets-are-my-office kind of guy that means the kitchen counter becomes the repository for loose change, keys, folded up invoices and reminders and receipts, keys, nuts and bolts, keys, (he has a lot of keys), etc. I figured, wouldn’t it be nice if he had a super posh place to put all that junk? Here’s what Dad’s getting:(This picture is the Pottery Barn version, which is prettier, but I ended up getting my Pops the one from redenvelope.com because they have a larger version.)

My mom loves to take baths. Nothing too exquisite; just hot water and body wash and a clean wash cloth. She takes the best baths out of anyone I know—the simplicity is the secret—and she makes them look so good I’m sometimes tempted to slip in the water right after she gets out (she’s my mom, it’s not gross!) So I went to Macy’s and got these fantastic soft, organic cotton towels in an oatmeal-y, natural color (the Haven by Hotel towels in Rice.) The edging is kind of rustic and luxe at the same time. Mmmm…I think she is going to really like them.
I did a good job, didn’t I? I think I did. 88 Stars.

Reviewed: American Airlines

2007-12-07T08:44:00.000-08:00

Joe and I flew AA last weekend down to Miami for our short trip to Key West. I’m one of those people that hate to fly. Not because I’m scared of crashing, but because the cram-‘em-in style of air travel really terrifies me. I’m little bit claustrophobic and it’s hard for me to handle the slim amount of space between rows, the tall and imposing seat backs, and the way there are like 30-50 people--some big, some tall, some smelly or coughy or sniffy or broad shouldered and you know they are the trampling kind--between you and the tiny little door so far away and hidden at the front.

But with American Airlines, even the little things about air travel that make it somewhat bearable are absent. The biggest one being, no snacks. If you want a snack you have to buy one for $3-5, and they only sell one kind of candy bar (3 Musketeers), one kind of chip (Pringles), trail mix or a ginger cookie. With the exception of Pringles (maybe) all selections are things you’d find in the back of the cabinet at your grandma’s house.

The flight attendants are kind of jerky and the planes are kind of junky. Considering kayak and orbitz make airlines pretty competitive these days, I think I probably won’t be buying American.

26 Stars. Twinges of nostalgia over the fact that my grandma used to always fly American (or TWA) when she came to visit us, presents in her carry-on bag. On her way home we would watch out the window from the gate as she climbed up the stairs onto the plane, then wave as the plane taxied down the runway. Old school airport, Peoria, Illinois, circa 1980’s.

Reviewed: Ayelet Waldman writes about Christmas for BAZAAR Magazine, says there's no Santa

2007-12-05T12:03:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been one to be concerned with any of the debates that come around this time of year, not Bill O’Reilly’s so-called war on Christmas or all the Jesus is the Reason for the Season hoopla. I’m not religious and I enjoy the holidays mostly because of the existence of Santa Claus.

So that’s why I was a little miffed after reading what Ayelet Waldman, spouse of novelist Michael Chabon, had to say about Santa to her daughter, Sophie, in this month’s Bazaar magazine:

“…the mother of my then-four-year-old daughter’s best friend called to request that I tell Sophie that there was, in fact, a Santa Claus [so as not to spoil the holiday for her daughter]….
Not on your life. I told Sophie, as I have since told her younger siblings, that there is no such thing as Santa Claus, that he is a character in a story just like Willy Wonka or Amelia Bedelia. I further instruct them that their Christian friends are sweet but gullible, and out of respect for their limitations, we should all work hard to sustain their delusions for as long as possible.”

Dude!

Too bad for me, I guess, since I was one of those gullible, limited, deluded kids (and sometimes think I still am.) Heck, I still get a kick when the news anchor announces Santa sightings on Christmas Eve. Santa is kind of like my hero; he eats tons of cookies, gives away hundreds of presents, and sticks it to all the meanies with a lump of coal. How awesome is that?

If believing in Santa Claus is an example of my limitations that’s the least I have to worry about. I’m reveling in my delusions.

3 Stars. One year I even convinced myself I saw sleigh marks in the snow. Anyway, if you want to talk about gullible, Murph thought the ending of Alpha Dog had an interview with the real Susan Markowitz when it was really just Sharon Stone in a fat suit.

Reviewed: Sadness

2007-11-26T15:02:00.000-08:00

I’m sad.

Maybe it’s the WGA strike. Maybe it’s the approaching winter. Maybe I'm not eating enough chocolate. But something has signaled the blues and I don’t know what it is, although if I thought about it in depth I could probably figure it out. (I’m halfway through writing the last chapter of my book? Eek!) And now, after spending the last year alone at my computer every single day, dedicated to figuring out the lives of these fictional people I created, I’ve realized that a large majority of my real friends have flown the coop. Oops. It’s lonely work, writing. It’s lonely, soul-crushing work…

…and then Sydney Pollack decided in 1973 that’s how The Way We Were was going to end. I wish someone would explain it to me—Hubbell just abandons his daughter? And everyone is okay with this? I guess the good looks of Robert Redford in the 70’s carries the same amount of redeeming power as Oprah's likability in the ought’s.

0 Stars. Even the scene on the boat--when J.J. says to Hubbell, "It's not like losing somebody. Like losing Katie" and you just want to fling yourself dramatically on the couch, smiling and crying because it's just so happy and sad--doesn't make up for that ending. How come Katie's got to lose 70's Robert Redford? I'll never get over it.

Reviewed: Guitar Hero on Gossip Girl

2007-11-15T10:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve never actually played Guitar Hero, but I’ve heard things. Even though in fifth grade my nickname was Nintendo Nut, I have never actually owned a game system (we occasionally got to rent one from Stars & Stripes, and I played Super Mario with my sisters at the Laundromat about once a week.) Last night’s episode of Gossip Girl featured Blake Lively strumming, dancing, swinging her gorgeous blond hair around, making "rock star" faces, singing along without knowing the words and color-coded button-pushing her way to a Guitar Hero "Freebird" performance that ended with all the party guests cheering at how cool she was. It was weird. I felt really embarrassed just watching it.

For the past couple weeks they’ve been setting up a tension between Serena Van der Wootsen (Lively) and her boyfriend--Dan’s--best friend, the exotically beautiful Vanessa. Last night it finally played out when the two girls challenged one another to reign over the (Wii/Playstation/X-Box?—I have no idea) video game at Blair’s party. They took turns brandishing the plastic guitar in front of all the other cool kids.

Which means, the cool kids play Guitar Hero.

I always thought the cool kids were too, well, cool to play video games in front of each other on a Saturday night.

3 Stars. I don't know, it just seems like the scene didn’t play.

Reviewed: Tazo White Cranberry Juice

2007-11-07T10:54:00.000-08:00

It’s juice and it’s white tea, and other than that it’s just really really really good. (Sorry, I’ve got nothin’.)

100 Stars!

Reviewed: Tell Me You Love Me

2007-11-07T10:49:00.000-08:00

People have been ragging on HBO’s freshman series for being boring, and originally I thought so, too. I basically just TiVo-ed it and then fast forwarded to all the sex parts (which are quite graphic and pretty steamy.) But I couldn’t help but pick up on the basic plots, which are contained within each of four separate couples; some who are breaking up, some who are coming together, and some who are trying figure out which they should do. The couples are connected by very, very loose threads, or even, sometimes just chance encounters, and for most of the season have had little to do with one another (besides the fact that, save one couple, they all have frequent sex that is given significant screen time, whether or not it applies to their story line.)

Last night I watched the season finale, and there was one scene that just totally astounded me. It was one of those rare moments when two members of the separate couples meet one another. Palek (who has just left his pregnant wife because he does not think he can be both a good father and good husband) and Dave (whose wife seems to be considering leaving him because they have not had sex in over a year) end up meeting over a construction disagreement, Palek being the contractor with a shipment of the wrong I-beams and Dave being the representative for the steel company who shows up to deal with the problem.

The interaction quickly escalates to a screaming match between the two men who are strangers to one another, and we, the audience, knows there is something bigger at work here, something going on in both of their respective lives that fuels the anger issuing forth. To an innocent observer it would look like two hotheads on the street, something to watch with bored amusement on your way to work, but HBO has quietly given us the inside perspective, the key to what unlocks each of their buttons, makes them react the way they do, and it is a moment that is poetic in its direction. The scene lasts just a couple minutes.

80 Stars.

Fun Boss Movie Day: The Fast & the Furious 3

2007-11-01T14:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday during a depressive funk I watched the second half of the Fast & Furious: Tokyo Drift (after the embarrassing-to-admit hour I spent on youtube watching kutegirl85 and others' compiled clips of, in their opinion, the best movie kisses of all time. For the record, Titanic is totally overrepresented.) Curiously, all of a sudden I felt a desire for two things I have never wanted before in my entire life: 1) a street-style racecar, and 2) a gun. It was like being an entirely different person. An enlightened person.

Also, this new, enlightened person had a little crush on one of the actors. Not the main character, not Little Bow Wow, not the bad guy, but the bad guy’s sort-of friend, the guy who dies near the end of the movie (…uh…spoiler alert.) I forget what his name was since I was mostly paying attention to his doll-like face and sweet Tokyo-drifting.

I kind of want to know if you can actually drive cars like this. And if cell phones work the way they do in this movie then I need to try and get one of those kind.

Reviewed: The Plumbers Talk To Each Other About Their Ass-Hair

2007-11-01T14:29:00.000-07:00

They both use a Mach 3. It’s the closest shave next to a straight razor.

49 Stars. I’m sorry but I have to rate high, just for the fact that they seemed to forget I was in the next room. Or maybe, this is Brooklyn. Or maybe, boys are gross.

Reviewed: E.L. Fudge

2007-10-24T13:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, one of the Jezebel’s said something about how after she stopped eating refined sugar her skin was transformed into something beautiful and glowing, and her efforts were finally justified by a study published by the British Journal of Dermatology. So I made the decision to quit sugar.

Then I realized I just couldn’t quit sugar when without a thought I slid a package of E.L. Fudge sandwich cookies into my basket at the grocery store three hours later. Cripes!

Joe asked me, incredulously, if I actually thought I was going to be able to quit sugar. He’s right. I’m the girl who used to say if I could only have one food to eat for the rest of my life I hoped it would be candy corn. Halloween is my favorite holiday. There are currently four different types of ice cream in my freezer. Crap!

Anyway, in my miserable failure today I ate four E.L. Fudge cookies only to discover on number four that one of those stupid elves had forgotten to squirt in the chocolate middle. Criminy!

Sugar headache.

44 Stars.

Reviewed: Burt’s Bees Almond Milk Hand Crème

2007-10-11T07:11:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, I’ve developed an unreasonable hatred of Burt’s Bees. Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s fortunate—who knows what time will tell? But the hatred is just like all my other unreasonable hatreds, a wide assortment that includes Perez Hilton, people that walk too close to you on the sidewalk, the smell of spearmint, Russell Crowe, and white men over 65.

I know there’s tons of good stuff about Burt’s Bees. They use all natural ingredients, fair labor, good business practices, etc. But their hand crème feels like sticky, messy crap on my hands. And the smell is just okay. One time a lady at a mall kiosk tried to peddle me an almond lotion that smelled better than this.

I’ve always thought of hand lotion as a delightful, decadent experience but this stuff sure takes the fun out of it. I’ve been suffering through just so I don’t feel like I got ripped off for $8; if you put it on at night and don’t touch anything, in the morning the stickiness is gone and your hand-skin is a little softer.

27 Stars. Come to think of it, Burt probably falls into that over 65 category, the damn bee-keeping bastard.

Reviewed: Life

2007-10-09T16:20:00.000-07:00

After work, I stopped by my house to pick up my computer so I could finish my homework at a nearby coffeehouse (I must say, I am not as impressed by the iced chai as everyone else seems to be). When I left my house, my roommate and his girlfriend had been there enjoying a sickeningly romantic dinner. When I returned home, they were no longer there.

However, something was sitting on our kitchen counter, by the microwave just inside the door. That something was a glow-in-the-dark condom. I immediately thought to myself, sick! Then I thought about it a little longer. It was still wrapped, so it wasn't like it had been used. And, as previously mentioned, it was glow-in-the-dark which is as hilarious as the flavored or colored ones my friends and I used to buy from gas station bathrooms for a quarter. Remembering those days of childhood antics, leaving those condoms on friends' windshields, I thought how can I use this against him in some sort of practical joke? Should I blow it up and tape it to his door? Should I have sex on his bed with someone and use it? Or should I act like a mature adult and do nothing?

73 stars: I finally decided to hide it in his hint of lime Tostitos bag. I really hope I am there when he finds it, so I can feign no knowledge of how it got there.

Reviewed: Getting out of the shower, squeegee-style

2007-10-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

Squeegee-style is when, after showering, in that moment before you step out of the shower, you form your hands into flat panels and run them quickly against your body in a downward motion, essentially scraping away most of the water before reaching for your towel. This is Joe’s preferred method of beginning the drying process (he thinks he’s validated because the main character in a Nicholson Baker novel does the same thing.)

Maybe it’s just one of those things I don’t get because I’m not a man. My body has more curves, making the quick downward motion difficult. It seems kind of comparable to the differences in shaving between men and women. Besides for the knees, women have a pretty easy task in shaving their legs. Heck, I can probably shave my legs in less than 2 minutes. But men have a tougher time shaving their faces, owing to the angles and curves of their features.

So, I don’t know, maybe my review of this process is unfair, like a man reviewing tampons, but at least I’m making room for that possibility. For the ladies, however, the squeegee just doesn’t cut it.

6 stars.

Reviewed: Bret picks Jes

2007-10-03T08:08:00.000-07:00

I know I was all advocating Heather last week, but even I was totally touched when Bret Michaels picked Jes to be his rock of love on VH1. It’s like, even when I am on a side I don’t usually find myself on (like majorly loving the Colin Farrell version of Miami Vice) my better judgment tries to make its way through. And besides, Heather is way better off. A tattoo of a guy you aren’t actually with is so much more rock & roll. I’ve been debating it myself for years.

40 Stars.

Reviewed: Life

2007-10-02T19:28:00.000-07:00

Last night when he went to brush his teeth, Joe opened the bathroom cabinet (ever since that Dateline that showed how far germs travel when you flush the toilet I keep the toothbrush cup behind a closed door) and my toothbrush fell out of the cup and on to the floor. He quickly picked it up and dropped it back into the cup.

Whoa, I said, standing behind him.

He claimed it was the 5 second rule, which I said was bullshit, which he said he had seen on Mythbusters, which I said yeah they busted that one, which he said no they confirmed it.

2 Stars. New toothbrush question: is Crest's tongue scraper worth the extra dollar?

The Dregs of TV Reviewed: General Hospital

2007-10-01T06:34:00.000-07:00

I’m an angst junkie. Unrequited love--even if it’s a Lifetime movie starring Ian Ziering from Beverly Hills 90210 or Pacey Witter—and I’m a total goner. I’m a sucker for human drama, which is why I recently started TiVo-ing General Hospital against my better judgement.

I’ve gotten all tangled up in two simultaneous love stories—Jason and Liz (who fans call Liason), and Lulu and Spinelli (who I’m going to call Spinulu.) But Liason is the real story. I don’t know if their exchanged looks could get more tortuous. They love each other, but are kept apart because of secrets and lies and the danger of his job (hitman for the local crime boss) plus her marriage to the man who believes he is the father of her son (he’s not, Jason is.) I can’t wait until they get together, even though I know today’s episode is just going to end with another stare-at-me-while-I-stare-at-you cliffhanger. I mean, come on, he’s saved her from kidnapping, being trapped inside an exploding crypt, near death from pre-term labor, a hostage situation and a precariously lodged elevator in the aftermath of a bomb.

This stuff is intense. This is human drama in its purest form. This is the way our lives would be if we weren’t so boring.

39 Stars. Steve Burton, I rented The Last Castle because of you, and I wish it had been better.

Reviewed: Bic Comfort Twin Disposable Razors

2007-09-28T08:37:00.000-07:00

So I never got all the Venus hype. I guess I don’t take the time to enjoy the act of shaving my legs. I would shave with the edge of a rusty knife if it was fast and got the job done. And then there was my activist phase in college when I went a year without shaving (once it gets really long, girl leg hair is actually super soft.) Anyway, I used my sister’s Venus once when I took a shower at her apartment and it was no big deal.

Which is why I say spend the same amount of money that you do on one razor for a whole bag of Bic Comfort Twins instead. Yeah, there are other disposable razors out there that might even be cheaper than that, but Bic Twin’s are the only ones that don’t look like your grandma’s house (I mean, you’ve got to be kidding me with those awful pink ones that are either from the 1970’s or made from the same plastic as hospital vomit catchers.) Plus, instead of having like 9 blades on there and being way to bulky to shave the delicate angles of your…nether regions…the Bics have a sleeker head that can really get in the nooks and cranies (hey, if you can’t stand the heat get out of the kitchen.) Then, when the razorhead gets invariably clogged up with pubic hair and soap, just throw the sucker away and replace it with a new one from your bag o’ 8. There’s nothing worse than slicing open your finger trying to clean pubes out of your Venus.

79 Stars. This review is disgustingly erotic.

Reviewed: Friday Night Lights on DVD

2007-09-27T09:21:00.000-07:00

Breakthrough: I only watch television shows that have a hot guy. Murph and I were discussing it this morning and I tried to defend myself, tried to come up with an example to disprove the theory (America’s Next Top Model? Nigel Barker…dammit) but to no avail. I had no idea I was this shallow.

That brings me to Friday Night Lights, which probably has one of the hottest guys on primetime TV. (Taylor Kitsch, far left.) But even so, I’ve watched all the other scenes that he’s not in and it’s still good. I didn't watch it while it was actually on last fall because typically I'm not interested in anything involving high school football (probably leftover high school nerd hostilities) but I have to say after watching the complete first season that I’ve gotten hooked. The show isn’t just about football; the story lines aren’t all necessarily connected to football (although they did do a steroids story that you could see coming a mile away—which is probably just a rite of passage for any high school sports drama.) Some of the most touching story lines are the smallest dramas--former playboy running back leaving the kegger to bring a leftover cupcake to his homebody new girlfriend, or the way one character pretends to be his grandfather singing Bing Crosby songs to get his Alzheimer afflicted grandma out of the closet.

And the hot guy is a former Abercrombie & Fitch model.

There are no big names in the cast, besides maybe Kyle Chandler who was made famous as the bomb guy on Grey’s Anatomy, but the actors are absolutely pitch perfect in their roles. I think a lot of the success of the workings of the show are due to the camera style, which is kind of faux documentary (think Bourne Identity) and the amazing small-town details that really sucker-punch someone like me.

[Wait, I just thought of one. Kid Nation! Except….Greg? No, that’s just sick.]

Often the moving story lines are broken up with “out the window” footage of the sleepy little town--the Dairy Queen and bowling alley, an empty parking lot and the farm supply store with an old fashioned roadside sign reading “Go Panthers.” It’s classic small town, what you would see driving around out there in these places time has forgot, with no one on the street (no one walks anywhere in small towns) and weeds growing up through the sidewalks. This is it, the meat at the heart of this series, and ultimately, what I think makes it worth it.

And the hot guy.

100 Stars.

Reviewed: Buying Knocked Up on DVD at Midnight

2007-09-25T09:33:00.000-07:00

I missed this summer's biggest blockbuster because the Cosmos hates me. It never came to the theater in my town (or, village) and I subsequently never had the time to drive 30 minutes to the nearest theater one town (village) over to see it. Then there was that trip I took to Maine. We decided to take the ferry into Portland to watch it. Only we didn't look up the playing times, so we were 2 hours early. It was really hot and we didn't want to walk around, so we just went home.

In order to combat all this Hated by the Universe nonsense, I rushed out to get it the minute a Wal-Mart employee put it on a shelf. Only I didn't realize Halo 700 came out the same night. Wal-Mart was swarming with clichés. Zitty kids in over-sized sweatshirts and baggy jeans buying cases of Mountain Dew and Doritos. I had to stand in line for over half an hour as the lady checked every kid’s ID. I don't know if you have to be 18 for Halo, but apparently you do for Knocked Up. Trust me, Cashier I Used To Go To High School With Also Known As Amy, I am well over 18 just like you.

85 stars. I don't know whether to subtract stars or add stars for the deceptive packaging. I couldn't find any widescreen editions other than the ones wrapped with Accepted, so I got both for the unbelievable rolled back price of $19.94.

Reviewed: Secret Clinical deodorant

2007-09-21T12:45:00.001-07:00

I don't glow, I don't glisten, I don't do whatever pretty word you want to attach to a woman. I sweat. It is the middle of summer; it is the middle of winter: there is wetness under my arms. I have tried several different deodorants over the years from Teen Spirit to Adidas (come on, get serious, you guys make athletic equipment). That's why I was so excited for Secret's clinical strength formula. You think talking to your doctor about problems with backne is weird, try mustering up the courage to talk about the gallons of liquid that seep from your pores on a daily basis. That sentence was sick to write, I can't imagine what it is like to read. Secret Clinical was one of the biggest let-downs of my life, right up there with realizing I am the only one of my friends not to have found a career, a long-term relationship, or a house. Maybe it's because I can't seem to get my hygiene under control.

5 stars: I guess it is time to rethink botox.

Reviewed: Gym TV

2007-09-19T14:44:00.000-07:00

Today was the best day I have ever had at the gym because for the first time I watched “Rock of Love with Bret Michaels.” Here’s the thing: Gym-tv is somehow better than normal-tv, and everyone knows how much I love normal-tv. You get to watch stuff you would normally never watch and you don’t have to feel guilty for watching it because you’re improving your general health and well being at the same time.

If I hadn’t flipped to this crazy love competition on VH-1 today I probably would never have watched it on normal-tv and, as such, I never would have heard the best quote I’ve ever heard on a reality show: “Karma’s a bitch. So are you.”

I almost laughed out loud in the middle of my fourteen-minute Level 0 elliptical hill (more than that is really, really tiring!) Man, it was awesome. I even looked around to see if anyone else was watching on their little gym-tv’s, but no one was. One girl on a stationary bike was watching the movie JFK. I happened to look over at her gym-tv just at the part where someone is sticking their latex-ed finger in a bullet hole and rooting around. Gross.

65 Stars. (Rock of Love? 92 Stars. Pick Heather, Bret! She got your name tattooed on her neck! It’s so real. Real love. So, so real.)

Reviewed: Shiseido Shimmering Lipstick

2007-09-19T09:56:00.000-07:00

I probably shouldn’t even be reviewing this because I told numerous people I wasn't going to spend any money on extraneous purchases after the Macy's bill debacle of July. And it wasn’t even like the saleswoman was that persuasive; she kind of stuttered when she told me it looked beautiful against my skin. But I had seen the lipstick on a bunch of professionally pretty models in Nylon magazine and wanted it ever since. That’s saying a lot for me; I usually hate lipstick.

The thing about the Shiseido is that it feels more like a sheer gloss--really lightweight. I don’t care what the salesgirl forcedly said, because I kind of do think that it made my lips look pretty, or at least prettier than they looked without it. (“Beauty, right? That’s what American woman want. Ha ha ha,” she said.) Yeah, it’s shimmery, but not glittery. There’s a difference. I mean, look at this (and “this” would be a link if only I wasn’t too lazy to scan the pages of those gorgeous aforementioned Nylon models.) The case is so non-grandma-like it almost makes it worth it completely by itself. The case is something you want in your bag. It says “This is Shiseido, bitch.”

72 Stars. Or, “This is [insert your name here], bitch.” But this time you're really back. This time, you've got it going on.