Confession: The Bachelor And Me

I have a thing for the bachelor.  No, not the personality-less boytoy that is this season’s current love hunter Jake, but the TV show itself.  I await the arrival of a new season of The Bachelor with the type of anxious hand wringing normally reserved for small children who torture their siblings around Christmastime.  Will the women be crazy?  Will they inexplicably fall in love with a man they have spent only a few hours with and shriek at the mere mention of his name?  Will their one-on-ones reveal their vile personalities while they remain disturbingly sweet around the bachelor himself?  Will he figure out that the only one good enough for him is someone who chooses not to go on television to find a spouse?

Normally, this complete absorbtion in the show manifests itself in gleeful chuckling as I predict which of the women will be first to cry/swear/proclaim (she is only here to find love) while fast forwarding through endless recapping of what’s coming up next and the handing out of roses at the endlessly drawn out “will you accept this soon-to-wilt flower” ceremony.  Just get to the woman crying in the driveway before being shoved into a windowless van already!

Unfortunately, this year I realized I am the same age as most of these women on the show: 25.  Traditionally, I mock the youngsters on the show for being so desperate that they think reality TV is the only option left for finding love.  If he is really so perfect, he wouldn’t be on television dating and groping twenty other women, now would he ladies?  But 25 is different.  People I know are actually getting married now and my parents no longer react with a shocked look on their face when I tell them about so-and-so’s engagement.

And yet, these 25 year olds on the show seem so much older than me.  I would like to think this is because their copious amounts of make-up make them look like rapidly aging trophy wives, but it is more likely because they know what they want: white picket fences, dogs, a bland pilot husband, or, at the very least, fame.  Though their biological clocks may be ringing a bit too early in my opinion, I am no longer in the age range at which going on The Bachelor is the craziest thing one could do.  To be honest, that scares me more than the likelihood that Jake’s nice-guy persona is a cover for his Dexter-ish secret identity.

So, I need to find moral superiority over these lovestruck loonies some other way.  And I do this by reminding myself that I have a real job.  I’m not a “career consultant” or “model/salon owner” or “dogwalker,” which, to be honest, on this show, all really mean the same thing: “unemployed, living at home, clutching a pillow at night bemoaning my single status while consulting the newspaper horoscopes praying that the tall, dark, and handsome stranger knocks on my door to rescue me from a life of tedium while my parents pay him to move me to another state so they no longer have to worry about their 22 year old spinster daughter.”  At least my career is succinct: I am a lawyer.  I may not know what the future holds, but at least I know it doesn’t involve Chris Harrison.  And with that knowledge, I can go back to chortling over crazy eyes, blatant product placement, constant flying metaphors, and the inability of these girls to hold their liquor.  To The Bachelor, may it continue to provide me with hours of amusement!

 

They’re Back…And They’re Stealing My Spotlight.

My brothers are home.  My huge, gigantic, over-the-top brothers are home.  While they’ve been gone, I’ve forgotten how to be a sibling.

For the past four months (can’t believe it has been that long), I’ve been an only child.  The apple of my parents’ eye.  Sure they called my brothers on the phone, but those were fifteen to twenty minute conversations filled with grunts and yeahs to mom and dad’s concentrated efforts to discover what was going on in their lives.  Not twenty-four hours a day teasing and reminders about “Hey Fangst, remember when you were totally into dragons…remember that?  You’re such a loser.”  Or “You’re fat!”

Do not get me wrong.  I love my brothers.  Most of the time, I worship the ground they walk upon.  They live super-cool, exciting lives where they no doubt are the most popular, charming guys around.  One of them, on the cross-country road trip he took post-college, struck up a conversation with a kid in South Dakota and ended up being invited to all of this kid’s college graduation festivities.  The other runs one of the largest organizations on his college campus with a reputation for throwing huge, awesome parties complete with bouncers and midgets.

I, on the other hand, am not so cool.  Currently, I live at home.  My most passionate activity over the past week has been watching NBC’s The Sing-Off with my mother.  This, of course, submits me to a lot of mocking.   A lot of (they better love me because otherwise this is just cruel) mocking.  Every time I think I get more “adult-like,” my brothers arrive home to remind that I am really a very spoiled five-year-old who hates fun and laughing.

To be honest, I’m totally OK with that.  Because when they leave, I’ll forget all the ribbing and the cruelty and remember the super-sweet Christmas gifts they bought me.  Or their willingness to go to the movies with me.  Or the random hug they gave me for making them some cookies.  I’ll forget the jokes made about the General Hospital episodes saved on my DVR (for the Franco, I swear!), but remember their delight in discovering the quirkiness of Better Off Ted.  And I’ll miss them.  The house will seem big again without their well over six foot frames and ginormous shoes.  My room will be quiet without their constant need to bang on my door and touch all my things.  Like others who block out the horrors of (sibling) warfare, I’ll be excited for them to return home again.

And when that happens, I’ll hug them and say “How was your trip?”  They’ll respond “Seriously, you’re eating a cookie?  Nice to know things never change.”  And then they’ll wrap me in a big hug and all will be quiet….for the moment.

 

The Internet Is Abuzz With Stories of Stereotypes At The Shore

A new Internet phenomenon has emerged in the past week and a half: disgust/celebration in the new MTV series Jersey Shore.  Although not a ratings or advertising success, the show has become a major focus for Internet commentators and television comedians.  I can only imagine the delight the editors of The Soup displayed when they realized they had weeks of new material of individuals embarrassing themselves in drunken revelry on a reality program that did not revolve around match-making or Bret Michaels.

How I feel about the show is hard to describe.  On one hand, the show is pure entertainment.  Watching these attention-seeking morons (for what other words can be used to described them?) berate each other and revel in their ignorance is can’t-turn-away spectacle.  Their complete lack of shame regarding the televising of their behavior is unbelievable to me.  Not a single one of them seems ashamed that their families, friends, and potential employers are watching them drink themselves into a stupor, climb into hot tubs wearing little more than mesh thongs, or refuse to show up to work because they are a “bartender” and working in a cheesy (and slightly offensive) t-shirt shop is beneath them.

On the other hand, I am from New Jersey and proud of it.  I hate jokes about the Garden State with their emphasis on likening it to garbage or armpits.  I don’t talwk or walwk or drink cawfee.  I don’t know anyone connected to the mob.  I revel in the hair rock of Bon Jovi and the blue-collaredness of Springsteen.  I love being minutes away from at least three malls and I will say with a straight face that Newark is going through a cultural re-invigoration under Mayor Cory Booker.  New Jersey is beautiful whatever those stupid tshirts from Urban Outfitters might say.

So, I take issue with Jersey Shore‘s emphasis on the Jersey aspect of this show.  The vast majority of the people living in that sub-par Real World-lite house are NOT from my great state.  They don’t know the beauty of Long Beach Island or the Palisades.  They could care less about the Pine Barrens and the myth of the Jersey devil.  They, from Rhode Island, Long Island, Staten Island and elsewhere, are the stereotypes perpetuated by others.  Connecting them to my home state cheapens the diversity of New Jersey.

I know the major concern of many commenters is the stereotype perpetuated of Italian Americans and the over-usage of the g-word (no, not gangsta).  Yes, that’s a concern, but for me, I hurt for the reputation of my home.  Watching this show reminds me of when I worked for a British political party in London.  Just like most Americans can’t identify Kent or Sussex on a map, they had little comprehension of the U.S. federal system, particularly the division between the states.  When I told them I was from New Jersey, they said “Oh cheerio–where those bloody Sopranos reside.”  (I may have taken some license with their conversational syntax.)  When I then replied “True, but Springsteen lives there too and he’s real,” they responded “Oh, we thought he was from Michigan.”  The look on my face was one of shock.

Just like the look on my face when I realized that by coupling these idiots on tv with a title containing the word Jersey, MTV had turned the show into a referendum on the culture, climate, and people of New Jersey.  And we had only just recovered from those Real Housewives.

 

Thank You.

I’m sorry to write another downbeat post, but I found out today that one of my teachers from high school is suffering from cancer that may take her life within the next couple of weeks.  And I just wanted to publicly thank her for everything she did to make me who I am today.

I was not always this blogger/lawyer, confident in her opinions and pretty sure she is interesting enough to entertain others.  In fact, as a child, I was painfully shy and uncomfortable in large groups.  To be honest, I am the only person I know who grew more confident through middle and high school, rather than less.  Others began suffering doubts about their appearance or whether they were popular enough.  I may have worn overalls, but I had killer self-esteem.

I credit this comfort with who I was (and am) to my discovery of theater and the assistance of one teacher who always had my back when it came to artistic development.  I wanted to host an arts show on our local cable access channel?  Done.  I didn’t think I could be graceful in a white leotard and shoes two sizes too big?  I wasn’t, but I never knew it until years later when at dinner, my brothers imitated my (less than gazelle-like) leaps across the stage.

I never starred in any show–I was always the character actress: a mother, a grandmother, a Shakespearean clown.  But without theater and the support of this one person, I would not be at ease talking to juries or chatting in interviews.  I would be silent, crippled by nerves and fears of what others might think of me.  I wouldn’t sing songs down streets, dance like no one is watching in crowded bars, or ham it up for any cameras present.  I couldn’t imagine what my life would be like without her guidance.  So although I haven’t seen her since the end of my freshman year of college when she told me I could be the next host of the Today show if I wanted, I wanted to express my gratitude in the most public forum I have available to me.

So, from the absolute bottom of my heart, thank you.  I wouldn’t be even half the woman I am today without you.

 

Winter

Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night and think is this it?  Will everything be anti-climactic from now on?  At the age of 25, is this really and truly my life?

I’ve based my entire life on a timeline I drew in Girl Scouts in the third grade.  I would graduate high school, go to (a very specific) college, attend law school, excel, and ascend the political ladder rung-by-rung until I reached the office of President before the age of 55.  By 64, I would write my memoirs and settle down to a fabulous life of speaking engagements and world tours.

As has been previously chronicled in these pages, my life hasn’t turned out exactly as planned.  An unexpected recession caused my life to be put on hold and given me, for the very first time, ample time to reflect on my choices and, ultimately, my goals.  When I was nine, living in my childhood bedroom and waiting around the house for the plumber to arrive while my parents were at work was not exactly a part of the “fangst conquers the world” blueprint.

Do I think all this forced self-reflection is a bad thing?  Not necessarily.  Likely to live life at a breakneck pace given the option, deep thinking is (occasionally) a welcome change.  But I am worried that I am losing some of the fire that spurred me to do things when I was younger.  And, more importantly, I fear that losing the intellectual stimulus of the classroom and the resultant debate/discussion with my peers is stunting my intelligence.  Today, during Jeopardy!, I couldn’t immediately identify Who is Jonathan Swift? as the question-response to the answer “His first satire was ‘A Tale of the Tub’” in the category Born in Ireland.  This may seem innocuous to some, but a month ago it would have taken me seconds to answer this question.  Instead, I mumbled “it’s that guy who wrote Gulliver’s Travels….starts with a j….swift, that’s right.”

I know I’m 25, which means I have my entire life in front of me.  Decades to remember (and forget) who wrote A Modest Proposal, what battle made Andrew Jackson a household name, the common name used for both a fruit and a color, and other little bits of trivia guaranteed to make me your worst nightmare at any local Quizzo event.  But it’s hard not to feel a little lost when the dreams you have (or had) for yourself are reassembled to conform with reality.

Am I ever going to be President?  No.  Do I even want to be President any more?  No.  But is it hard to watch time tick by and think I should be making more progress to being “in charge?”  Yes.

So, what’s the solution?  I’m going to try and pick up a new skill.  I’m not sure what it is going to be yet, though the leading candidates are surfing and Formula 1 racing–both of which seem to require more money than I currently possess.   And being me, a new episode of television or a good book will likely distract me from ever taking a lesson.  But I’m going to try.  Because after four months of wandering through the pathless depths of my mind, I’m ready to put myself back on track in the real world.  Perhaps I’ll write about it.  Perhaps I’ll forget about it.  But it’s nice to have a goal again, even if it is just to help me fall back to sleep in the middle of the night.

 

Vince Vaughn Through The Ages? Seriously?!

A few days ago, Gawker reported that an interesting new book proposal is working its way through the publishing houses.  In this abstract, the author describes her novel as a 1,000 year long love story featuring Vince Vaughn through the ages.  Yes, Vaughn, star of Four Christmases and Fred Claus and who appears to be taking this Christmas off from disturbing holiday fare, is the object of the dog-walker/yogi/author’s desire.

I’m going to be honest–at first, I thought this was disturbingly strange.  Vaughn, although funny at times and a master of the exasperated with the world wisecrack, is not exactly fantasy material, right?  I mean, when I think Vince Vaughn, my mind doesn’t normally leap to him in pantaloons sailing the high seas with his pirate crew, wavy Fabio-like locks swirling in the wind.  Or to him clad in metal, riding his horse through the moors to rescue the fair princess trapped by the evil lord in the castle ahead.  In fact, the combination of Vaughn and period drama doesn’t even cross the corners of my imagination.

But then, I gave it a second thought.   All of us have our embarrassing fantasies–normally restricted to dreams–that seem strange to those around us.  The floating through the air with an acquaintance from high school you haven’t seen since the day before graduation.  The stately mansion you and that Hollywood hunk will live in after he notices you walking down the street, jumps in front of you, and declares his undying love for you despite being linked to supermodels in his past.  The revenge dream in which that bastard at work gets what’s coming to him by falling into a big vat of wiggling, jiggling, squiggling cherry Jell-O in front of his superiors.

We just don’t tend to submit the rest of the world to them through novelization.  This is (probably) a good thing.  Roman a clefs featuring thinly veiled portrayals of famous individuals are successful because, although fanciful, there is a basis in truth.  The truth is hard to see here, though.  It doesn’t sound like this book is a reincarnation parable about the timelessness of love and the existence of soulmates.  It sounds more like a time-traveling novel featuring a successful, but not particularly hunky, celebrity involved with a slightly crazy dog walker with too much time to daydream on her hands.  And who really wants to read about someone else’s crazy dreams?  Or at least who wants to read more than a blog post about them?  Not me.

So, publishing houses, please do your job–reject this story proposal and let her take it to the web where it belongs.  To some fan fiction site where the Star Trek junkies and Twihards can stumble upon it, read it, pause for a moment, and calmly close the window thinking “At least that’s not me.”

The original article: http://gawker.com/5412677/a-thousand-years-of-vince-vaughn

 

Oh, Netflix.

Ever get worried the growing intelligence of technology will make your own preferences obsolete as it gets more accurate in predicting your tastes?  I did.  Until today.

Here is what Netflix believes my categorical tastes in movies to be:

-Independent Comedies Featuring a Strong Female Lead

-Critically-Acclaimed Political Movies

-Romantic Foreign Musicals

-Critically-Acclaimed Television Shows

-Sentimental Sci-Fi & Fantasy

Dear Netflix, if you only knew.  The categories really should be:

-Movies By or Starring Any Person Remotely Connected To Judd Apatow

-Schlocky, Critically-Panned Romantic Comedies

-Teen Comedies Centered On The Trials and Tribulations Of, Like, The Big Dance

-TV Shows No Longer Broadcast On Any Network or Cable Entity

-BBC Movies or Series, Particularly Those Featuring Richard Armitage

I would be ashamed, but I am so proud that my Netflix queue defies expectations and baffles the Netflix’s algorithm that I feel a need to share my tastes with the Internet.  Of course, said Internet will likely report said bragging back to Netflix, which will modify itself to meet my supposed desires.  So perhaps, Sentimental Sci-Fi & Fantasy isn’t too far off.

 

P.S.-Netflix, if you are reading this, any Sentimental Sci-Fi & Fantasy category that does not include a single one of the original Star Wars flicks is incomplete.  And you know it.

 

Do you know what is horribly embarrassing?  Having iTunes run into problems while downloading a pre-order.  Then having to admit to the Apple Support person that you not only bought the new Kris Allen CD, but you pre-ordered it several weeks in advance.  Oh enthralling tones of an acoustic guitar–what you do to me.

 

The Topic That Dare Not Speak Its Name

I’ve been spending a lot of time over the past couple of days wondering how to approach this topic.  As my current internship requires little upper-level thinking, I am left with quite a lot of time to ponder the world.  I was even debating whether to write a post on this subject at all, as I often begin to rant and rave when dealing with serious issues.  In fact, during college, two friends and I were debating the ramifications of the recently delivered State of the Union address.  We sat on a couch for several hours, discussing talking points and future Presidential policies.  From the kitchen, we heard the other roommates remark “Do they think they know they all agree?”

So, I just want to stress that I apologize if I’m preaching to the choir or seem to get unreasonably upset over the course of this post.  I tend to miss the social cues indicating that my craziness has over-stepped its bounds.  But I refuse to apologize for my opinions.  So there.

The topic that has been giving me so much trouble?  The issue of funny women, particularly the allegation that no such individuals exist.  I happened to read on some blog the other day a reader comment in which the individual (presumably of the testerone-inclined persuasion) berated the female writer for criticizing a particular comedy show (which rhymes with Schmoo and a Half Hen).  Rather than addressing her grammar (which was atrocious), he attacked her based on her gender, accusing her of being unable to comprehend the “subtle” humor of the show because “women aren’t funny, have never been funny, and will never be funny.”

Dear Sir, I beg to differ.  I may not be the funniest woman on the planet, but you only need to look at the best-reviewed comedies of the season to see that it is the women in them that are sparking much of the love.  Jane Lynch on Glee?  Sofia Vergara or Julie Bowen on Modern Family?  What about Amy Poehler on SNL or Parks and Recreation?  Tina Fey or Jane Krakowski on 30 Rock?  And I dare anyone to watch the physical comedy of Julia Louis-Dreyfuss on New Adventures of Old Christine and not think she is the equal of any man.  (Plus, who can forget this:

 

)

 

Women are funny, mister.  What you are reacting to is the lack of women in top comedy positions.  When former Letterman staffer Nell Scovell bemoaned the lack of female comedy writers in late night television in last month’s Vanity Fair, she acknowledged the wide disparity between men and women in the male-dominated proving grounds that often lead to positions on comedy writing staffs.  People tend to bond with those they feel more comfortable with, so in a world where men overwhelmingly host late night variety shows, women tend to be left behind.

But most comedy arises out of the uncomfortable–the trumpeting fart in the most silent of rooms, the puny father threatening the life of his daughter’s first date, the first date itself with all its attendant misperceptions and over-sharings.  Moreover, women are increasingly encroaching upon these male-centric worlds–Wanda Sykes or Chelsea Handler anyone?  And for many years, the top producers at both The Daily Show and The Colbert Report have been or were women.

Women are half of the population.  To assume that all lack a sense of humor or the ability to make others laugh is a narrow-minded view that I doubt ever got the men who say such things a lot of dates.  It is also important to remember that every person has a different sense of humor, so what one person finds funny, another may find inane.  For instance, I have never found Jeff Dunham or Larry the Cable Guy particularly amusing.  But I am not going to jump from my inability to comprehend their popularity to a wide-spread denunciation of the humorous abilities of men based on their gender.  And neither should you.

So, in conclusion, women are funny just like men.  We can choose to laugh at whatever we wish, but there is no need to deride one gender in a sad, pathetic attempt to make ourselves feel better about our own lack of humor.  As Amy Poehler said in her Glamour speech the other day: “Girls, if the boys make a joke that isn’t funny, you don’t have to laugh.”  And boys, if girls mock or tease in a way that isn’t amusing, you don’t have to laugh either.  But neither gender has the right to accuse the other of lacking a funny bone.  Just because you sir feel a particular affinity for a certain comedy show which mines most of its humor from its male co-stars doesn’t mean I have to.  And that has nothing to do with gender.  Alright, rant over.  Please return to your regularly scheduled programming.

 

 

Wedding Bells Are Ringing? Not In This Post, They Ain’t.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with marriage.  While other little girls were braiding flower crowns and saying their high-pitched “I dos” in fake ceremonies on the playground, my stuffed animals were suing each other and my Barbies were participating in a lot of unprotected, non-monogamous risky behavior with the only Ken doll in my collection.  In fact, marriage wasn’t even on my radar.  I decided I wanted to be a lawyer when I turned three.  Although the scope of my aspirations may have changed (I no longer long to be the first woman President), my recent passing of the bar means law school has been checked off the list.

In these dreams of the future, I never considered marriage and children.  In fact, I was anti-these things for a really long time.  Not for other people, just for me.  I am too selfish, too childlike, too focused on career and school, too not interested in spending every day with the same person to be a part of any type of long-term committed relationship.  None of this comes from my parents–they remain happily married, so my attitude is definitely not part of any personal scars I have with the institution of marriage.

And for a long time, these feelings were perfectly okay because there was no need to share them with others.  Maybe some kids at the lunch table would talk about all living in the same cul-de-sac and raising their kids together, but there was no active discussion of husbands and babies.  No debate over the merits of small and large weddings.  No need to answer the age-old question: DJ or live band?  I could happily smile and change the topic to something else–perhaps third period chemistry or Dawson’s Creek.

But coupled with this quarterlife crisis comes an increased interest in marriage and children and discussing both of them among other members of my age group.  Although the majority of my friends are of the opinion that 25 is a little early to get married, you can tell they don’t feel the same about 26 or even 25 1/2.  And for the first time, babies are a serious possibility.  So, more of my time is spent discussing these topics and it has become much  harder to change the subject to something that doesn’t involve forever or expelling something from your body.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m happy to talk about these things and I am always happy for my friends who get married and have babies.  Without the real desire to do either of these things, I have no jealousy about their desire to move on with their lives and enter the adult world for real.  I will happily dance to “Celebration” and buy them tiny socks with no reservations because I am totally willing to play the role of fun wedding guest and awesome “aunt.”

But with all this wedding talk, I find myself slightly revising my personal opinion on the propriety of marriage for me.  It has nothing to do with love, though I wouldn’t marry without it.  And, to be honest, it has nothing really to do with babies either.  It has to do with the realization that if I want to continue to not pick up after myself, I need someone to do that for me.  And a husband would be awfully useful for that–he can either personally attend to it or hire someone else to complete his tasks.  With two incomes, we could afford “staff” plus the exotic vacation I plan on taking every year.  So yes, my view on marriage is changing as a result of the present economy.  Which I know is completely ridiculous and incredibly self-centered and a complete illustration of how not ready for marriage I am.

All I can say in my defense is that I am slowly but surely changing.  A year ago, I would never have even considered the possibility of merging my life so completely with someone else.  Now, I’m thinking about the tax benefits and savings of married individuals (thank you Introduction to Taxation, Spring 2009).  Perhaps next year, I’ll feel some sort of emotional void that needs to be filled.  In fact, that emptiness might already be starting to grow as that is the only reason I can give for why I am so enjoying the song embedded below.  Perhaps he’s right–I just haven’t met you– the man who will make me change my long held beliefs on any of this–yet.

****Ignore the cheesiness of the video.  Except for the marching band.  I am a sucker for emotional moments featuring marching bands (10 Things I Hate About You anyone?).