I'm spending my Friday laughing...

you should too.

Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis: Steve Carell from Between Two Ferns

8.4 Million New Yorkers Suddenly Realize NY is a Horrible Place to Live.


HAPPY LABOR DAY WEEKEND!!

this is why I'll never be fashionable

I don't like stupid footwear. In fact, I loathe stupid footwear. Whose idea was this anyway??? Did some asshole fashion designer wake up one morning and think, "hmmm, I'd really like my toes to be exposed today, but would rather not let my ankles get chilly." And then they crapped out the idea for the "bandal" (a contraction I made up to describe the hideous boot-sandal pictured above) and somehow it caught on.

Whenever I see shoes like this, I start to feel the way my grandparents did when they saw me in my shredded jeans from A&F. Ya know, the ones that "yes, Grams, I did in fact buy this way."

"Where's the rest of your pants?" she'd inquire. Meanwhile, here I am believing that I'm "cool" and find myself asking the same question about the above. Where the fuck is the rest of your boot, stripper??

But I'm pretty sure these take the cake for dumb fucking ideas. Have you ever in your life wished that your flip flops came with leg warmers attached?! Nope? Me neither. And explain to me in what climate these shoes would be necessary?!? Honestly, If I'm wearing flip flops it's summer. If I'm wearing leg warmers, it's 1989.

I just want to be left alone with my collection of $2.50 flip flops from Old Navy. Ugh. At least it's almost Ugg season....

If this isn't motivation to hit the gym...

NY Metro: "Check out the moobs on that guy." While breast-enhancing surgery has become almost a norm for American women, men are also heading to the plastic surgeon’s office more often — to have their man-boobs (moobs) removed in a procedure referred to as gynecomastia. That fact shouldn’t be too surprising, considering that each year the obesity epidemic continues to grow.

I probably shouldn't be blogging about this on my lunch break 'cause it makes me wanna projectile vom across my keyboard like that chick in the Exorcist, but this article annoys me. First of all, if there's going to be an anatomical disparity between men and women (most notably that you guys have the luxury of a penis and the option to piss just about anywhere you want) then I think it's only fair that you leave the ability to grow tits to us chicks.

The solution? Plastic surgery of course! Rather than attack the man breast issue with diet and exercise, more and more men are going under the knife.

Well isn't it just like Americans to look for the easy way out? Heaven forbid you should eat Cheerios instead of the entire left side of the McDonald's breakfast menu. Or walk somewhere instead of squeezing our fat ass into the back seat of a cab. And would it kill you to spend 20 minutes on a fucking treadmill?

I'm also curious to know if these same big-breasted men are shitting hundred dollar bills?? Honestly, how are so many people paying for cosmetic surgeries in a recession?? I've eaten a box of Kraft mac&cheese every night this week for dinner just to be able to pay my cable bill. (I'm not pretending like I didn't enjoy the crap out of every bite, I'm just saying, it'd be nice to be able to afford a steak dinner every now and then or better yet, some lipo on my love handles.)

Man breasts AND a farmer's tan? SCORE!

Somehow I think chesticles are the least of this dude's issues.

I couldn't not post this...

a series of (un)fortunate (but hilarious) events

If we're being honest with each other, I am well aware that lately I whole-heartedly suck at blogging. I can't promise it's gonna get any better as the summer wraps up, but I'll certainly [pretend to] try. However, choosing not to blog this week would be like me declining an invitation to a free open bar.

Just.Not.Possible.

Let's kick this off with a frank discussion of Steven Slater. If you don't know who he is, I'd suggest you remove your head from your anal cavity and read a fucking newspaper.

Some laud him as a hero, others claim he's a psychopath, and his Mommy has already come to his defense (as most disillusioned mothers do when their child "suddenly" goes batshit crazy... way to ignore the warning signs, Mom.)

However, I must admit, for anyone who has ever worked in a customer service position, this guy is the tits! As a former waitress at IHOP (International House of Perverts), I've envisioned dozens of scenarios in which I serve an obnoxious customer his full-stack of pancakes alongside a solid kick to the grundle. And yes, I'm going to charge you extra for that.

The difference between myself and Mr. Slater, of course being, the element of self control.

While we're discussing individuals who temporarily suspend their ability to think before they act, check out the MickeyD's Maniac who lost her cool after being denied an order of McNuggets:



McNuggets... really?!? I might be able to understand a fit of rage over a White Castle Crave Case... but this was just over the top.

Additional things that are overrated... This week, ShakeShack has finally opened on 86th and Lex. In case you were wondering, yes, the line for the M86 Crosstown bus is shorter, moves faster and can get you to the far superior Five Napkin Burger in less time than you'd have to wait outside the Shack.

However, if you absolutely must know what all the hype is about, do yourself a favor and visit the Madison Square Park location instead. Make sure you check the ShackCam before you go to see just how long you'll be standing around waiting for your overpraised cheeseburger. And don't say I didn't warn you.

More information that makes me happy: Hard Knocks starts on HBO tonight featuring the NY Jets. Since I don't have (am too cheap to pay for) HBO I'll be making Boyfriend record the series. What I'm even more pumped about is the fact that the beginning of football season makes the end of summer significantly less brutal. This fall, I'll be co-managing a fantasy team while consuming buffalo wings and bud lights at an extraordinarily impressive pace for a female.

Speaking of maintaining my girlish figure, I've just signed up for a free month trial at New York Sports Club. It's been less than a week and I've already been painfully reminded of everything I loathe about physical exertion (at least the kind that doesn't result in an orgasm.) Of particular note is the misery associated with spin class. Not only is it the sweatiest 45 minutes of your day, but you actually have to actively volunteer for this torture by signing up 24 hours in advance.

Reason #428 being an adult sucks: grown ups ride stationary bikes to stay in shape, kids ride bikes to real destinations like ice cream shops and their neigbors' pools.

Oh yea, I'm also on Twitter. I'm sorta funny (sometimes) but don't have a lot of followers (just like I don't have a lot of blog readers.) If you have any interest in boosting my confidence pass on my blog and follow me @jhack215.

If not, you suck and so do your finger paintings.

another video - get over it

If you haven't already heard/read about it, click here for the audio of one of the rants that confirms why Mel Gibson is out of his ever-loving mind.

Then, watch the video below.



You can thank me later for the 7 minutes of entertainment I've provided today.

too hot to blog

Also, I'm moving in a few days which has been an all consuming project (that I'll eventually blog about), so for now just watch this trailer and remember that movie theaters are air conditioned and Zach Galifiniakis is hilarious.

DUE DATE: Trailer. Watch more top selected videos about: Robert Downey, Jr., Zach Galifianakis

If peeing your pants is cool...

consider him Miles Davis.

This Is Why I'm Hot

Conceited? No. Confident? Yes. But my effortless good looks (and obvious modesty) are not the topic of this post.

Allow me to express the all-consuming misery I feel when Mother Nature unleashes her ability to make New York City feel like the surface of the sun. Or Hell. Or a whole new kind of Hell that is located ON the surface of the sun.

In case you're not following my analogies... It's fucking hot and I am NOT happy about it.

But wait there's more!

These past few days haven't just been hot, they've been humid too! YAY!

From a scientific standpoint, humidity is defined as the amount of water vapor in the air.

From JessHacker's Dictionary for NewYorkers*, humidity is the unbearable moisture that covers your entire body in a thick layer of stickiness as if you just emerged from the depths of a marshy swamp. As a result of the uncontrollable sweating, you take no less than 4 cold showers a day to regain some level of homeostasis. Unfortunately, your efforts will prove utterly useless the minute you put your clothes back on and step out into the un-airconditioned world, where beads of sweat will instantly form on your forehead, mocking your desire to be comfortable.

*This dictionary does not exist. Yet. For now, stick with Merriam Webster.

I've never been to Arizona to experience the "dry heat" that those douchebags always brag about, but I'm starting to think that they may be on to something. I bet chicks out there never have a bad hair day.

I, on the other hand, own** a whole arsenal of hair products that market their "anti-humidity" and "moisture-barrier" capabilities. This, in case you were wondering, is a bigger load of bullshit than World Cup refs not counting USA's goals. Twice.

**waste oodles of money on.

Either way, day after hot and humid day, I apply a different combination of gels and sprays to my soaking wet locks in an attempt to transform them from unruly to "scrunched." Pathetically, it always ends up looking like a half-assed birds nest of messy curls haphazardly fastened out of my face with a headband, 2 scrunchies, 37 bobby pins, and a half a can of AquaNet.***

***No, I don't really use AquaNet. I think this, along with Denture Creme and Depends, is reserved for people over the age of 65.

The only "barrier" that would be effective under these circumstances is an air-conditioned body suit. I can say with certainy that I would put this gift at the very top of my Christmas list and probably even trade most of my worldly posessions to get my hands on one. I would spend a similarly astronomical amount of money on an airconditioned blanket so that sleeping with boyfriend in the summer months would be just as pleasant as they are in winter.

I have not yet decided if I hate rain or heat more, but that's like deciding if Kate Gosselin or Octomom is a worse mother.

Although lately, with her unpredicatable "chances of scattered thunderstorms" and "95% humidity," I'd say Mother Nature is worse than them both.

I Hate... Being Unprepared

Yesterday was somewhat of an "off" day.

I was in a missing-the-boyfriend midweek funk and absentmindedly left my apartment grossly unprepared for the inclement weather.

Being umbrella-less was like showing up for for the SAT's without a calculator. I knew I was missing something but couldn't put my finger on it until the proctor had already started handing out the scantrons. When it finally dawned on me, I tried to rationalize that I could get by without it.

I was very wrong.

Not only was I sans umbrella, I had also blindly dressed myself in a sleeveless shirt, a skirt, and flip flops because I didn't bother to consult the news for a weather report (which probably would have featured the rain cloud below hovering ominously over Grand Central Station waiting for me to leave the office):



Needless to say, trying to walk home in monsoon-like conditions of violent sideways rain made me look like a drowned rat in a wet tee-shirt contest. And oh yea, I destroyed my leather flip flops.

The good news is, I went home to find out that Tosh.O was a new episode! I took the liberty of sharing his "I hate" video here. It made me laugh, hopefully it'll do the same for you.

(This is the beginning of my attempt to blog more often.)

Tosh.0
I Hate Video
http://www.comedycentral.com/
Web Redemption 2 Girls, 1 Cup Reaction Demi Moore Picture

How to Launder Money

Just Kidding!!

First of all, there's no way I would write a post about a criminal activity, I have a reputation to uphold. Secondly, I have no idea how to launder money so my how-to guide would be as effective as sitting in your underwear with carrots up your nose to cure cancer.

This post is actually about laundering clothes.

Wait!! Don't go!! I promise it's (kinda) funny!!

Washing your soiled linens is one of those daunting chores that if you're really lucky (or really spoiled) you won't experience the full level of suckage until you go away to college.

When I was in elementary school, I knew it wasn't magic per se, but it did always seem like a small miracle that my drawers were regularly stocked with clothes that didn't smell like the underside of a wet dog. I really had no idea where my clothes went after I put them in the hamper, all I knew was that my favorite denim shorts and Rainbow Brite tee-shirt were always available when I needed them.

As I got a bit older (arguably more responsible) I still never experienced the complete laundry process. I may have been asked to move the beach towels (an unshrinkable, un-fuck-up-able item) from the washer to the dryer when the machine buzzed but after that I was relieved of my duties and free to spend the next 5 hours practicing my synchronized swimming routine with my sister. When we emerged from the pool soaking wet with wrinkly digits- clean, dry towels awaited us.

I enjoyed being pleasantly aloof to the laundry process until I was in middle school.

It was around the age of 12 that my mom asked me (with audible hesitation) to "sort" my dirty clothes. Up until this point in my life the only thing I had sorted effectively were my Pogs from my slammers and my 'cool' scrunchies from the crappy ones that I would hand down to my sister.

Mom never gave me a proper lesson in the art of sorting, until she observed me stack my clothes into 3 piles: shirts, pants, and everything else. When she stopped laughing she informed me I was both wrong and ridiculous. She was obviously right.

As years passed I learned many valuable lessons about laundry.

1) Downy is NOT detergent. Sadly, while your clothes will be incredibly soft, they will also still have evidence of the previous weekends' jungle juice graffiti party.

2) The hot cycle (intended to bleach whites) will make colors bleed. Every.Single.Time.

3) 24-hour laundry mats are terrifying places to be at night. One would probably be more comfortable wearing a mini skirt and 6 inch plastic stilettos in a poorly lit alley.

4) Care labels exist for a reason. Blatantly disregarding "Dry Clean Only" in favor of the "delicate" cycle will be an expensive lesson to learn on a silk blouse.

5) Stashing Tide-To-Go pens in your purse is more important than chap stick. This is especially true for someone foolish enough to wear a white shirt to a baseball game. Where they serve hot dogs. With ketchup. And mustard. Need I say more?

Despite what I've learned from doing my own laundry (a concept that was once as foreign as a retirement fund) I've decided that it's worth every single penny to have someone else do my dirty work. Literally.

The below advertisement had me at "solution." They obviously recognized that for some people (me) doing laundry is a legitimate problem. They went on to target their audience (me) perfectly... "For Busy People." (I'm not sure if they're hinting that not-so-busy people should be doing their own laundry, but I really don't care. I AM a busy person! I'm too busy to even worry myself with the subliminal message they may or may not be trying to send.)

And although the last line, "just like you would do at home" seems like more of a threat than a promise given my at-home experiences, for 75 cents a pound I was willing to give it a go. Hell, you can't even get cookies at an Italian bakery that cheap!

The results? See for yourself:

Needless to say, not only was I not disappointed, I have not purchased laundry detergent (or Downy) since January and have become what one might call "a regular" at Empire Cleaners. Now if only I could convince (pay) someone to put the clothes away for me.

Two Pack Toddler

Sometimes parents let their kids get away with murder. Other times parents try to murder their kids. Either way, it's parenting like this that allays all my fears that I'll ever be an insufficient mother....


EMBED-Ardi Rizal - The real SMOKING BABY !! - Watch more free videos


I'd obviously put my foot down at one pack a day.

Man vs. Snooze

Sleeping is without a doubt the second best thing one can do in their bed. (Mom, if you're reading this, the first best thing is of course watching wholesome television, fully-clothed.)

My love affair with sleeping began in kindergarten. My report cards reflected that I excelled at all academic subjects, but the untold story of my nap time skills is the real reason behind my child prodigy status. I can admit to having an unhealthy obsession with my Aladdin sleeping bag, my security blanket (a full size bed sheet), sucking my thumb, and leaving drool stains on my pillows.

It was during these formative years that I perfected the art of falling asleep anywhere.

(I'll probably get back to filling out my Employee of the Month application when I wake up.)

Anyway, as a 5-year-old, the inconvenient circumstances under which I would attempt to nap included (but were not limited to) the following:

- the incessant sobbing of the classmate with separation anxiety.

- the blood curdling screams of someone who closed their finger in the toy chest.

- the loud thud of Lincoln Logs being violently tossed around the block area

(likely followed by more blood curdling screams if anyone was actually in the line of fire)

- and the simultaneous imitations of police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and helicopters.

Little did I know, the sleeping skills I acquired in elementary school would be vital to surviving life in the big apple, where I have yet to experience a SINGLE night without hearing the piercing sirens of an emergency vehicle. Seriously Manhattan? How many fires can their possibly be in one city on any given night?!

After a restless slumber where I dramatically toss and turn under my covers, smother myself (or my snoring boyfriend) with a pillow, and sometimes even whimper aloud about how badly I need to fall asleep, the last sound in the world I am ready to hear is my motherfucking alarm.

I've been using my cellphone as an alarm clock since an unfortunate falling out with my Sony Dream Machine. (Let's just say waking up hungover to "She Works Hard for the Money" at 5am on a Sunday before a double shift at IHOP would probably send you into a fit of uncontrollable rage too.)

So each morning I play a rousing game of Man vs. Snooze. You would think that at 26 years old, I would have learned my lesson by now. Snoozing is an evil concept developed by a horrible human being at an alarm clock factory.

I foolishly set the same two alarms day after day. The first goes off at 6am for those rare mornings that I have enough energy figure out how to tie my sneakers for a pre-work jog. Realistically, that alarm is turned off within 2.7 seconds of making a chirp.

The second alarm is set for 7:20am, which has proven to be the most ineffective time for me to attempt to start my day. I roll over and whack the snooze button at least once. 7:25. I do it again. 7:30. And once more. 7:35. As always, right around this time I hear the bathroom door close and the water turn on. Roommate is in the shower. I guess I have no choice but to snooze for at least another 15 minutes*

*I recently learned that roommate plays the same game, hoping that I'll get in the bathroom first giving her no other option but to lay in bed longer*

Before I know it, it's 8:05am. I've zoned out to an episode of SBTB (although I'd later tell my co workers that I was watching some special CNN report that I care deeply about) and I've rationalized not needing to wash my hair or iron my pants all in the name of more sleep.

As much as I consider myself a connoisseur of naps, I must give credit where credit is due. Roommate and I took the below photo last Friday sometime between 2:30 and 4am. Neither of us were sober enough to think that waking him might be a bad idea, so after snapping this pic, we tentatively approached him and began shouting "Hey Buddy, Are you OK?" (For the record, we had his best interest in mind and thought putting him in a cab would be the good Samaritan thing to do.)

You may have noticed that Drunky Mc Naps on Street is only wearing one flip flop. Once he got to his feet, he slurred some barely lucid accusation that we were the ones responsible for his missing shoe. We explained that this is how we found him and would be happy to hail him a cab if he would tell us where he lived. (The actual dialogue was much more animated but is a story better told in person, or in a stand up comedy act.)

He definitely knew that he lived in "kweeez" which we translated to mean "Queens." He also seemed to think that roommate and I had magical powers in simultaneously being able to keep him upright and flag down a taxi. And while this Third Avenue Charmer hadn't a clue where his other shoe was or how to get home, he had no trouble at all rolling down the window and attempting a pick-up line as his cab pulled away from the curb.

I'm sure he spent all day Saturday hitting his snooze button.

I Got Knocked Down, But I Got Up Again

In case you hadn't heard, I'm a spaz.

I'm not just your ordinary, run of the mill spaz. Nope, I'm that special breed of spaz who manages to destroy nearly one thousand dollars worth of electronic devices in under 7 seconds. If I was involved in a contest on decimating the most amount of technology in the shortest amount of time, I would be so victorious that they would re-name the contest "Pulling a Hacker" (please see current Facebook status).

Allow me to explain.

I spent this past weekend in the U.S. Virgin Island of St. Thomas celebrating my best friend's bachelorette party. The weekend started smoothly enough.

I woke up at 4am Friday morning with the same level of excitement that I suspect anyone feels when they are going on a tropical vacation. I barely needed my alarm clock to tell me it was time to hop in the shower and get my day started. I tried my bathing suit on one more time as I blasted "Party in the U.S.A" (which would later be changed to "Party in the U.S.V.I") and hopped around my room like an 8 year old on a pogo stick.

For the sake of your precious time (and mine, as I really should be researching historical housing supply and vacancy rates), I'll skip ahead to the good stuff, with a brief mention of additional highlights.

The four hour plane ride was wildly successful as it involved no unruly screaming children, a nap, a few chapters of Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang and 3 screw drivers.

Upon arrival we immediately changed into our bikinis and neon sunglasses to spend the rest of the day on the beach enjoying copious amounts of rum runners, tons of sun, and the clearest water I've ever seen. Look how happy we are:
Friday was capped off by a beautiful sunset picnic on the point of Sapphire Beach and an early bed time for all, as our sailing excursion was scheduled to begin at 8:30am the next morning.

Sadly, my inability to stand on my own two feet would be the reason for a delayed departure.

It all happened so suddenly but basically the events transpired as follows:

"LOOK! An iguana!"

:::SPLASH:::

"What fell?!?!"

"JESSICA!"

My initial reaction was a combination of shock (as my mouth was filling up with salt water), anger (as I blurted out "I'm not even drunk!!") and nausea (as the reality set in that I had taken the entire contents of my purse down with me.)

I tossed my stuff back up on to the dock where my best friend immediately started the damage control process of removing the batteries from the devices and demanding that the captain of our sailboat have a vodka beverage ready for my consumption when I emerged from the water. (That's what 10+ years of friendship is all about).

I hoisted my soggy self onto a jet ski (which I would later be informed is a nearly impossible feat for a 300 pound person), examined my cuts and bruises, and then let the uncontrollable tears flow like Niagara Falls. I may have also used a few choice words to describe every single iguana on the island.

(For the record, this is NOT the actual iguana responsible for my demise. In fact, I don't have a picture of that little bastard because the memory card from my camera is so irreparably corroded from salt water that you'd think the ocean was actually a vat of hydrochloric acid.)

Anyway, I wasn't about to let one little accident ruin my weekend. Putting life in perspective, if the worst thing that happened to me that day was an unfortunate trip off a dock on my way to sailing the Carribean, snorkeling for sea turtles, and dancing the night away at Duffy's Love Shack, I really didn't have too much to complain about.

That said, if any of my loyal readers want to make a donation to the Bring Jess Back to the 21st Century Fund, I'll gladly be accepting iPods, digital cameras, and mobile telephones.

Note to boyfriend: While I may be joking about this now for the sake of my blog, if you actually get me inflatable swimmies for the boat this summer, you will leave me no choice but to root for the Red Sox when they play the Yankees.

While You're At It...

Vote for Richard too!!

Hey You! Make My Talented Friends Famous!

As it turns out, I can't sing. (Even drunk karaoke is a bad idea)

However, I have friends who CAN sing.

And they're reallyyyyyyyy good.

And they want to be on Glee.

As such, I'm asking you to please take 37 seconds out of your oh-so-busy day to give them gold stars.

Please.

(You have to do it, I asked nicely, those are the rules.)




GIVE KARINA GOLD STARS HERE

GIVE JENNIE GOLD STARS HERE

TGIF: Toes Go In First

Yes, I'm aware it's not Friday. I just thought a familiar acronym might help the drunk gentlemen in the video below prevail in the epic battle of Man vs. Flip Flop(s):



You're welcome.

Happy Earth Day from Animal Planet

So here's the deal: It's Earth Day. I'm not going to remind you that global warming is a real thing. I'm not going to remind you to reuse and recycle. I'm not going to remind you to "think about the environmnent before you print this e-mail," because if you don't already know this, odds are you're a terrible person.

What I AM gonna do is entertain you with some adorable animal photos.

Please see below.

(Think you've got funnier ideas for captions? You should probably put it in your blog. Oh, you don't have a blog? Then shut up.)

"If this ends up on Facebook, you're fucking dead."

"Hey, is this how we suck face?"

"I'm about to make this apple my bitch."

Polar bear 1: "I don't know what we're yelling about!!"

Polar bear 2: "Loud Noises!!"

"First, I'm gonna Get Low...."
("Has anyone seen my apple bottom jeans?")

"...then, I'm gonna Walk it Out."

"There's more to life than being really, really ridiculously good looking (pause) NOT."


"Eat your heart out, Lady and the Tramp."

"Hey meesta! Get me outta here!
What does a monkey gotta do to get some hair gel around here?!"

Mom Zebra: "Come give mama a kiss before you go to school."
Kid Zebra: "MA! Stop! You're embarrassing me."
Mom Zebra: "Just wait till you're a teenager, you ungrateful punk."

How NOT to Handle Losing Your Job

Apparently Keifer isn't really psyched about his newfound unemployment.

(Courtesy of the NY Post)
Club boots boozed-up Kiefer Sutherland
Posted: 1:57 AM, April 16, 2010

The clock has run out on "24" -- but not on Kiefer Sutherland's thirst for rough-and-tumble action. The hard-partying star was drunk, disorderly and shirtless at 4 a.m. yesterday as four huge bodyguards dragged him out of a London strip club and threw him into a car.

Sutherland -- who's finished filming the eighth and final season of the hit series, which has six episodes yet to air -- started the evening at the bar of the Covent Garden Hotel, where he sampled several different wines, with empty stemmed glasses lined up in front of him.

"Eventually a mate showed up and in between drinks, they popped outside for a ciggie," a witness said. "Kiefer carried on drinking in the bar till 2 a.m. He was then driven to Stringfellow's Gentlemen's Club."

Photos taken about two hours later show a shirtless Sutherland, looking nothing like Jack Bauer, being thrown out the back door of the mammary mecca by four tuxedo-clad bouncers, one of whom had him in a headlock. He was shoved into the back seat of a car and brought back to his hotel, where staff helped him to his room.

Sutherland's lawyer and publicist did not return calls seeking comment. But it was hardly the first time Sutherland has gotten rowdy after a few too many drinks.

Last May, he apologized to fashion designer Jack McCullaugh after head-butting him at the SubMercer lounge after the Metropolitan Museum of Art fashion gala. In 2007, he spent 48 days in jail in Los Angeles for his second drunken-driving arrest.

"It's been the biggest problem for me," Sutherland told Rolling Stone the year before. "I have a few drinks and I'm not so worried about tomorrow and not thinking about yesterday. I am in this moment and I don't give a [bleep] about anything else, and that's that. It's right out of the textbook on problem drinkers."

Just Plane Hysterical

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
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Parenting Gone Wild

With consistently sunny skies and 60+ degree weather, the streets of Manhattan have recently been flooded with adorable canines wagging their tails, eagerly sniffing random crotches, loyally escorted by their owners...

Or should I say parents.

Yes, you heard correctly. Thanks to a new marketing campaign by PetSmart, people who choose to excessively pamper their four-legged friends are now being referred to as "parents" rather than "owners."

If I said I wasn't judging, I'd be lying.

Call me a traditionalist, but I think 'parenting' is a title that should be reserved for someone who has endured the excruciating pain (so I've heard) of childbirth followed by the life-long anxiety associated with being responsible for another HUMAN life.

Before you start throwing stones and accusing me of being heartless, let me be very clear.

I LOVE dogs! I mean, who doesn't?! Look at these faces! (then come back to my blog and finish reading this post!)

I am NOT saying that pets are any less valuable as a member of your family, nor am I saying that they aren't wholly deserving of your care and affection. What I AM saying is that a line must be drawn between loving your furry friend the appropriate amount, and becoming a creepy cat lady.

I think a safe rule of thumb is to spend HALF the amount of time and money on your pet than you would spend on yourself or your offspring.

Sadly, the inspiration for this post is a result of conversations I've had (or overheard) with people I actually know who are guilty of any or all of the following ludicrous pet care practices:

Feeding: The adjective "gourmet" should appear nowhere in your pets' menu. You should NOT be making special trips to the Amish Market to track down the organic kibble that you'd like to feed Fido. Waste your money on Fancy Feast rather than the store brand? Be my guest. Spend hours in the kitchen preparing both baked AND boiled chicken as an addition to your pups' meal? You're an idiot.

Accessorizing: Like gluing jewels to your crotch, there are certain things in life that are just unnecessary. Buying your pooch a diamond collar is very high on that list.

Grooming: On average I spend no more than $35 on my hair every 4 months. This is a 400% increase over my previous haircut budget when I would spend $8 (with a coupon) at SuperCuts. (Not kidding). You can imagine my utter disbelief when I walked past the Ritzy Canine Carriage House on 40th and 3rd, where it is advertised that the groomer uses "an assortment of luxurious pet salon products" and even offers "Pawdicures!"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me" seems like an understatement.

Lodging: If you think grooming your dog is out of control, just wait until you read about the options in kenneling. There is an actual place in San Francisco that markets itself as providing Feline Wishes and Caviar Dreams.


Pictured here is one of eight 6ft. x 6 ft. Palazzo suites on the second floor overlooking full height window wall for lots of sunlight to bask in. Each suite is provided with its own deluxe condo for hours of climbing, relaxing or snuggling.

Sounds eerily similar to description of my penthouse apartment. All I'm saying is that if I can stay at a Holiday Inn, so can my dog.


Exercising: This video speaks for itself....



Kinda puts a whole new spin on the concept of "doggy style" doesn't it?

The latest in body modifications?

I can barely afford Swarovski crystal earrings and you want me to affix said crystals to my nether regions? No thank you, Jennifer.

What's even more disconcerting is that when I entered "bedazzl...." into Google, it was autocompleted to "Bedazzling your vajayjay." Seriously.

April Foolishness

Read on for a collection of random thoughts to kick off the month of April.

- You know you're out of shape when the stain on your favorite workout tank top isn't sweat, but actually grease from the pizza you had for dinner the night before.

- You know you live in Murray Hill when Dunkin Donuts starts advertising that they are Kosher and you could build a military fort using the Matzoh display at D'Agostinos.

- When did marketing executives think it would be a good idea to personify things like ink and hunger? In case you were wondering what either looks like, see pictures below.













(Can't help but notice that the "hungry monster" has no mouth, and looks like a Sesame Street character gone horribly wrong.)



- I think people who take the elevator down ONE flight of stairs deserve to get trapped inside said elevator along side an individual with sub par hygiene.

- Has anyone actually taken the time to deconstruct any of the lyrics from Keri Hilson's Knocks You Down? I've listened to it adnauseum because of it's kick-ass beat for running, but have recently found myself in a state of "WTF?" (Not surprisingly as a result of Kanye West)

First of all, I'd LOVE to know what a "pimp ship flying high" actually looks like. (I'd subsequently like to politely decline the ride.)

Secondly, when asked, "what we gonna have, dessert or disaster?" I think the response should be fairly obvious. But really? Are those actually my relationship options?!?


I just hope you choose wisely.....

Please enjoy my personal essay on how to be ungrateful for a 6 block commute:

FIRST, I'm holding the door at Dunkin Donuts for an elderly gentlemen to exit (as I always would) when some incredibly rude woman with a hippopotamus ass takes it upon herself to swoop right in as though my purpose in life was to hold the door for her. Now she's in front of me on line and she's ordering enough coffee for the population of Yemen. (I'm not really sure how many people that is, but it's a lot.) I exhale loudly (because I'm passive aggressive) and (sort of) let it go.

THEN, my sock starts slipping off. I don't know if you've ever had this happen to you while wearing ankle socks and Uggs, but it is easily one of THE MOST annoying things EVER. You can't very well stop, take your shoe off and adjust ... so you keep walking with half a sock under your foot, not covering your heel, making your life as miserable as the Princess and the mother-fucking Pea.

(So just to recap we now have the obnoxious woman at DD + an uncomfortable foot....)

I walk on towards 42nd street, where the one and only Strawberry is conveniently located for that last minute outfit for a Friday night. This particular morning, the underpaid staff are changing the displays in the windows, which has caused such a commotion that no less than 15 people are stopped in the middle of Lexington avenue (RIGHT where the subway lets out) to watch in awe as mannequins body parts flail about. Let me remind you, these are windows at Strawberry, not Macy's!

(My irritation grows and I still have 3 blocks to go...)

THEN, there is another fine specimen of a human being, who stops dead in her tracks because she's decided that THIS is the EXACT moment she NEEDS to light up a cigarette. I do not understand WHY people can't grasp the concept of STEPPING ASIDE. Would you slam on your breaks in the center lane of a 3 way highway while people around you are cruising at 70mph? NO? Didn't think so.

FINALLY, I'm a few short steps from my building, when three numb-nuts waiting to cross the street suddenly realize "oh shit, the bus is coming and it's headed straight for that puddle!"... Almost in unison they LEAP backwards to avoid the splash with complete disregard for anyone else walking behind them on the sidewalk (translation: me). I fought the urge to push them under said bus.

Needless to say, I've never been so content to be staring at a computer screen in my tiny little cube.

********************

If you haven't at least giggled at any of the above musings, you should probably just watch Zach Galifianakis' opening monologue from Saturday Night Live. Now.

Raise a Glass to a Smaller Ass?

Okay, so here's the thing: A) I've been totally slacking on Newsday Tuesdays 'cause I haven't really been motivated to write, and B) my last two posts had way too many references to exercise, eating right, and wearing bathingsuits.

Although I have prematurely traded my uggs for flip flops and transitioned from hot to iced coffee, let's pump the breaks on summer and take a minute to remember the benefits of our favorite year-round pasttime..... boozing.

(My obvious commentary in green. Information courtesy of CNN Health)

Study: Women who drink are less likely to gain weight
Some women avoid drinking calorie-filled cocktails, wine, and beer because they're worried about packing on the pounds.* Now, a new study suggests that women who are moderate drinkers** actually tend to gain less weight over time than teetotalers.

*At the risk of offending any of my readers: I simply cannot stand calorie-counting chicks who won't drink beer. Sorry, it's just un-American.
**I'm also going to loosely interpret "moderate" to mean the exact amount of alcohol I see fit.

The risk of becoming overweight or obese falls as alcohol consumption rises, even when factors such as smoking, fruit and vegetable consumption, and physical activity are taken into account, the study found.
Women who consumed between 1.5* and 3 drinks daily had a 27 percent and 61 percent lower risk of becoming overweight or obese, respectively, than women who didn't drink at all**, according to the study, which was published in the Archives of Internal Medicine.

*Does anyone honestly consume just half of a drink?? Adult or not, that's a party foul.
**I am not friends with these women.

However, the researchers did not look at how the participants' drinking may have affected their lives besides weight gain. Alcohol use can lead to health problems and "psychosocial problems," they point out, and they caution that appropriate alcohol intake differs for each individual and depends on a range of factors. In addition to potentially causing problems at work* and with relationships**, daily alcohol consumption has a number of health risks, including a small increase in the risk of breast cancer.

*Don't drink at work.
**Avoid toxic relationships.
No problem!

Experts recommend that women drink no more than one alcoholic beverage a day, and that men limit themselves to two.*

*Double-fucking-standards strike again!

And if you don't drink, experts say, these findings shouldn't inspire you to start hitting the bottle."It won't change recommendations for my patients, I can say that for certain," says Scott Kahan, M.D., the co-director of the George Washington University Weight Management Program, in Washington, D.C. "If you don't drink, there's no reason to start."*

*I can think of about 64 reasons to start, but that's probably a discussion for another blog... or a therapist.

But, he adds, "I think [the study] suggests that there's no need to quit or avoid alcohol if it's something you enjoy."*

*That's really all I need to know.... And just in time for St. Patrick's Day debauchery!

(To read the less entertaining, albeit more informative and complete statistics from the original article, see full text here.)

Ree-DoubleD-iculous

Hi. This is a blog about boobs.

Thanks to the early onset of puberty, I have been harvesting my ta-ta's since I was approximately 10 years old. There is no secret formula, special vitamin, or daily dose of hormones contributing to their growth, just some solid genes from my German ancestors.

While one might describe me as "lucky" for having such a rack, I say nay my flat-chested female friends.

It all started innocently enough. Young girl begins to develop and is both excited and embarrassed to ask her mom to take her to J.C. Penny for her first training bra (which absolutely had to have a pink bow despite the fact that no one would see it.) Unfortunately, it was all downhill from that shopping spree...

While I'm the first to admit I was never uber graceful or overly coordinated, at that age doing gymnastics or taking dance lessons was the only cool thing for a girl to do.

That is, unless you had boobs.

The quizzical stares I received from my peers in leotards made me feel as though I had sprouted a penis from my forehead and was now asking them to call me Uni-Dick. Needless to say, my dreams of becoming an Olympic gold medalist on the balance beam was squashed as quickly as my aspirations for the NYC Ballet.


(Please see exhibits A and B below for an example of 2GNB: Two Girls No Breasts)

Still jealous? Don't worry, I'm just getting started.

I do realize how great it sounds in theory....being described as the chick with the huge knockers, the ability to use cleavage to get out of speeding tickets, etc. etc. But let me enlighten you as to the real "joys" of of big jugs.

1) How many ways can you say nipple-itis?
- Her turkeys are done.
- She poked my eye out.
- Anyone ever tell you it's not polite to point?
And my all time favorite nick name: Frosty the Nipple Hard Ninja. (I wish I were kidding.)

2) Button-down shirts that fit well?
Non-existent. Unless you plan on using duct-tape to secure those puppies to your chest, good luck finding a button-down shirt that doesn't pop open halfway down.


3) Comfortable tube tops and strapless dresses?
No such thing. Not even the best of the best strapless bras can keep those bad boys in place. Over/under at hoisting them up throughout the day = 37.

4) Triangle top bathing suits?
Think again. You'd get better coverage from a pair of boobie tassels. Or this blouse:

5) A bra with support AND sex appeal?
You'd have an easier time finding a bra that provided cocaine and cocoa puffs.

6) A pleasant jog through the park?

Not likely. Unless you double up sports bras while also wearing a tank top with a built in bra your attempt at exercise might look something like this:

If you've read this and disagree, well, I guess the grass really is greener on the other side of Victoria's Secret.