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Wednesday, August 31, 2011

A Message from Irene

Hey Whores,

            So I guess I should, like, apologize for all that craziness I caused this past week. Flooding New York, sO cRaZy! I know everyone’s mad and lives were ruined and blah blah blah, but it, like, really wasn’t my fault. For real! Hear me out.
            Okay so first, I broke up with my boyfriend. I actually ended it because he was so controlling and has such a temper and always wanted all this attention and I’m like, “Um, HELLO, I’m at least a category 3, you need to appreciate me better!” You know what I’m saying? Frustratingggg. So yeah, dumped his ass, and kid goes ballistic. Causes a huge rumble throughout the East coast but since he always acts so irrationally without any follow through, he didn’t cause like any damage and just rattled some nerves. Typical! Still, he was like a 5.8 so I’ll probably drunk dial him this weekend…
            Obviously, that whole thing pissed me off a little. I went to get margs with my friend Katrina because she had been through, like, the same thing with her ex-boyfriend a few years ago. Ugh, looooove girlfriends. She was like, “Girl, this is YOUR breakup and he’s taking the spotlight. Hell to the no! You need to go out there and show him how it’s really done!” Side note: Katrina’s kind of a huge betch, but she invites me to her beach house every summer so whatev. And anyway, after a fishbowl strawberry margarita and free shots from the creepy divorced men at the bar, she made a lot of sense. Don’t judge me! So I totes agreed and went out and did my thang.
            Another thing was that it’s that time of the month. I know, right? All of these things piled into one? FML. I, like, wasn’t even that mad and didn’t plan on getting that out of control, but I ran out of Midol and my cramps were unnnreal and I knew that everyone was gossiping about me and my life so I was all, “Sorry I’m SO interesting, assholes. I’ll give you something to talk about!” and went nutso. Be real, you would’ve done the same thing in my position. It’s like, don’t mess with a bitch who can do it better, you know?
            Anywayz, I guess I did a pretty decent job of fucking shit up. Those people in Vermont are all, “How do we deal with this?” and I’m like, “Suck it! Sorry I’m not sorry!” I mean I don’t wanna come off as Crazy Girl or anything, but I think I totally showed my ex who really runs the show and now I’m like, such a celeb. Look for me flashing my Britney to the paparazzi sometime soon! I’m gonna make bank off of this US Weekly interview.

Love ya XOXO,
Irene

How to be Hot: Girl Edition

It would not be fair to instruct boys how to be hot without giving a little advice to the ladies. Statistically, girls have it much easier when it comes to transforming into a more attractive version of themselves. Half the time, all you have to do is change out of your overalls and get an Acuvue prescription a la Rachael Leigh Cook in She’s All That and you’re golden. But there are certain trends and behaviors that make a girl undeniably unappealing to those around her, and I’m here to save you from yourselves.

It’s about to get betchy up in here; deal with it.

1. Get rid of the skunk hair: It is entirely possible for someone to have an array of shades throughout their coif that are completely natural, due to genes or sunlight or whatever else. No one questions girls with subtly-colored hair because it really doesn’t warrant much notice, and even if she DID dye it, girlfriend did a fantastic job and should be commended for such strategic highlighting skills. The difference between this girl and Pepe le Whatthefuckdidyoudotoyourself is the fact that her hair isn’t peroxide blonde on top and pitch black underneath. Do not argue with me: you look like an idiot. I have no idea who started this trend but she needs to be hung by a Repunzel rope made of her own bad decisions. I don’t think even Locks of Love would accept that trash. It’s not cute, you don’t look sexy in any sense of the word, and no matter how many times I see it I always assume that the girl is either A) pregnant or B) smelly. What’s wrong with monotone? Go buy yourself a box of Medium Golden Brown and reap the benefits of automatically looking less and less like a reject from Rock of Love.

2. Avoid crusty lashes: Makeup is our friend, girls. I won’t feed you some bullshit that we’d all be better off going au naturale because that’s a bold-faced lie, and it’s just common sense that a pretty girl can turn instantly gorgeous with a little eyeliner and some well-placed bronzer. Unfortunately, it’s a slippery slope into spider-eye territory, and before you know it, a few friendly swipes of your mascara wand can leave your lids feeling 10 pounds heavier and your face looking like Janice from The Muppets. If your eyelashes are separated and have a dark tint, there is absolutely no reason to continue to add another umpteen layers so that it looks like you have just four megalashes that each has a personality of his/her own. I apologize for my insincerity if you happen to have OCD and this is just one of your rituals, but use that time to straighten out your refrigerator or something that doesn’t make you look like a crack whore.

3. Be aware of whether or not you can pull off jeggings: I have a huge ass. I’m Italian and Polish, I really didn’t stand a chance. I’m very wary of anything extremely tight-fitting because I know that without trying my donk is going to command some pretty substantial attention, so when jeggings first appeared on the fashion radar, I generally ignored them because there was NO WAY my humps my humps my humps were going to be contained. It seems that not all girls are this self-aware. More power to ya if you’re conscious of the junk in your trunk and still choose to rock pants that are essentially a second skin, but there really is a fine line between “you go girl” and “Girl, you need to go check yourself in a mirror because the fabric is stretching so tightly over your goods I can practically see your crack and it’s scaring me.” Leave something to the imagination. Buy the next size up. Stick with normal jeans, they’re a lot more durable and they don’t have an obnoxious hybrid name that already sounds like a wedgie waiting to happen.

4. Do not wear any perfume by Britney Spears: You know in Mean Girls when Janice says, “What’s that smell?” and Cady responds, “Oh, Regina gave me some perfume,” to which Janice says, “You smell like a baby prostitute”? I am 99.9% sure that the perfume Regina gave to Cady was Curious. If you can pinpoint the strongest scent of the perfume as some kind of ├╝ber sugary candy or anything else cavity-inducing, and you proceed to drench yourself in it like some kind of slut baptismal, you really need to reevaluate your direction in life. Smelling good is a huge plus and is one of the easiest ways to attract guys (bonus points if you get the illegal stuff with pheromones, but that gets where things get shady), but there’s no need to reek of Willy Wonka’s newest concoction. I wouldn’t exactly endorse anything by Paris Hilton or Hilary Duff either, but anyone who throws a few rhinestones on a bright pink bottle of skank juice is no friend of mine.

5. Shave your legs: This shouldn’t even need to be said. If you’re trying to bag yourself a hottie, hairy legs are like holding a huge neon sign that says, “I couldn’t care less about myself! I smell like patchouli! You’re going to put me in the friend zone…IF I’M LUCKY! We’ll go on dates to Kroger after you take that other girl to the zoo and to get ice cream! What’s shampoo?” Everyone gets lazy, and everyone gets to a point in mid-January where it’s freezing cold outside, you haven’t had a romantic prospect in a solid six weeks, and all you want to do is sit in your sweatpants and color coordinate your school planner, but should the opportunity arise for you to getchoself some male attention you need to be ready. While it may be fun to see who out of your roomies can grow the longest leg hair, no one’s laughing at the disgusted face your boy toy makes when he discovers the Amazon growing above your ankles. Get Skintimate stat.

6. Swap the running shorts for real clothes once in a while: 8am’s are a bitch, I totally hear you. Doing anything but throwing on a random t-shirt and some flip-flops and hiding your makeup-less face behind a pair of Nicole Ritchie-huge sunglasses is practically torture that early in the morning, but consider this: how many other girls woke up and did the exact same thing? I recently sat on campus and counted the number of girls who walked by wearing the TSM uniform of Nike running shorts, a GO GREEK t-shirt, Sperry’s, a Vera Bradley bag, and a ponytail and thought about how happy I was to be wearing…not that. My friends give me shit all the time for “dressing up” for class when in actuality I’m wearing denim shorts and something not produced by Hanes, but I have to say, the boys definitely notice. I’m not suggesting you go all out every single day, but stand apart from the pack once in a while in something that takes about a minute of extra effort and I know you’ll be changed forever. Jessica Simpson was actually onto something when she sang “A little bit goes a long way,” but she up and dropped the ball when she went on to belt out, “With nothing but a t-shirt on.” And who’s married to Nick Lachey now? I’m not sayin, I’m just sayin.

If you know a girl who would benefit from this list, do whatever you have to do to get the message to her. Print it out and slide it under her door, copy-and-paste it into a Facebook message (or post it directly onto her wall if you’re a huge asshole), read the most helpful item directly to her followed by a slap across the face and a drill sargeant-worthy, “Honey, get your shit together!”, etc. Like I said, girls have it easy. There are very few females in this world who are lost causes, and even those girls somehow get themselves a boyfriend from time to time. Seriously, if all you have to do is have normal-colored hair and a pair of well-fitting pants to be considered remotely good-looking, wouldn’t you do it? That’s a yes.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

How to be Hot: Guy Edition

Many times, when articles like this are written, they’re prefaced with a disclaimer stating that all of the below information should be taken as a joke, that it’s completely satirical, and that it’s for entertainment purposes only.

This is not one of those times.
I am dead serious.

Being attractive is not hard, and let’s face it, it’s a hell of a lot easier than being fugly. There are a few simple measures that should be taken that I can guarantee will up your hotness factor by at least 70%. Who wouldn’t want those odds? Here we go:


1. Buy Crest Whitestrips: Yellow teeth are absolutely disgusting. I want nothing to do with a boy with pee-stained Chiclets. You smoke? You’re addicted to coffee? Your toothbrush broke twelve years ago? Fine. A box of these babies will run you about thirty bucks and you instantly look cleaner, wealthier, and all around more bangable. I have met more than my fair share of boys with great smiles and a fantastic laugh that I would rather see don a Silence of the Lambs-esque mask than open their mouths. To look in a mirror and see nothing wrong with two rows of teeth colored with highlighters is a serious problem. Please remedy the situation ASAP.

2. Get in the gym: One of the dead giveaways that a boy is a freshman – besides the lanyard around his neck and “What’s your major?” being his go-to pick-up line – is his scrawny body. I don’t care if you’re naturally small-boned and didn’t get the genes of Arnold Schwarzenegger (although now you might want to reexamine that option), there is no excuse for girly arms. I don’t want to size you up and come to the conclusion that I’d murder you in an arm wrestling match. Go to the gym and start lifting. Being smaller is fine, but looking frail makes me want to donate to the Make a Wish foundation in your honor, and if all of that nonsense can be avoided by a few reps on the lat pull-downs and a push up or fifty, it’s worth it.

3. Clear up that face: You went through puberty many moons ago, my friend, and it’s time for the acne to go. There are like 500 different products on the market right now that will fix your situation and preserve your sexy, just like P. Diddy says. I understand that zits can be tough to conquer and in some cases, you might just say fuck it and bail on your skincare regime, but stay the course and you will reap the benefits of having great skin. It should also be noted that boys with bad skin also usually have gross teeth, so if you fall into this category, please refer to #1.  

4. Step up your shoe game: I’m judgmental. I’m sure you couldn’t tell. I can automatically determine whether or not I like a guy within the first seven seconds of meeting him based entirely off of two factors: his nose and his shoes. The latter of the two is crucial. I don’t care who you are, where you’re from, what you did, as long as you’re not wearing all-white New Balances. If I think even for a second that you mow the lawn in your footwear of choice, strike one you’re out. Acceptable shoe apparel: Sperry’s, Nike Dunks, Rainbow flippies, Vans that haven’t been decorated with Sharpie (are you a preteen girl?), and Converse Chuck Taylor’s in black, grey, navy, or tan. That is seriously all. We’ll discuss that shnoz another time.

5. DON’T get rid of your glasses: This sounds ass-backwards based on what is typically delivered by advice circles formulating their points entirely off of pop culture, but I swear to god those specs are babe magnets. Whether or not you’re actually intelligent won’t matter in the slightest when that girl from your physics lab spots you studying and/or “studying” in the library, absent-mindedly readjusting your frames and concentrating on the equation at hand. Suddenly, she shoots her BFF a text saying, “Hey, did you know [secret nickname for you, probably offensive] wears glasses? He’s at the lib looking sextastic right now. Dibs!” You are so in, buddy, and all because you slept in your contacts and your eyeballs were on fucking fire this morning. A boy in glasses is suddenly much more intriguing, and you can and should use your newfound Clark Kent persona to your full advantage. Let the lenses do the work for you.

6. Tame your man-scruff: Clean shaven? Sexy. A little bit of somethin? Really sexy. ZZ Top beard? I don’t even need to say it. Facial hair is your frienemy, and should be treated accordingly. Keep that 5 o’clock shadow at bay and not only will your getting-ready routine be cake, but you’re silently inviting hot girls to touch your face all day (unless you’re break-out prone; see #3!). If you’re one of the lucky few who can pull off a chinstrap or goatee without looking like a cholo or the token “badass” from any of the boy bands of the 90’s, by all means rock that shit out. If you definitely cannot, don’t. Furthermore, if your mantra is “I don’t give a fuck” and you live every day of your life like it’s No Shave November, don’t be surprised when the only girl you find is the one who shares your likeness to Grizzly Adams in at least three areas of her own body. Gross, right? Better break out the Norelco.   


Please, do your fellow bro a solid and pass this list onto him. It’s especially helpful for the incoming college freshman, but let’s not kid ourselves, I know a super senior or four that could use the reminder. And don’t think I’m being sexist here: the ladies have their own list coming so the playing field will be leveled.

Now go forth and summon your inner stud! He’s in there somewhere! Hopefully!

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

It's Too Late to Apologize, It's Too Laaaate


Boys get a lot of shit for their [sometimes] ridiculous behavior. I know I’ve written about it, I know my friends and I talk about it, and I know Cosmo provides the criticism about it that usually spawns the conversation between my friends and I, but it’s time to be fair. Yes, you guys do some crazy ass stuff, but me and the ladyfriends are not completely innocent. I may be acting entirely alone here (I believe in the Girl Code, but I also believe in logical thinking), but I’d like to apologize for some of the things we do.
Babes: I’m not breaking any bond, so cool your jets and reinvite me to Girls’ Night J.


Sorry about the throw pillows: We know they’re cumbersome. We know there are too many of them. We know they’re too frilly and bedazzled to nap on and are therefore rendered pointless, but hear us out: They match the walls. That couch is a hand-me-down from my friend’s cousin’s sorority sister, and probably has about seven years’ worth of drool, spilled vodka, and mystery stains all over it. Neither of us wants to look at that, and pillows are a cheap and easy cover-it-up solution. We understand that your couch is in the same condition and you let the filth fly free, but the soap in the bathroom is lavender scented and the cookie jar is in the shape of a puppy, so we’re clearly living on two separate planets to begin with. Remember, though: the name “throw” pillow is just a stylistic term, so don’t even think about tossing that baby on the floor. Kindly push it aside and tolerate our girly ways; you can return to your rugged man cave later.

Sorry about the man-hating Facebook statuses: I don’t personally write these, because I’m not a fan of broadcasting my every emotion in general, but I see it quite often and I know it’s gotta be annoying. To be honest, you all can be pretty fucking stupid at times, but the yin to that yang is when you’re total sweethearts and sadly no one ever seems to give credit in those situations. The fact that a girl still has solid chances of getting laid even after she posts, “I’d like to cut off every penis in the world and feed them to a pack of hungry panthers” really has to be the lowest of low blows, because if you were to reciprocate that against the female population, you’d be left jacking off to your poster of Jeremy Piven for the rest of eternity. Don’t take it personally. And hey, if you really want to ward off these evil, estrogen-filled fragments of lady-scorn, a random “You look really nice today” (minus the boob stare) goes a long way.


Sorry about the lip gloss: It’s goopy and gets all over your face, so you either walk around after a smooch sesh looking like a five-cent tranny, or it’s blatantly obvious that you were just making out with the fat chick in the bathroom and we’re all gonna talk about it fo dayz. Wish there was something we could do, but the fact of the matter is, you’d feel a lot worse about yourself if you felt like you were kissing Tyrone Biggums, so it’s one of those things you just take with a grain of salt and inconspicuously wipe off afterward. Plus, it tastes like watermelon!

Sorry about my period and all of the elements that come with it: What, you think it’s a booze cruise to Skinny and Comfortable Land up in here? We really don’t want to burst into tears when you don’t immediately deny how much hotter our roommate is than us, and we certainly don’t want to snap at you for not refilling the Brita pitcher, but in four-ish days everything will be back to normal so just sit tight and keep your game face on. We appreciate you being so great and offering us the last bite of lasagna, but we already feel like fat cows (as evidenced by our sweatpants) so just keep it to yourself and rub our backs. And don’t judge us when we go to sleep with said sweatpants on – you knew nothing was happening tonight anyway. Now get out before we cut you.

Sorry about my obsession with Toddlers and Tiaras: And Say Yes to the Dress. And Real Housewives of New Jersey. We know you think this definitely means we want to marry you in a $12,000 Pnina Tornai gown, tease our hair while living in a Scarface-esque mansion across the Hudson River, and raise our daughter to be an obnoxiously bitchy 3-going-on-23-year-old, but it’s not entirely true. Horrible reality TV is our thing (and who says we want to marry you in the first place? Whattup Albie Manzo!). We're not going to tell anyone that this is what we do every Wednesday night at 8 pm, and we promise you can watch Deadliest Catch later, so be a trouper and let us have our guilty pleasures.

Sorry about the drunk texts: It’s probably a super ego booster when we tell you how great you look in person. It probably has a significantly less encouraging affect when you receive that compliment in the form of, “Omg ypu lokk sooo hot TOnifht.” Our bad. It’s the thought that counts, but we can all agree that if we’re having trouble spelling “you,” our thoughts are probably not all there. There’s a good chance that we sincerely mean what we say, it’s just a little difficult to determine what we mean in that mess of gibberish. Please don’t forever view us as incoherent, flippant, sloppy idiots, because if we were like this all day every day the assumption would be that we were palsied, not drunk. Laugh it off, and for the love of God don’t bring it up tomorrow.

Sorry about my relationship with my dog: Actually, I'm sorry you and I will never even be CLOSE to having the relationship I have with my dog. I love that little guy to pieces.    

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Just Another Reason to Love Paula Deen

In some ways, I am very much a 40-year-old desperate housewife trapped in a 21-year-old’s body. I enjoy interior decorating; I could spend hours in a craft store; when I get down to it I really don’t mind doing dishes; and more than anything else, I absolutely LOVE baking. One might innocently compare me to a smaller, higher-pitched Martha Stewart, but I could never allow that. Why? Because Martha Stewart is a fucking liar, that’s why.
I own Martha Stewart’s Cookies, one of the most fabulous cookie cookbooks around. That thing is more my Bible than Cosmo and The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants combined, but Martha will never be my Jesus. This immense loathing all comes down to one single recipe: Chewy Molasses Crinkles.

Now I’ve stated time and time again that I’m not exactly the best at following directions, and that totally goes for abiding by recipes. Sifting dry ingredients together in a separate bowl only dirties another dish, and that just wastes time and water; I’m trying to be green here (and I might be a little lazy). Regardless of my method, my baked goods always turn out phenomenal so there’s really no room for regrets…and then I tried these cookies. I am completely positive that I did everything correctly in terms of measurements and bake time and all that jazz, and the dough didn’t show any signs of mischievous behavior, so upon popping them in the oven, my tummy and I were fully prepared for the delish treats that Martha promised. Sixteen minutes later I find a cookie sheet of paper thin crispiness that was flatter than a seventh grade girl. “Eff,” I thought, “Did I forget the baking soda? Too much butter? What the crap is this nonsense?” I recheck the recipe and don’t notice any major whoopsies, so I served them to my family with an apology and quietly pondered the mystery. In the book, the recipe is filed under the chapter Soft and Chewy, and these cookies were neither. I don’t have a lot of excitement in my life so clearly this whole ordeal bothered the hell of out of me. It took a few days, but I got over it, and they certainly didn’t taste bad – which is usually the only factor that really matters to me – so I followed the words of Tim Gunn and carried on.
A year later I was flipping through the book following one of my frequent baking whims, and ran across this recipe again. A person can change quite a bit over the course of twelve months, so I figured I’d give it another go. Maybe it was just beginner’s luck, but opposite. Practice makes “almost perfect,” right Martha? WRONG. From the first batch, I got the same exact pan of flat, crunchy, contradictory cookies that I did the year before. Like any good cook, I adjusted my process for the second batch, decreasing the bake time by a whopping four minutes, hoping that the oven was just too mighty for Martha’s soft-spoken, Brooks-Brothers-shirt-wearing, no-sense-of-humor recipe. Yet again, I was defeated. I don’t take well to failure, and on a perseverant try three, I went so far as to make the cookies smaller with an even shorter baking time and only came up with a pile of uncooked molasses pancakes that seemed to mock me with their gooey centers. Say it with me now: FUCK THESE SHENANIGANS.


The review note I wrote to myself on the page of the cookbook. Clearly not amused.

I considered trying this recipe for a third summer in a row this past week, but then I said to myself, “NO, I will not go through such unnecessary agony again. I will not give Martha the sweet satisfaction of loyalty and trust that she expects simply because she’s a domestic goddess and has her own line of scrapbooking supplies at Michael’s. I have HAD it.” Martha Stewart is like the poster child for the obsessive and meticulous, and I never thought she’d steer me so wrong. Is she aware of this atrocious lapse in culinary instruction? Has she demanded a recall of all future publications of this cookbook until a change is made? Have we all caught on to the fact that I still refuse to believe I was the one at fault here? If anyone tries the recipe (reprinted below) and gets perfect results out of it, you have full permission to slander my name all over the internet. Until then, I’m going to go on record saying that Martha is an imposter and might as well stick to making paper cherry blossoms and decoupaging keepsake boxes before I discover another one of her mistakes and ruin her career forever.


Erroneously “Chewy” Molasses Crinkles
·         1/2 C unsalted butter, room temperature
·         1C packed light brown sugar
·         2 large eggs
·         1/2 C granulated sugar, plus 1/4C for rolling
·         1/2 C unsulfured molasses
·         2 Tablespoons vegetable oil
·         2 C All purpose flour
·         1 tsp. baking soda
·         1 tsp. ground cinnamon
·         1 tsp. ground ginger
·         1 tsp. allspice
·         1/2 tsp. coarse salt

1. Put butter, brown sugar, and 1/2 c granulated sugar in bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment.  Mix on medium speed until smooth, about 3 minutes.  Mix in eggs one at a time, followed by the molasses and oil.
2.  Reduce speed to low; gradually mix in flour, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, and salt.  Cover dough with plastic wrap; refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour or overnight.
3.  Preheat oven to 325 F.  Put remaining 1/4 c granulated sugar in a bowl.  Using a 1 3/4 inch ice cream scoop, form balls of dough.  Roll balls in sugar to coat, and space 3 inches apart on baking sheets lined with parchment paper.  Bake, rotating sheets halfway through, until cookies are flat and centers are set, about 17 minutes.  Let cool completely on sheets on wire racks.  Cookies can be stored between layers of parchment in airtight containers at room temperature up to 5 days.