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  • Friday, August 22, 2008

    ding dong!

    A while ago, I saw something on television.

    I guess on the heels of “To Catch a Predator,” NBC decided to air a show where they tested kids that were home alone to see if they’d open the door for strangers. The parents sat in a van watching their kids on camera monitors down the street while saying things like, “Oh they’ll never, ever open the door.” “Nope, not my kids.”
    So NBC first sent the reporter as a electric company worker and a cable guy, then something else and none of it was working. That was the point when they decided to get real creative and they sent a puppy delivery man to the door. A man delivering a puppy.

    A
    puppy
    delivery
    man.

    Not only does that job not exist; it’s just unfair conduct by NBC.

    Everyone loves a puppy, and everyone loves a special delivery.
    “A package for ME” I see a delivery truck outside my window and bound down the stairs as fast as possible- usually taking a hard fall near the second to last step- and whip open the door. I quickly sign, grab the box from the person’s hands, and begin to shred the packaging like a ravenous weirdo to reveal the item I one hundred percent ordered myself (therefore, knowing exactly what’s inside) only to show it off to the deliveryman like a nine year old unwrapping presents on Christmas would.

    “HP Printer cartridges! Yeay!!! I got FOUR!”

    And puppies? Are you kidding me? Ultimate distraction. If you’ve seen me around any animal, let alone a dog, I am certifiably insane. Crazytown. And it’s out of my control. My voice changes, my demeanor changes, and I hate myself for the annoying fool I become when I see a dog. It’s pathetic. I could be trapped in a house fire but holding a puppy and therefore remain perfectly calm and happy while I slowly burn to death. Puppies are the ultimate.

    So if the grim reaper himself was on my doorstep with his red, glowing eyes, giant black robe, and scythe in one hand- if he had a puppy in the other, I’m going to open the door. “Oh my god! A puppy? For ME!? PUPPY!!!”

    And I’m 27.

    Let’s be honest. The parents watching from the van shouldn’t be disappointed in their kids for opening the door, they should be disappointed that NBC is giving child predators really good ideas for tricking their kids.

    Hey Predators! NBC here, you remember us? Candy and a van just not cutting it anymore for your predating needs? …try puppy delivery! Gets em everytime, see? We’ll show you the clips.

    Thanks, NBC. Their next expose is probably going to be on how to detect if the child you’re talking to online is actually a child or a cop. Good investigation. You’re a bunch of a-holes.

    Click on the link to see these idiots in action. It’s the first video on the page; the others are also pretty stupid. This reporter is a moron:

    Puppy Delivery Idiot.

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  • Monday, August 11, 2008

    thank god.

    I have an “I love Jesus” pendant on my keychain. Someone at work asked to borrow my keys, and after using them, awkwardly inquired if they were in fact, my keys.

    I sensed she had seen the pendant. Yes, I said. Don’t worry, I’m not going to invite you to some creepy youth group who goes out for ice cream and talks about their love for God’s miracles. It’s ironic.

    Not in a “23 year old with a mullet” or “young lady wearing an power suit to a dive bar” ironic way. And although that is the way in which many New Yorkers proclaim their surprisingly common fashion “ingenuity” on the streets of Brooklyn, my pendant comes from a real life experience based irony that stems from my earliest beginnings.

    I was forced to go to Sunday school for the first fifteen years of my human life. And when I say forced, I mean that my mother absolutely used physical force if necessary to get us to church. We HAD to go. No option. Seven am Sundays. Wake up and get moving. Church time.

    Sunday school took two solid hours from start to finish, and as I grew older I hated it with an exponentially increasing intensity. I actually never remember liking it. Cool kids from my school either never went, or only went on the special holidays when cookies and punch followed service. Even semi-cool kids weren’t Sunday school regulars. I was forced to be a regular along with my dorky, smiling, excitable, “let’s have a bible race,” Jesus loving classmates. Every week.

    “God will fix you right up,” my mother would say if she were to encounter one of her children who felt under the weather on a Sunday morning. “Get up, let’s go. You can pray you feel better when you get there.”

    “If you guys can’t go to church, then I guess I can’t pay for your ballet lessons. Do you know how much those cost? And you can’t even go to church once a week? Unbelievable, my children.”

    “No church today?” She’d ask my whining 8 year old self. “Then we won’t have Christmas. Okay, guys, Joselyn’s not getting any Christmas presents this year. I’ll call up Santa, since he won’t have to make a stop for the Hughes kids this year. Real nice.”

    My mother was hellbent on getting us to Sunday school and I never figured out why, I just knew she wasn’t messing around. My father somehow managed to drop out of his church duty at some point, and as we were ushered out to the car in our Sunday best, I would stare enviously at his freedom from Jesus and wish that I too, was a grown up who didn’t need Mom to pay for ballet lessons.

    When I was 15, I went through a confirmation year that included more church than anyone should ever have to attend. The Sunday morning they announced our names, presented us with gold crosses and bibles, and welcomed us into the church as members was one of the last times I’ve set foot in that place.

    While I’m not a devil worshipper and I don’t have beef with Christianity itself, I as sure as hell will never be attending church in the near future or force my children to, for that matter.

    And I’ll get an ironic keychain to remind myself that I don’t have to, dammit.

    Worst part about the whole thing- it’s not even Jesus’ fault. Turns out he was a pretty good guy.

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  • Monday, July 28, 2008

    she never wanted it. ever.

    I was out with my friend Chris and we ran into one of his friends on the street. They began talking about the previous evening, the party they attended, and the girl their mutual friend had taken home with him. All was pleasant until Chris’ friend uttered the sentence, “Well, good for him. That girl wanted it.”

    “That girl wanted it.”

    I’m pretty sure the minute you say that, there is good reason to investigate the possibility of you being a rapist or soon becoming a rapist. You can’t say a girl “wanted it.” You can’t say that, ever. It’s just bad and wrong.

    Chris and I talked about this. When is it okay to use that phrase? When?

    NEVER.

    Even if you were at a restaurant, the man is ordering, and he says, “Oh, and an extra order of fries. She wanted it,” as he points to his girlfriend- it’s still awkward. It doesn’t work. Guy goes over to friend’s house, criticizes his choice of wall paint, and his friend shrugs his shoulders and says, “Well, she wanted it!” Nope. Still weird. Even if a woman came up to you at a bar and said, “I want it.” You take her home, and you say to your roommate, “She wanted it. She said she wanted it!” Nope. Still bad. Still rape-y.

    Try it. Try thinking of a conversation where that phrase is okay. It doesn’t work. Ever. Was it ever okay? Probably not. And it never will be.

    So in case you’re reading this, and that is something you’ve said, knock it off. Or everyone will just assume you’re a rapist. She didn’t want it. She never wanted it. Gross.

    *PS. This blog motivated by total frustration with misogynist d-bags, like friend of friend above.

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  • Monday, July 28, 2008

    best nightmare.

    This guy^ I dated for three whole days came up with this hilarious concept of “best nightmare.”

    “Am I your best nightmare?” he’d ask, and I would laugh. He kind of was.

    Best nightmares, of course, being the opposite of worst ones. Best nightmares being scary, yet fun. You wake up from one and first feel frightened, but then you laugh it off because, after all, it wasn’t that bad. It is the best type of nightmare.

    Recently I’ve begun to actually have a reoccurring nightmare, and I’m starting to think that it is, in fact, my best nightmare to date.

    I am in Times Square, and everyone is foreign and taking pictures. I can’t find the subway. Out of nowhere, the pregnant man from Oprah and People magazine starts chasing me, screaming, “You’re next! You’re next!” and pointing to his man-baby belly while shoving handfuls of raw ground round into his face. He desperately wants to hug me and continues to chase me. He chases me into the suburbs and the only way I can escape is to hop into a waiting minivan full of screaming children and drive to a church where they are first marrying, then forcing the couples sing karaoke in front of the congregation. The couple in front of me is my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, and she turns to see me and pulls out a knife. The pregnant man then catches up and before the new girlfriend can stab me, she stabs the pregnant man right in his miracle man-baby.

    Then I wake up in Brooklyn, by my awesome dog who is adorable, and breathe a big sigh of relief. Except I still may be worried about the new girlfriend stabbing me; that is kind of a real fear. She hates me pretty bad, as I am to understand.

    I would rate that best for nightmares; I don’t know about you. But that’s pretty jam packed with subconscious meaning that’s both frightening AND hilarious. You’re welcome.

    I kind of miss my 3 day boyfriend and his silly concepts. But I guess I don’t miss our silly “early indicators that this relationship isn’t going to work” either.

    Too bad. He was one of the funniest.

    (^concept by “Zach” who I no longer talk to, but credit given where it is due. Which really isn’t credit because I’m calling him Zach, but he should have been named Zach because it fit him better than his real name. So I’m actually doing him a favor.

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