Life & Other Drugs

Brewing is the New Baking

October 13, 2014


It’s fall, and everyone wants to bake stuff. I can’t complain about the constant stream of cookies and pies, but I also think there’s something else everyone should be doing in the kitchen (spoiler: it’s not sex on the counter).

Brewing beer is just as easy as baking brownies.  In an hour you can make five gallons!  Better yet, there are only three ingredients besides besides water: hops, malt, and yeast. The actual brewing procedure is pretty much exactly like making soup: done on the stove in a giant pot. It’s even easier than making soup, though, because you don’t have to cut anything up. After the soup stage, you pour it into a bucket and leave it alone for three weeks. During this time, the yeast transforms the brew from sludge that tastes like leaves into beer.  Yes, people get fancy with the equipment and the ingredients, but all you really need is a bucket with an airlock.

I acquired my knowledge of brewing in high school. I bought Home Brewing for Dummies on a whim, and it taught me the basics. Lesson one: sanitize everything thoroughly before you start; bacteria can make your beer taste terrible. The good news on this score was that no matter how badly I botched the process, the beer wouldn’t be poisonous. Reassured that I wouldn’t kill myself by accident, I set out to buy the supplies. There were a few issues here: the nearest brewing supply store was a half hour drive from my house, and I didn’t have my driver’s license yet (lol).  I would have to order the supplies online, but my bank account was still attached to my parents’–they could see all my transactions. I bypassed this problem by buying Visa gift cards with my lunch money and using them to order the goods. I shipped the order to a friend’s house so my mom couldn’t intercept it. When everything arrived, I picked it up while my parents were out to dinner and stashed it in the basement, where the heaps of clutter would camouflage it. After that, I waited for an open house.

My moment finally came months later when my parents went away for the weekend. With my little brother serving as my assistant, I sanitized everything with bleach. Then, I poured the water, hops, and malt extract into our biggest pot, fired up the stove, and started stirring.

Our biggest pot wasn’t big enough. Within minutes the brew threatened to boil over. Standing over the stove, stirring frantically, I shouted orders to my brother, who ran back and forth getting more bowls to pour off some of the mixture. A very stressful half hour and an enormous, sticky mess later, we poured the brew into the bucket, sprinkled the yeast on, sealed it, and hid it back in the basement.

A month or so later, my friends and I set out to drink the beer on a friday afternoon. I had to use it all at once, because I had no bottling system. I’ll spare you the details, but it was delicious and approximately 10% alcohol.  I’d recommend the experience to everyone.

Tl;dr: Brewing is the new baking. I’m calling it.

Life & Other Drugs, Listicles

5 People Who Are Allowed to Punch Me in the Face

October 13, 2014

“I want Beyoncé to punch me in the face,” my friend declared. I hesitated, waiting to see if she meant to say something else instead. When the silence became palpably awkward, I finally asked, “Erin, are you serious?” She was dead serious.

Her belief: It hurts so much to look at [fill in desired celebrity here] that she would rather be punched, which would hurt less than looking. Also, if you had any chance to interact with [celebrity you previously mentioned], wouldn’t it be awesome to say that he/she punched you in the face? Like at parties, you would be the center of attention if you said Beyoncé punched you square between the eyes.

After her intensive explanation, it all made sense to me. Yes, I would want Beyonce to punch me in the face. In fact, I compiled a list of 5 people with whom I would love to get some fist to face contact!

5. Blue Ivy

It would be an honor to be punched in the face by the world’s most famous baby (sorry North, sorry Prince George). She’s two years old and as her mother would say, she is “**flawless.” She makes me want to trade my jeans for diapers. When I was two, it was a miracle that I was potty trained. That’s no struggle for Blue Ivy. She had to keep her shit together when she graced the stage at the VMAs. She makes me reconsider the progress I have made in my 19 years of life. I repeat: she is two and more accomplished than I could EVER hope to be.

4. Taylor Hatala

If you don’t know about this girl yet, you have been A) living under a rock, B) spending way too much time on Netflix (I get this, you need to catch up on Scandal) but C) you need to watch this video now. She too is a youngin’. 11 years old! Ugh, and she’s already been on Ellen! If I didn’t quit dance after a year of jazz and ballet in 1st grade, I could have been “krumping” on national TV, too. It would be a privilege if she tossed a punch mid dance and it happened to come in contact with my face. Never stop dancing, Taylor. I need more videos to watch for procrastination purposes.

3. Angelica Pickles

Yes, I am aware that she is a cartoon character from the beloved “Rugrats.” But, Angelica is THE ORIGINAL BAD BITCH. We all loved to hate her. She terrified me. I believed everything she said. Like when she said that if you ate watermelon seeds, a watermelon would grow in your stomach, I avoided seeds like I avoided cracks on the sidewalk. She was just so damn convincing. So Angelica, take a shot at my face. Cynthia can help too. (Ed. note: She’s a really cool dancer.)

2. Hilary Clinton

She is the definition of fierce. I would elect her president of the “Bad Bitch Club.” Fun fact: I met her when I was two — take that Blue Ivy! However, she held me and did not punch me. She knows where to draw the line. Her dedication, passion, and awesomeness as a person in general are just a few of the attributes that make her an amazing role model. I would need to mentally prepare for this punch. I have a feeling she would definitely leave a mark.

1. Mindy Kaling

ALL HAIL! The reason she is the number one spot is because I know Mindy would show up wearing a hot pink velour sweat suit bedazzled to the max for the purpose of punching me in the face. She would probably train for this punch, knowing she had one shot. She’s also the number one spot because we both constantly struggle with our love for food and our hate for the gym. I aspire to be like Mindy. I can only hope for the day when Mindy writes a list of five people who are allowed to punch her in the face, with my name in the number one spot. That’s when I’ll know I’ve made it.

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It's a Girl Thing, Life & Other Drugs, Love & Romance

You Make Me Feel Like I’m Living A Teen Mom Dream

October 11, 2014


The first time I had a pregnancy dream, I was in eighth grade. It went down like this: I was sitting on the field outside of my middle school, and my stomach was beach ball-ish. I was on top of a blanket, wearing a white dress. It was springtime, and it was very bright outside, and there were flower petals EVERYWHERE. Like, in the sky, on the ground, in my hair… just imagine a Free People maternity ad.

I was **glowing**, like all beautifully pregnant women do. I knew who the father was because he was sitting right next to me, also **glowing**. He was this guy in my grade at school who was really shy, but really hot. He was every girl’s secret obsession and fantasy; he was the guy who always came up in “what if” and “would you?” conversations. After I woke up and continued on with the rest of my life, never forgetting that time I was pregnant and angelic, I flirted with him a little, but not significantly. I had a warm spot for him: he was, after all, the first boy I ever had a pregnancy dream with. However, I held him at an arm’s reach: I never let the crush burn the insides of my soul because, just like every other girl did, I made him an “almost” and left it at that.

After that one, the dreams started coming in truckloads. Unfortunately, they are almost never as peaceful but always as vivid. Now, they reflect boring and stressful things like real life and real relationships and the fact that somewhere out there, there is a girl exactly my age with her vag at “10 centimeters! 10 centimeters!” filmed for an MTV reality show.

The dreams aren’t anxiety inducing because I think I’m pregnant or even because I think I’m going to get pregnant. Pregnancy, it seems, is just my dream drug of choice. When I’m on it — or in it?… doing it? — I see other things about my life more clearly. In general, my nightly dreams are so vivid that I could wake up the next morning and spend twenty minutes recounting them to you. So consider that, and then consider how scarring a pregnancy dream might be, and then imagine how vivid those are. Like, you don’t forget going through fake labor. You just don’t.

My most recent pregnancy dream, which happened last week, was on the scarier side. And by scarier, I mean I woke up sweating with an increased heart beat that even the most flamboyant SoulCycle instructor can’t bring on.

In this one, I had already given birth, and the baby was a newborn. Yes, these post-preg dreams happen regularly, too. The father of the baby was an ex (sometimes, I don’t know who the father is, which is super scandalous and exciting) but he was totally MIA, AWOL, TTYL, PCE, C YA, ETC. I was in the baby’s room, holding the baby, and kvetching (see the Everyday Yiddish Dictionary for People of All Faiths if you need translation) about “WHERE THE F*** IS HE!!!!” I put the baby down and disappeared into another part of the dream where I think I may have been in a water park, not quite sure though. Then a week went by, and I’m like “Holy shit, I just remembered that I have a baby,” and I went back to the baby’s room to take care of it. It was in the fetal position, had somehow grown to be a very skinny toddler, and was trying to get milk out of a cat bowl. Is that what you call the things cats drink out of? A cat bowl?

I started freaking out because I felt like the worst mother ever so I picked it up to breastfeed it. I think it was a she, BTW. So now I’m pacing, breastfeeding this baby that was visibly mad at me (again, how that was, I don’t know) and crying to my mom that I’m going to need to give the baby away because I couldn’t do it alone and Whathisface wasn’t around to help me. It was like the climax of a perfect Teen Mom episode where she’s like “Yeah, you know what? I finally realize I’m a fucking idiot for thinking I had the ability to take care of a child before I’m old enough to vote.” Then, I walked with the baby into the kitchen, whilst breastfeeding (this I’ve never done in a dream world or in real world before) and the baby was so mad at me that she jumped out of my arms and onto the floor where she kind of became a cat and drank milk from another cat bowl because I was THAT BAD OF A TEEN MOM.

So what did I learn about my life from this? About my inner subconscious? It meant that I probably shouldn’t see my ex, because I know that he won’t change, and that the relationship isn’t going anywhere. And I shouldn’t have makeup sex with him either, because that will only lead to bad things as well. Maybe not babies, but it won’t help me move forward. It’ll set me back. It represented the expectation I have for myself to be old and responsible, yet at the same time, I’m admitting a certain defeat that I never have before. Yes, Mom is always right about everything.

In the end, I don’t think the breastfeeding represented anything too significant. Disappointing, because that was one of the most engaging parts. Oh, well.

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Badass of the Week: Jennifer Lawrence

October 10, 2014


As most of you know, Jennifer Lawrence is our resident badass in the celebrity world. Unfortunately, even badasses fall victim to scandal.

Several nude photographs that Lawrence sent to her then long-distance boyfriend were leaked on August 31st. First time that’s ever happened huh?! Okay, not quite. But her reaction to the leak? Definitely the first time THAT’S ever happened.

Instead of sulking in silence and humiliation or publicly apologizing for her private life (which is totally beyond me), Lawrence released a shameless, powerful and f***king furious statement that appeared digitally on the cover of Vanity Fair on October 8th. It’s like she’s actually Katniss Everdeen in a flaming red dress! The real and the imaginary just might be one and the same…

Lawrence, unlike the myriad other female actresses who’ve suffered similar privacy violations — from Blake Lively to Mary-Kate Olson to Vanessa Hudgens — neither denied the pictures were of her nor asked for public support. She came out alone, uninhibited, and self-aware. And, she’s only 24. Props Jen, props. In her statement, she called the leak a “sex offense,” which may or may not be totally accurate. However, she was 100% justified in claiming rights to her own body, her own choices, and her own life. She says, “I was in a loving, healthy, great relationship for four years. It was long-distance, and either your boyfriend is going to look at porn or he’s going to look at you.”

Jen – YOU. GO. GIRL. You’re so undoubtedly correct and well-spoken, I don’t know how anyone else could think otherwise. Also, you’re confident as f*** and I have mad respect for you. I feel sorry for that long-distance ex-boyfriend because I want to date you.

Do you know why these images are making a stink? It’s not because they were actually that scandalous or because we’ve never seen a naked celebrity before. Rather, it’s because we — the conglomerate of the media, pop culture, and its consumers — invent and uphold false and unfair constructions of how celebrities, particularly young, female ones, should appear. (Yes, I most definitely go to Brown and believe in socially constructed realities). Jennifer Lawrence should be a “perfect” role model for young girls, right? She’s only 24. She stars in a dystopian movie series beloved by young adults. (Let’s forget about American Hustle for a quick second). So, obviously, she must never be naked. Or sexual. Or have a personal life. Hmm… Let’s ponder THAT for a second.

So, what are some lessons we can learn from J.Law?

1. The internet is both ridiculously awesome and scary. Privacy is real but its walls are thin. Take care of what is yours and know that there is always a possibility that what you post, tweet, text, or email may end up in the hands of someone cruel.
2. NEVER apologize for your body. Sure, you can apologize for your choices if they hurt someone else. But don’t apologize for your actions if they were made on your own time, in a private situation, unrelated to anyone else. Stand up for yourself when you think you’ve been wronged. There may be consequences but you’ll still have your conscience and your pride.
3. Sexuality isn’t scandalous or dirty. Don’t let the media convince you otherwise.
4. We’re all naked under our clothes.



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The Secret Sexual Lives of Young Girls

October 10, 2014


Young girls are among the most sexual of all human beings. They do a variety of weird and seemingly unexplainable things.

How do I know they do these things? Because I did them. Most of my friends did them. And unless times have changed, I assume they still happen.

They pretend to be genitals.

Perhaps I had a very lecherous group of young friends. We were seven years old, all girls. Our favorite game was called, “I’m Your Penis.”

The rules were simple. One player would insert her head between the other player’s legs. That player would lock her legs around the head, and look down at the other’s face. This talking head was the penis. The conversations would go something like this:

“Hello, Cara, I’m your penis,” Penis would say.

“Good morning, Penis.”

“How are you feeling today, Cara?” Penis would ask.

“Pretty good. How are you feeling, Penis?”

“I’m feeling a bit chilly. I forgot my cardigan,” Penis would say.

“I’m sorry. Do you like it down there, Penis?”

“I get lonely sometimes,” Penis would whisper.

“How is your wife, Leslie?”

All the penises had wives. The wives weren’t vaginas though. They were other penises – girl penises. Out of all the Penis-Wives, Leslie was my least favorite. She was condescending.

I remember the first time I played “I’m Your Penis” with a boy. It was a friend’s older brother. He was nine, but was as tall as an 11-year-old.

I put my head between his legs. It felt the same, except there was a bump in the place that was supposed to be smooth. I was nervous talking to him because I was afraid I wouldn’t be an authentic penis. He already had a penis — a real penis — I was squishing it with my neck, the zipper of his cargo shorts was digging into my throat.

At first I didn’t talk. I was afraid he would say something like, “A penis would never say that.” 
He didn’t. He just smiled when I spoke but was maddeningly silent. Maybe he didn’t know how to play the game. Finally I became so bored that I told him I had to meet my penis-wife, Martha, for coffee.

So we switched.

I remember the rush when it was the boy’s turn to be my penis. He didn’t cross his arms like the girls did. He wrapped his hands tightly around my ankles. He rested his head between my legs. He was breathing on my stomach. Suddenly I didn’t want to play.

Why did we do this? We wanted to know what it was like to have a penis. It was a dress-up game of sorts, and the easiest way to talk to our penises was to see their faces.

They role-play sexual intercourse.

I remember when I discovered the miracle of conception. My mother told me point-blank, we were standing in my younger brother’s room after a Mister Roger’s Neighborhood marathon.

The next day I went over my to my neighbor’s house and immediately told her. She seemed confused but intrigued. We finally decided to play, “House.”

I wasn’t sure what she was doing. We were in bed together, under the blankets. Her hot breath smelled like Doritos, and I leaned away when she whispered into my ear. We were in first grade.

“The baby’s asleep,” she panted. We were still playing House.

She was lying on top of me, breathing heavily, my thigh between her legs.

I closed my eyes and was hit by piano runs – a grinning Mister Rogers and the little red trolley – Won’t you be my neighbor?

“No, I think I heard it cry. I’m going to check on it.”

I squirmed away and rolled off the bed.

“I just said it’s asleep. Come back in bed,” she said.

I ran out the door, into the blue-skied street. Coincidently, it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

They masturbate excessively.

When sixth grade boys made jokes about the newly discovered miracle called masturbation, I tried to pretend I didn’t know what they were talking about.

I had grown up watching TLC’s A Baby Story, so I had seen dozens of births, all from the crotch camera seated directly at the vagina. Before an infant’s head emerged, there seemed to be dozens of gloved fingers probing that small space – it seemed obvious that I could use my own hands.

I learned to masturbate early — anywhere from a high chair to a car seat. My favorite place to masturbate was while watching Mister Rogers. I don’t see the appeal now — maybe it was the hypnotic way he changed into his sneakers or that zippered cardigan sweater. Nevertheless, a part of me felt relieved when he died. He had seen too much.

I’ve talked to friends who have confessed to similar stories. So what happens? Why do these strange games stop when girls grow older?

I think they stop when girls learn that talking about their own sexual desire is inappropriate. For me it was around age nine. I talked about masturbation with more girls from ages six to eight than I did from nine to twenty one. 
When girls first become interested in boys, it’s usually around age eleven. They imagine them as penis-less beings, Ken dolls. They judge them by their haircuts or choice in polo shirts.

Later they learn that they’re supposed to be afraid of penises. That it is normal, that they can get things from boys if they deny them enough — that there is reason to deny because not denying means physical pain and humiliation and only sluts don’t deny.

But in the process I wonder if in denying we were denying our bodies, if we were denying the chance of sexual growth. We learned that we were supposed to be wanted, not to want. So maybe attention became more interesting to us than sex.

All I know is that these weird, confusing sexual experiences we remember (or try to forget) may actually explain some of our sexual desires now. Maybe we should all play a round of “I’m Your Penis.”

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13 Things I Wish I Knew At 13

October 10, 2014


Being a girl is hard, but being a girl in middle school is absolute hell. No one point has been more universally agreed upon, I’m sure (except maybe that Queen Bey and Jay-Z ought to be the next ruling monarchs of this country). Yet, despite the safety of our consensual distaste for pre-pubescence, no one dares dredge up the scarring memories — those that Freud would avidly affirm we have been systematically and subconsciously repressing for the past five to ten years. We just let them fester within ourselves, until we rot from the inside out. Or something to that effect. But maybe a better way to address the gnawing feeling in our guts, and the nightmare-filled, sleepless nights spent reminiscing these horrors, is to communally make light of them, and pass on our wisdom. So to those of you whom it make concern, here are a few pieces of advice from someone who has lived through the trauma:

  1. Hot pink ankle-length sweatpants with the word “Princess” running down the left leg, and a gold macramé short-sleeved (over?) shirt do not match.
  2. When Queen Bee Katie P. tells you that she will be your friend only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and that the rest of the week you must play her dog in games of house at recess, you are not “in.”
  3. Your crush will never understand that your vague and angsty Gmail chat status is about him.
  4. Having all four of your stay-at-home-moms-turned-Brownie-leaders simultaneously quit the year before you finally graduate to Cadet status does not mean that your chances of becoming the first female president are destroyed.
  5. Cursing is not like drinking “cool juice,” but it also won’t send you to hell.
  6. High school is not going to be just like Mean Girls and you will not be Cady Herron.
  7. Dreamy-eyed, male model equivalent Zack H., now well on his way to going bald, was not, in fact, a model (and he and that hoe Katie were meant for each other).
  8. Raccoon black eyeliner on the daily is not a necessity of life.
  9. You don’t have to work up a sweat power-walking down the hallway to avoid bystanders, whose piercing glares threaten to incinerate you as they laugh at your friendlessness, because being alone is cool sometimes.
  10. Don’t go to dances. Or do. Dates are not a prerequisite, because adolescent boys are mad lame.
  11. The Black Eyed Peas are sad excuses for musicians, and Abercrombie & Fitch apparel will never fit you because it’s not made for wear by real humans.
  12. If you can’t find a single other female in a 50-foot radius, your body will not forget how to pee.
  13. You will get prettier. Plus, boobs.

After reading back over my list, I can only begin to imagine the degree of agony I could have been spared had some kind, older Oprah-Winfrey-type soul imparted these invaluable bits of advice on my impressionable, under-developed, brace-faced self so long ago. When you think about it, though, it’s these moments of sheer embarrassment and anguish that separate the weak from the strong, and prepare each of us to become living, breathing, thriving individuals in the world at large. Middle school is the heinous ogre that forces us to rise up to the challenges of mastering personal hygiene, of overcoming peer pressure (just because she was wearing camo pants and flip flops does not mean you have to as well), and learning to recognize the difference between the bitches that will stand on you, and those that will stand next to you. So maybe we ought to be proud of our pre-teen selves, for making it through, and for making us who we are today.

Tbh, I still wear those hot pink princess sweatpants on occasion. But the difference between middle school me and college me is that now I have the confidence to own it.

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Ambiguously Accurate Horoscopes

October 9, 2014

I have a confession to make: I consistently check my horoscope. (I also have another confession to make: I’m not super sure what celebrity is in the above photo…but it was too weird of a collage to pass up). I like to think that I check it ironically, but if I’m going to be totally honest, I’m on the look out for a tall, dark and handsome man on the 22nd and a lucrative business venture around the winter solstice. Neither of these things will happen but that will not end my compulsive horoscope checking. I think I can chalk it up to an inherent desire to be categorized, even if this categorization is completely wrong. For example, gives my love rating a 4/5 stars. That is a solid B+ in love. Meanwhile, my actual love rating is definitely No Credit. Clearly, the astrologists can’t get everything right, so I’m here to fill in the blanks. May the odds stars be ever in your favor:

Pisces: Hey there, Pisces! Be on the look out for another person. This person is somehow important to your life!

Leo: Late in this lunar cycle, your significant other will ask if you can do butt stuff. Definitely say no, Leos never like butt stuff. (Unless Uranus is in your love sector. Get it? Haha, butts.)

Taurus: You might be feeling like your friends haven’t been super supportive recently. You’re right, Taurus! All of your friends think you’re a little bit annoying.

Gemini: The sun is aligned with your lunar constellation cycle this tidal rotation. Venus is orbiting through your psychic nebula. The Big Dipper is illuminating your ancient elemental aura. The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.

Cancer: This week, you should be feeling fun, flirty, passionate and a little bit emotional. Actually a lot emotional. Seriously though, stop crying all the time it’s embarrassing. We’re in a restaurant, Cancer.

Aries: On the 17th, you’ll see a really cute dog.

Virgo: Holy shit, Virgo, your life is a mess! Fortunately, you’ll get a flirty text message on the 13th! Unfortunately, flirty text messages won’t pay your bills!

Aquarius: This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, Aquarius! Gilmore Girls is on Netflix!

Capricorn: Jupiter is in your finances house this moon cycle, so prepare to rake in the cash. Unfortunately, Pluto is in your poor decision-making house next moon cycle, so anticipate developing a gambling problem and losing said cash.

Sagittarius: A potential love interest appears on the 15th, but then disappears on the 25th. Stop dating magicians, Sagittarius.

Scorpio: Don’t let others bring you down, Scorpio! Ignore your parole officer!

Libra: Libras are known to be cute, peppy and always in possession of Starbucks. Enjoy your pumpkin spice latte, you #basic bitch.

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An Open Letter From The Neglected Apple

October 9, 2014


Dear Pumpkin-Praising Public,

You betrayed me. I once sat on the throne of spiced autumnal confections, and now it seems I have been relegated to nothing more than a side to your broccoli and cheddar soup at Panera. And what have I been replaced with? Some pumpkin mush, cinnamon and flour thrown together and tossed in the oven — as if nothing is sacred!

Each and every one of you who blindly worships the pumpkin disgust me. Did the valiant tale of Johnny Appleseed fade from your minds? Did the espresso fumes cloud your desire for a warm slice of apple pie on an October day? Have you no taste for variety? The regal Gala, the timeless Granny Smith, and let us not forget the miracle of modern science that is the Honeycrisp! (Except for Red Delicious. Nobody actually likes him.)

And you can bet your overpriced pumpkin muffin that I know the biggest culprit behind my downfall: that godforsaken pumpkin spice latte. Especially you sick people trying to make #PSL happen. What about a piping hot mug of spiced cider? Hard cider, even! Do you not believe in comfort? You smug pumpkin sympathizers think you’re so great with your seasonal pumpkin brews. Well, guess what, folks? While your beloved gourds wither in any temperature above 70 degrees, I’ll be cozy in the hands of some successful young professionals blowing off some steam after a long day. You know, people with actual jobs and stuff.

Perhaps you like the creative and whimsical side of pumpkins — carving, painting, what have you. First of all, I’m not one for conspiracy theories, but it’s definitely no coincidence that pumpkins require dangerously sharp knives to be carved. Why is the Big Pumpkin industry hiding our jack-o-lantern injury statistics? Wake up, America! And as for decorating, maybe pumpkins wouldn’t need to be slathered with acrylic paint if they were something other than ugly orange lumps in the first place. Yeah, I said it.

Let us also not forget the steady and shameful decline in apple-picking. Elementary school field trips to the orchard of yesteryear have been replaced with Instagrams from teenage girls — with bad filters, mind you! Besides, have you actually been to a pumpkin patch? The pumpkins are literally on the ground. Remember, your mom always told you not to eat food off the ground. Tell me, who do you love more: pumpkins or your mother?

You know what, fine. Go sip the foam off your lattes and carve Bob’s Burgers characters into rotting squash for your Halloween display. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen of someone who actually cares.

I hate you all,

The Apple


The Annotated Misadventures of “For Women” Porn

October 8, 2014


About a week ago, my good friend’s boss gave the charming, albeit slightly inappropriate, advice that “every woman should watch hardcore porn once in her life.” In the spirit of sex positivity and my friend’s creepy boss’s wishes, I cleared my schedule, microwaved some popcorn, invited over some friends, and got to work. When I discovered the “For Women” category, I must say I was skeptical but impressed. Maybe here in the dark, seedy corners of the Internet, I had finally found a place where women’s sexuality was welcomed and celebrated. Just as the glass ceiling was about to shatter, three ads for Russian brides popped up, my computer began herniating, and my expectations came back down to earth. Three bright-eyed, college-educated women threw the dice and pressed play to the seminal classic, Sex Trek: One Man Comes Where No Man Has Come Before. Below I document some of the thoughts, annotations, and very sincere concerns expressed during this one-time screening.

  1. “The sound quality is bogus. I can’t hear the dialogue!”
  2. “These puns are pretty good.”
  3. “The amount of pubic hair is really indicative of the time period in which this was filmed.”
  4. “How is this movie ‘for women?’ This girl’s boobs defy gravity and the men are old as shit.”
  5. “This is ruining all the Spock fantasies I had as a kid.”
  6. “This close-up is too close. She looks so bored.”
  7. “I’m not sure if this is racist or sexist, but it’s at least one of them.”
  8. “Is this postmodernism?”
  9. “That guy looks like Nicholas Cage!”
  10. “That is definitely postmodernism.”
  11. “Those moans are disingenuous.”
  12. “Too shiny.”
  13. “We can’t go back now.”
  14. “There’s a sequel!”

There you have it folks. “For Women” porn in all its glory. Though our appetites eventually returned and the computer viruses were slowly but surely removed, we will never go back to knowing what the world looked like before Dr. Sperm and Dr. Boney McJoy sailed into the galaxy on their Starship Intercourse. And for that, I am both deeply disturbed and incredibly grateful.

Jezebel recently ran an article detailing one woman’s viewing of the Bob’s Burger Porn Parody. To read this article, go here.

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It's a Girl Thing, Life & Other Drugs

Free the Bra

October 8, 2014


It’s dinnertime, and my family is casually sitting at the table when my dad interrupts the conversation for a breaking announcement.

“I have a million-dollar idea,” he said. (He has one about twice a day.) “Kids, after this one, we’re gonna be rich.”

“What is it, dad?”

“BRAS. Bras with interchangeable straps, and you can buy them in all different colors and mix and match them to go with your outfit!”

Although at the dinner table he was met with only sarcasm, in my later years I would come to wish that more people thought like my dad. A question to the brassiere-bearers among you: how many times has someone pointed out an errant bra strap to you with all the trepidation of reporting a venomous spider crawling up your back? I’d venture quite a few. It’s a taboo subject, the bra, and although no more physically revealing than your average bikini, the sight of it tends to shock the masses solely because of its definition as an undergarment.
Well, I’m sick of it. I say FREE THE BRA! After all, the average Victoria’s Secret bra costs approximately one buttload of money, and it seems for every dollar you spend you win one fantastically obnoxious question from a too-peppy saleslady. You’re telling me you want to put all that effort in for NO ONE to see? I like my bras cute, lacy, fun, and flattering, and I’m sad that someone would see even a sliver of one of my favorite clothing items and treat it like a hanging booger.

Also, just as my dad suspected, bras can be fashionable, by accident or not. Think of all the concert garb you saw this year, from crop tops to bandeaus to short tanks. All of this year’s cutest trends are bra-like. And just having your regular bra show through can be a statement, too. I mean, look at Miley here:

miley bra

It might not be haute couture or whatever, but I’ll be honest: I would wear that. It’s easy, cute, fun, and comfy, and just imagine how much better 90 degree summers are with one fewer layer of fabric for your sweat to stick to.

And one last thing–if you can slightly see my black bra strap slipping from the side of my black dress’s black short sleeve, what comment are you making when you tell me to pull it back up? I know I don’t look sloppy or out of style. The message you’re giving — even if you don’t realize — is, “this article of clothing is shameful and should be hidden.”

Listen up, people, and let me take you on safari. The bra is a beautiful, majestic animal, and sometimes it likes to roam free. Let it. I’m not saying you have to go topless — although if you did I wouldn’t blame you — but the bra can stand some quality time to stretch its straps out in the sun. They need vitamin C too, you know.

Whether you wear them or not, everyone could use a reminder that like any of our domesticated beasts, the bra’s most important relationship is with its owner. Respect that. And if you are the happy parent of a brassiere, don’t be afraid to loosen its leash every once in a while! You both might end up having some fun.

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