Money, cash, hoes. Money, cash, hoes. What?!

Recently, Jay-Z, writer of "Big Pimpin'" and "Can I get a fuck you?," proclaimed that he is "deeply disappointed" in Rihanna and Chris Brown.  According to this article, "Jay doesn't understand how a man could ever lay hands on a woman; it just goes against who he is and about.”


So I guess I'm just wondering, Jay-Z, what is it that you're all about? Because according to your song, "Money, Cash, Hoes," it seems like you're also about making a profit whilst degrading women.  You can't understand how a man could ever lay a hand on a woman? Well, they do that when they feel like women are beneath them. For example, when they treat women like "hoes," as you would say.  So, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure your philosophies about women are any more honorable than Chris Brown's.   

But, Jay-Z isn't the only hypocrite here, so are the fans of this kind of music. It's hard for me to understand how anyone can be upset about the Rihanna/Chris Brown collaboration when they are the same people who value all of the other over-sexualized, mysoginistic pop music. How is this song any different than those sung by Nicki Minaj, Britney Spears, Lil' Wayne, Lady Gaga, etc., etc., etc.? Maybe that's the real problem.  


You can't advocate for female empowerment when you support an industry that continually exploits women.


The end. 

No Boys Allowed

I go to an all women's gym, and I love it, I really do (insert lesbian joke here; you know you want to). It has everything -- brand new equipment, a sauna, free tampons, the works! It really is worth the astronomical price I pay each month to go there. 


The only thing is that the women there are always naked in the locker room. Always naked. Shamelessly naked. All the time. Now, don't get all excited, boys. These women are generally old and/or saggy and/or hairy -- not your fantasy. And, oddly enough, not mine either. 


Don't get me wrong, I don't really care about seeing naked people or being naked myself. In fact, it takes way too much effort to try to undress/dress discretely than it does to just get naked in the locker room. I get it. And I do it too. But what I don't understand is the lingering nakedness that is rampant at my gym. Like, why do you have to take off all of your clothes on one side of the locker room to walk all the way to the other side of the locker room naked just to weigh yourself naked? Why? You could wear your underwear. They amount to about 2 ounces; you can just subtract that shit off of your weight if you're that worried about it. Or, you could weigh yourself at home, in all your naked glory, alone in your bathroom. There's some shit I don't want to see, and it's most likely yours. 

Look how happy she is weighing herself with clothes on.

I've also had to witness women literally blow drying their bush in the vanity area. There I am, just trying to put on my make up while fully-clothed, and I have to stand next to this travesty. It's disconcerting, to say the least. 

Basically, many of the women at my gym seem to forget that the locker room is not their personal bathroom and that they have to share the space with others. They flail their naked bodies all about. They spread their shit EVERYWHERE so that you can't possibly use the bench to do things like sit. They're just rude, plain and simple. The other day, some bitch yelled at me for using perfume because it's quote, "not allowed." First of all, I didn't even use perfume; and, second of all, if I can't use perfume in the locker room then you can't blow dry your pubes there either. I think that's only fair.

Vlogging is the new blogging

I've been thinking about adding videos to my blog for a while now. I'm not sure why. Possibly because I've been watching My Drunk Kitchen lately and think it's hysterical. But the thing is, Hannah Hart knows what she is doing, and I, clearly, do not. In fact, if it weren't for my dear friend Kyle, who knows how to do shit on computers, no one would be able to hear anything I say because I don't even know where the mic is on my lap top. 

Basically, there's absolutely no reason why I should be making videos.

Whatever.

Here is my very first "vlog" about essentially nothing, though it does give some insight on what it is like to be in grad school. Enjoy. 

Also, I'm really sorry, guys. I promise I'll never say "vlog" again, okay?

Namaste, or whatever.

Last night, I went to my second yoga class. It was much better than my first yoga class, which was simply terrifying.

Yoga cat.

For one thing, my first yoga class involved a lot of moaning. Not just like loud breathing, which apparently is common in any yoga class, but like full-on moaning. Is this normal? I didn't think so.


Also, since I took it at a gym, I was surrounded by mirrors. This was unpleasant as I never really want to see myself contorting my body into uncompromising positions. 


But the worst part was at the end of class when we laid under Mexican blankets and took a 15 minute nap. There I was, on a Friday night at the gym, trying to get a good work out in before the weekend, and I'm taking a fucking nap. I was not relaxed. Instead, I was panicking about how much longer it would last, how lazy I was beginning to feel, and how much I had to do after class. I realize this is the exact opposite of how I was supposed to feel. 


Last night, however, I did actually feel relaxed. And despite the heavy breathing, I was not as uncomfortable with my surroundings as I was the first time around. Perhaps this was because I was at an actual yoga studio or because there were no Mexican blankets. But, either way, don't expect me to become a "yogi" any time soon. I can't afford that shit.

Wine-o on a Dime-o

I love wine. I love wine so much. Sometimes, I think too much. But it's good for your heart, right?

The other night I went out with a large group of people, half of which I didn't know, and ordered a bottle of wine for myself. It dawned on me, when the waiter brought it to our table and placed it in front of me, that people were giving me questioning looks. I'm sure they were thinking, "that bitch is an alcoholic." But, in my defense, I was just being economical. 


A bottle is $22. A glass is $8. It just makes sense to buy the whole bottle. And then I don't have to *panic* when my glass is empty and the waiter is no where to be found. Really, people should be taking lessons from me about how to drink on a dime with CLASS. 

Bottle for one.

Something else you should know about wine is that it sometimes comes in a box. This is another way to save money and drink well. 

Now, when you hear boxed wine, you probably think Franzia and frat basements and throwing up in a dorm bathroom. But stop doing that because there are actually some good wines that come in boxes. Exhibit A:

Get some, get some.

I can't say enough good things about boxed wine, but here are some fun facts:

• It's cheap: you get FOUR bottles in one box for about $20.
• It lasts longer: bottled wines typically go bad in about 3 days; boxed wines last as long as it takes to finish one (3 days). 
• It's less wasteful: recycle that shit.
• It's like having a soda fountain of wine in your kitchen. A SODA FOUNTAIN OF WINE. 

Okay, so I realize this post doesn't really do anything for my claim that I am not an alcoholic, but I swear I'm not. I have never woken up and needed to drink. I mean sure, I've woken up and wanted to drink, but I've never needed to. So that's the difference. 

My Blogger Promise

As you have probably learned from reading this blog, I may or may not ever have a boyfriend. But, I promise with all of my heart that if I ever do have one, I will never, ever refer to him as "The Boyfriend" or "The Boy" (see also: "The Husband" and "Hubby"). 


This is an obnoxious thing bloggers and people on Facebook do. Not only is it annoying, but it's also grammatically inappropriate.  Boyfriend is not a proper noun. Ever. It's just a regular old noun. And, under (almost) no circumstance does it require a demonstrative adjective. Your boyfriend is not the only boyfriend of the world; he is your boyfriend. Just yours*. Congratulations. 


He also has a name, so use it. We'll be able to figure out using context clues that Bob, who lives with you and eats the food you make, is your boyfriend. So, don't worry -- everyone will still know that you have one! 


Or, if you're too afraid to say his name on the internet, then don't fucking talk about him because chances are none of your readers give a shit anyway. I came to your blog to get a pie recipe not to hear about your relationship.

Deep breath.

As you can see, using "The Boyfriend" is one of my pet peeves. Right up there with people you're not related to saying things like, "Mom says hi." No. Your mom says hi. We're not siblings. That would be fucking disgusting considering what we just did.





*Unless of course he's cheating on you, in which case, sucks to be you.

No One Likes a (Green) Giant.

Have you ever seen that Green Giant commercial that says you can now eat your vegetables with sauce and not feel guilty about it? It's pretty awful, and it also makes me wonder if anyone ever felt guilty about it before. I know, according to the media, I am supposed to feel guilty about eating chocolate and ice cream and food, but I never knew vegetables were bad too. 


Apparently they were. That is, until Green Giant saved the day with its low-cal cheese sauce. In the commercial, a woman (of course, because women are the only people who diet or need to diet and who have to sit and eat fucking vegetables without sauce or they'll get fat and die and no one will like them ever) is happily eating a tiny plate of broccoli and sauce. There's nothing else on the plate. That's all. A half cup of broccoli and some watery "cheese" sauce. And she's smiling about it. 

Listen, this bitch is either on serious drugs or getting paid a shit ton* to pretend that she's actually satisfied with this bullshit meal.  Take it from someone who used to eat Green Giant vegetables for lunch every day. Those were the worst days of my life. MY LIFE. And not because I felt guilty about the sauce, but because I was fucking starving.


I could get more feminist about this, but I'm not going to do that because that's not the purpose of this blog (there's a purpose?), and because I still strive to be a housewife. But the fact that women feel like they have to eat a 60 calorie meal so that they don't feel guilty about eating in general is fucked up.






*legitimate unit of measure. 

Monday Mourning

Though I'm not ready to talk about last night and probably never will be, I do want to say thank you to my friends and family for their support and concern. I'd also like to say that I am mildly disturbed by how serious this currently sounds as well as how serious everyone's support and concern has been.


Texts I received during and after the game:

• "Terrified for your emotional well being."
• "I'm so sorry."
• "How are you holding up?"
• "Whatever happens, don't kill yourself tonight."

And this morning:

• "I just want to say that I'm really sorry."
• "Hope you're okay today." 

I'm not. I'm dressed in all black. But,

Some Thoughts on Dove Chocolate

me:  dove chocolate wrappers are so fucking stupid 

Chris:  they really are

me:  "believe in the ones you love"... first of all, don't tell me what to do. second of all, you don't know me.

Chris:  what if youre lonely and you love no one and you just want to eat

me:  you probably are if you're fucking eating chocolate by yourself

Chris:  "draw yourself a bath"

me:  some people don't have baths. dove is so fucking rude. i really like their chocolate but id also like to be left the fuck alone, you know?

Chris:  yeah. it really isn't too much to ask at all. i mean, i thought it was a common understanding that your chocolate, being an inanimate object, didnt say a fucking word to you.

Why does Dove have my work schedule?