Me: I hate Christmas music I think. That's not true. I like some of it. Cam: Like what? Me: ...
So yeah, I guess I hate Christmas music. If I could find a store that didn't play Christmas music this time of year I would do all my Christmas shopping there. (Actually there is such a place--Urban Outfitters. It's Vampire Weekend all day everyday over there. But I don't think most members of my family would appreciate a thirty dollar tiny hat headband.)
There's a certain kind of girl who starts blasting Rudolph the Reindeer in the dorm the day after Thanksgiving. These are the kind of girls I think about smacking in the face with my shower caddy when I see them in the hall tweaking out because the Santa Clause 2 is on TV. I don't mean to trash anyone's inner child, but there comes an age where you're just not supposed to get pee-your-pants excited about Christmas. I mean, really? You're that excited about a big family dinner, TV specials and some new sweaters? Long story short, thanks to girls like these, this winter I've heard far more of the Chipmunks' Christmas and Glee Christmas album than I would like. I'm also starting to think that Alvin and the Chipmunks and the cast of Glee are the same musical entity.
Then of course, you've got the "War on Christmas" people. They think that cards that say "happy holidays" rather than Merry Christmas are persecution on the level of the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem Witch Trials combined. Except even worse, because it specifically targets Christians. Maybe I don't get it, but I'm not actually sure how a faith-neutral greeting further desecrates a holiday that's already celebrated with seven foot Spongebob Squarepants inflatables.
And Christmas music. I mean, holy God. It's okay when you're a kid. But then you get a little older and "Baby, It's Cold Outside" starts sounding kind of date-rapey and "Santa Baby" sounds like it's directed at Japanese schoolgirl fetishists and "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" just makes you want to shoot yourself in the face.
And really, does anyone actually like all the uber-treacly Christmas music that's out there? Or is it just pumped into department stores to drive people so crazy they start thinking that faux-fur trimmed cardigans and fuchsia chenille hat/scarf/glove sets and soap on a rope are good presents? I don't mean to be hyperbolic (well actually I totally do) but this is a perfect example of why the rest of the world hates us. All of our strained international relations can be distilled down to the fact that we as a nation allow Singin' Big Mouth Billy Bass to exist.
I mean, I like Christmas. I really do. It's nice. It's pleasant and everything. But sometimes a reasonable person just wants to tell everyone to chill the fuck out. ...Yeah, I know I'm a cranky jerk. Whatever. I also hate people who use the word "literally" when they obviously mean "figuratively" and people who say "expresso," so what are you going to do.
December's Cosmo has all kinds of brilliant advice for making your holiday season the sparkliest, sexiest, most boob-filled season ever. You've got to get your game on, ladies. You've got to get your holiday shit together. Luckily, Cosmo has everything you need.
Your guy Cosmo has nabbed some great recipes for cupcakes from Butch Bakery (which is unfortunately a non-ironic establishment that actually sells baked goods and not a lesbian porno that takes place in a patisserie). These are MAN cupcakes, none of that pussy chocolate and vanilla shit. These have beer in them, and bacon, because real men are never seen eating cupcakes. But really, if your man refuses to eat a cupcake in front of his girlfriend unless its been "butched" up, there might be a larger issue at play here. All I'm saying is that Mrs. Ted Haggard probably makes some bitchin rib-flavored macaroons.
Of course, Cosmo doesn't forget some tips to help you meet a dude if you are--God forbid--single at Christmas. (Because really, then who will you kiss under the mistletoe? And who, for the love of God, will go to Jared?) Here's some geographically specific tips for finding a holiday cuddle buddy:
The supermarket: Find a weirdly named product, like quinoa, on a nearby shelf, and ask him how to pronounce it. He'll love being able to help. If he has no clue, you can laugh about it. Either way the ice is broken."
Okay, first of all, good luck finding any dude outside of Berkeley who knows how to pronounce quinoa. (It's keen-wah. Now you know.) Second of all, stop pretending to be a total fucking moron to meet guys.
The library: Glance at whatever book he's holding. Tell him you've heard the one he grabbed is a great read and he's lucky he got it first. Teasingly say you'll let him have it but only if he promises to text you once he's done so you can check it out next.
Okay, yeah, no. This really doesn't work if he's holding Mein Kampf, or The Fountainhead. And trust me, I know how to pick up a dude in a library.
Your look
Cosmo has all kinds of advice for your holiday party outfits! Like...
Make a skin statement: Hit up an art store for some small rhinestones, the stick them to your bod in the shape of your (or your guy's) initials using easy-to-remove eyelash glue
This one is word-for-word taken from "Mean Girls," furthering my theory that Cosmo is fucking with us all.
Feather your hair: Do as rocker chicks like Ke$ha: clip or tie a feather (find them at accessory or craft stores) to the ends of your strands.
We want to look like Ke$ha now?
Your tits
Cosmo has no fewer than 25 fun things to do with your boobs this month. (Now, I don't speak for all women, but I don't often look down at my chest and think, "Jesus Christ, these damn things are so boring. Why can't you be more FUN?" But that's just me.) Here's some ways to have fun with your funbags:
"Trace your nipples with minty lip balm, and have him blow on them. This creates a cooling sensation that's sure to give you erotic shivers" Cosmo's sex advice section is obsessed with blowing on things, cooling things and, of course, with minty tits. This one's a triple whammy.
"With you on top, lean over his face and have him stick out his tongue. Then dangle your boobs above his mouth and shake them." That's the whole tip. Let him sort of damply flap his tongue on your dangling, shaking boobs. People get paid to think this shit up.
"Request that he slip on a pair of your superluxe cashmere gloves before running his hands over your bare breasts." 1. Dude, you're stretching out my $50 cashmere gloves. 2. Dude, you're naked except for "superluxe cashmere gloves." Would you by chance like a bacon-flavored cupcake?
I was never one of those kids who didn't want to grow up. I couldn't wait to grow up. The first specific age I wanted to reach was eleven. That was how old you had to be to hang out in the library by yourself. I was really cool. Then I started counting down to freshman year of high school, because really, middle school is just the Pit of Despair with more magazine subscription fundraisers and discussion of body odor. Then, obviously, the countdown to 16 began. 16 is when you get your driver's license in New Hampshire...you pretty much show up and show them you know how to turn on a car and move it forward and backwards and they give you a license. Where we're going, we don't need parallel parking, Marty!
Next up was eighteen, which meant I could vote. Which, yeah, I'll admit, I thought was freaking awesome. Pretty much I was Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club. (If you have a problem with me describing my youth in terms of eighties movies you can just gtfo, this is my blog.) Then I just wanted to go to college and ditch my small town high school. I was your typical Diane Court. And now here I am waiting around for the next big birthday--twenty-one. The age when apparently our brains become mature overnight and we magically all start drinking 1.5 glasses of Chardonnay and nibbling on cheese and crackers and all develop a distaste for infernal shit like Four Loko and Jaegermeister. Okay.
Now, I've matured. I've learned some stuff. Like always date a Wesley over a Jake Ryan, but definitely go with a Ferris Bueller over a Bender and a Lloyd Dobler over pretty much anyone. Except a Cameron Frye. That guy was basically the stealth hottie of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. He wins.
But man, junior year is getting me down. I'm living in a dorm, which makes me feel like a kid--an angry, sleep deprived kid-- and I'm also trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life, which is making me feel really old. I'm going to Spain for the semester in less than two months. That's freaking me out, in all honesty. I can't even decide if I want time to speed up or slow down. And I fucking hate it. I hate wallowing. Nobody puts me in a goddamn corner.
And yeah, I know I should chill out and be Zen about this situation called my life. I'm looking for a dare to be great situation when I all I need to do is relax and be the ball. And I am trying--I swear--to be the ball. After all, life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around, you might miss it. I'm working on that one.
The media's working really hard to make everyone care about Prince William and Kate Middleton getting engaged. I don't really know how many people actual care, but I get it. Yeah, they're the biggest welfare case in the world, but they're young, attractive and everybody loves a wedding. Will and Kate also seem sort of endearingly normal, so I can't hate on that. But it's more than that...Kate's going to be a princess, you guys. Who gets to be a princess anymore?
I don't even think this is about some kind of collective Disney princess complex; I think it's just because it's such a throwback, and that's kind of romantic. I'm not one of those people like Sarah Palin or Paula Deen who pines for a past that never actually existed. I think vaccines are awesome and I like voting and I'm pretty attached to modern oral hygiene. I indoor plumbing and hot showers and that I'm allowed to go to college. But I get it. Sometimes, I'm working on a paper on my Macbook and texting and watching Hulu when I'm taking a study break I just wish for something a little...sexier. Cooler. Badass-er. For instance:
1960s Madison Avenue
Pros: Drinking at work! Smoking at work! Sex at work! Men in suits! Casual racism! Oh, wait.
Cons: Ladies get jack-squat on the career front unless they're Peggy Olson. The Cuban missile crisis. Things really only get less glamorous from here on out. Girdles.
Hanging with the Impressionists
Pros: Those guys knew how to party, were total romantics and would take you on naked picnics.
Cons: They also might take you to the Moulin Rouge...which might have been okay in real life but that movie is seriously just Glee on a lot of absinthe. Also, syphilis.
The Roaring 20s
Pros: Everyone knew how to dance, the clothes were awesome, nobody realized the next twenty years were going to be terrible. Girls with no boobs were en vogue. I could learn to make gin in the bathtub.
Cons: Shellshock, jazz. And by the way, Boardwalk Empire sucks. Stop telling me to watch it.
November's Cosmo is all about hating yourself. Because you suck. Your skin is bad and you are giving all the wrong signals to men and screwing up at work and your boobs will never look like Katy Perry's boobs. Here's just a sampling all the things you suck at:
1. Giving handjobs. Because apparently men are all "craving" that weird-smelly-couch-in-your-parents'-basement feel, you need a full two page, three step system to learn how to give a handy. Truth.
2. Having a sex code. Cosmo spends a page suggesting that you and your man come up with a code word for sex. One couple uses "margaritas," which, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, is code for sex. If you have one, that's good--it means you're connecting, or something. But it's also bad, because "if you rely too heavily on it, it will make sex feel predictable" says some expertish author lady. So, wait...should I asking my boyfriend if he wants some couscous tonight or not? I'm not even sure anymore!
3. Talking about anything. The typical Cosmo girl spends about 50% of her timetrying to get her man to do things without actually verbalizing anything. I mean, ew. Words. (The rest of her time is broken up about like this: sexting 10%, vajazzling 10%, practicing come-hither looks in the mirror 10% and giving handjobs 20%) Here's a good one:"Recently, I stocked up on a ton of sexy lingerie, thinking my man would love it. He has yet to comment on my new purchases. Does that mean he's not into it and I wasted money?" Seems to me this could be solved really easily by asking him. But of course, in Cosmo's world, men are really just penises attached to wallets and hopefully good abs.They need to be manipulated veryyy carefully and with a minimum of chit chat.
4. Figuring out what to do on a Saturday night. Once again, you're at the same old bar, same old crowd. Why not bust out your Cosmo and suggest that everyone head to a bar with a name that starts with your best friend's middle initial! It will be so funny and spontaneous and you can drink pink drinks and talk about periods and shoes! Or you know, you could just go to a different bar! But whatever!
5. Sucking. Yes, you even suck at sucking. You are too much of a bitch...to yourself! Well, you might not be. But you can take Cosmo's helpful quiz which will establish that you're either a narcissist or a frigid, self-denying ball of suckage. Unless of course, you "totally heart you." Which believe me, you don't. Because we all suck.
But guess what--it's okay! Because we've got chocolate and shoes, ladies! And that's what women want. Duh. That and a good man who makes slightly more money than us who we can pleasure with our amazing skills with handjobs and ice cubes and scrunchies forever and ever. And chocolate, because that solves everything. Unless you really suck.
So unless you've been living under a rock you know that the Dems got their asses handed to them last Tuesday, nowhere more than here in New Hampshire. And I'm pissed--not so much with the outcome, because in a way I was expecting that, but I'm really pissed that my generation is going to have to clean up this almighty shitstorm that our parents left for us.
Our parents' generation was way too busy snorting coke and making money off Reaganomics and yelling about derivatives on their giant-ass cellphones to realize that they were screwing stuff up for the rest of us. Basically, way too much Charlie Sheen in "Money Never Sleeps" and not nearly enough Martin Sheen from "The West Wing." I know, I just blew your mind.
After our parents were done laying waste to the eighties, they occupied themselves analyzing the jizz stains on Monica Lewinsky's dress. And then they were busy worrying about weapons of mass destruction, and then they were busy screaming about socialism. And nobody noticed that actual, important shit was getting really fucked up.
I love voting. I've worked on political campaigns and always turn out to meet candidates, and I still think there's something pretty awesome about the way our system is supposed to work. But here's the thing. It's broken. All anyone cares about is getting reelected, and so no one does anything daring or interesting or remotely ballsy. There was a time when government did things like build the Hoover Dam, and establish Yellowstone National Park, or, I don't know, GO TO THE MOON. There was a time when government did cool stuff just because it was good for humanity. That, unfortunately, is not the time we live in.
Change is not going to come from the government. Not anymore. Don't stop voting--we've got to keep trying, anyway--but realize that nothing's going to change with a new batch of old guys in the Senate, or even one seemingly pretty cool guy in the Oval Office. Our generation has got to throw our weight elsewhere. If we want to affect change, we've got to do it without these clowns in Washington. Write some letters for Amnesty International. Volunteer at the Boys and Girls Club. Get involved at your local soup kitchen, or homeless shelter, or animal shelter, or battered women's shelter. Find something you care about. Take care of your community, take care of each other, and do something special, heroic or ballsy--the government sure as hell isn't going to.
P.S. My parents are kind of awesome, as parents go. So don't take the title personally. I know you creep my blog.
Me: I hate Christmas music I think. That's not true. I like some of it.
