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Category Archives: Culture

The 5 Worst TV Shows I’ve Ever Loved

Television’s a funny thing, isn’t it? It can motivate, inspire, teach, entertain, and infuriate. Trends will come and go, but one thing is certain: We love bad TV.

Now, everyone’s version of bad TV is different. We have our guilty pleasures. We admire train wrecks of all shapes and sizes.  And, I don’t know about you, but I’m shamefully proud of my picks.

 

Days of Our Lives The nearest and dearest unbearably good series for me is Days. Can you believe this show is still on? Growing up with a stay-at-home mom, we, ahem, were both able to keep up with the Bradys, DiMeras, and Kiriakises. Through disappearances, near-drownings, demon possessions, fires, shipwrecks, imprisonments, disguises, real babies, fake babies, kidnapping plots, weddings, affairs, divorces, and reunions, we’ve seen it all. And that’s not to mention the real deaths, fake deaths, live burials, and returns from beyond the grave. And the cast, miraculously, just seems to keep getting younger. You can keep up with the (exhausting) storyline, or play “Guess Who’s Wearing Hair Extensions!”. Either way it’s time well spent (I say, with a nearly straight face). And, remember, even if you have a, say, ten- or fifteen-year hiatus, you can be assured to be caught up within a week. Is it me, or should these people just get jobs?

 

COPS (TV series)

COPS I’m so, so guilty of this one. When Fox TV burst on the scene in the late ’80′s, with unforgettable hits like Married…With Children and The Simpsons, this middle-schooler was in her naughty bliss. Language, cleavage, belching? It was a far cry from The Cosby Show. When COPS debuted in 1989, with its timeless theme song, I was immediately in love. It was a world I’d never seen or experienced, with swearing and running and beer. I couldn’t look away. I’d turn the TV from my room (the one with the rabbit ears, dials, and knobs) towards the kitchen during dinner so I wouldn’t miss it. And, you know what? When I find it on now, I watch it. Yes, sirree. Because what could be better, more uplifting entertainment, than a toothless man in a wifebeater, actually beating his wife? Nothing, my friends. I guarantee it.

 

Image cropped from original on Flickr. Origina...

Family Feud Family Feud’s been on the air forever. And I’m ashamed to say that, just like during my childhood, when I see that it’s on, I stop and watch. Initially, what drew me in was the host, Richard Dawson, that smarmy bastard who tongue-kissed and shamelessly groped all the female contestants. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that they liked it. I loved yelling out answers, and dreamed that someday, my family could be on there as well. I lost interest during the Louie Anderson and Richard Combs years, because, frankly, the former was boring, and the latter was creepy, but, through the addition of the famously mustachioed Steve Harvey, that place ain’t been nothin’ but a party! One afternoon this March, after I had successfully ejected all my children in order to do some spring cleaning, I turned the TV on for some noise. Family Feud, I thought to myself, Mindless. Perfect. I was sweeping the family room floor when I heard Harvey pose this challenge to the contestants during the ‘Double’ round: “Name a furry animal that looks like it crawled up on top of Donald Trump’s head and died.”  And this, folks, is why I can’t quit.

 

Chopped This Food Network classic is designed to test the mettle of even the most decorated chef. And it does. With mystery ingredients like yak’s lungs, pencil shavings, and crocodile tears, advanced cooking skills are pushed to their very limits. And watching the chef-judges taste it all is an equally delectable treat. “You know, the Starlight Mints really give the puréed Bonsai a bright flavor, and the communion wafer-crusted sea urchin was divine, but the Nerf ball gastrique really missed the mark.” I love cooking, don’t get me wrong, and I especially love food, but guys? Get over yourselves.

 

Image Courtesy of Shutterstock

Image Courtesy of Shutterstock

DaVinci’s Demons DaVinci’s Demons on Starz is my newest guilty pleasure. Truth be told, it’s awful, with a capital BAD, historically inaccurate, and full of gratuitous everything, but the guy who plays DaVinci is just so hot, I can’t stop watching. You know, really hot, exactly the way you’d expect a fifteenth-century Renaissance man to look – chiseled features, tightly groomed five o’clock shadow, sparkling white teeth, and a haircut just like Gil’s from the Bubble Guppies. Sure, the first episode had nudity, flying, drug use, pyrotechnics, and rough sex, but, what am I? A prude? I pushed onward throughout the season, through time travel, more bare penises than I’d ever seen at once, torture, impromptu autopsies, and Vlad Dracula himself, and, truth be told, I’m a might sad that the last episode of the season will air this week. I may even shed a tear. And next season? Sign me up! I’m too far in to crawl out now.

 

So, this is my list, my shame. I’ve exorcised my TV demons, though I can’t say I’ll never watch them again. Because of course I will.

But enough about me. Tell me about yours.

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Deeper Than Skin Deep

I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, furtively eyeing the woman to my right. She looked a rather well-preserved fifty. Her lashes hung thickly and heavily over her close-set eyes. I imagined she had to strain to blink. It was too much lash for that much lid. Eyelash extensions? Latisse? What were people doing for eyelashes these days, anyway? Whichever the situation, her baby doll lashes were clearly out of place on her small face.

I noticed a rolling shelf beside her. Her stylist was painstakingly attaching blonde hair extensions to the back of her head.

Sad, I thought to myself. What is stopping her from aging gracefully? Why does she want to look like that? Doesn’t she know how fake that all looks?

I turned my attention back to my own mirror, my own stylist, and was fairly comforted by the fact that malodorous chemicals would be strangling my scalp in a matter of minutes.

InStyle

InStyle (Photo credit: Andreanna Moya Photography)

I listened, as always, to inane salon chatter, the gross majority of which was my own, until I was brought to the dryers to ‘develop’. I grabbed this month’s edition of InStyle from a rack on  the wall. It looked pretty hefty, and the cover was splashed with shades of fuchsia. That was obviously enough for me.

I opened the cover (which is something truly fantastic, isn’t it? The ability to still open a cover of a printed material?) and saw several permutations of a well-defined and perfectly made-up face courtesy of Lancôme. It’s all in how you do it, I convinced myself. I could probably do the same with my Clinique, no problem.

I thumbed enthusiastically further into the tome until I reached an ad for a Tiffany & Co. pendant. Hmm. Tiffany. I like it, I thought. I ran my finger over the pendant’s diamond filigree design, imagined it on my neck, imagined the pleasant blue presentation box in my palm. Yep. Like that, I decided.

The next page - Bam! Matching earrings. A little long for my taste. If someone were to give these to me, though…

Yves St. Laurent. Chanel. Bulgari. Guess. I quickly accepted the realization that were these items gifted to me, I’d snatch them up faster than a starving frog eyeing a fly.

I paused briefly on a two-page H & M spread and quickly concluded that I was neither a) young, b) tall, c) skinny, or d) pouty enough to pull off any of that mess.

Ten minutes passed whilst I pondered women lying on the ground clutching bottles of perfume, smiling for professional-looking photographer-slash-models, and sitting on plastic cubes, awkwardly displaying jewelry normally kept in tamper-safe vaults.

I fingered through two more pages. Louis Vuitton. I attempted to determine mathematically which child I’d have to put into hock in order to bring one of those home. The bag was a less-than-attractive turmeric, but the women holding them were so mesmerizing, one leaning her 6’8″ frame on a taxi. Plus, they were standing on the Brooklyn Bridge. New York chic.

Sandals. Sunglasses. Professional hair care products. More Lancôme. A full forty pages of ads before the actual text began.

And once the text began, I read about what and who people were wearing, their shades-du-jour, their spring highlights.

Alas, it was my turn to be rinsed, and as I leaned back considering the surreal view of steam, fingers, and exposed beams, I fully realized just how one becomes that woman. I realized how I had already enveloped the spirit of that woman, dutifully attending my 6-week appointment to be trimmed and colored.

“You look nice,” the stylist said. “Any plans for today?”

“Not really,” I answered. “Just shopping.”

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Accepting Ourselves as Women: If We Don’t Do It, Who Will?

Over the course of my life, I’ve seen women struggling and battling and battering themselves over their weight. I had a roommate in college who begged me tell her mom on the phone she was eating spaghetti, when she clearly wasn’t. My best friend in middle school swore off all foods except for Pasta Roni. I’ve watched relatives eat only sweet potatoes and cannellini beans. I’ve heard countless comments being made about others. I’ve heard comments being made about me.

Now, I don’t generally say much about myself. What I will say, though, is I’ve been through the same. I’ve Weight Watchersed. I’ve done my time on walking tracks. I’ve done my time inside the hamster wheel. I’ve done my time.

I made one promise to myself, though, a long time ago, that I would never, ever hate myself, no matter what my size, no matter who or what was trying to drag me down, no matter what was or wasn’t said. I deserved that.

I’ve been a size 12, and I’ve been a size 24, but I’ve always been Stephanie. I’ve always been gregarious and outspoken, dynamic, giving, and affectionate. I’ve also been a decent friend and a good partner. And I’m proud to be the woman I’ve become.

The things I see now, however, are disconcerting. Society is growing increasingly rude and flagrant by the day. Where people once kept opinions to themselves or whispered them in dark corners, they now use the global stage to bash and exploit and fuel nasty exchanges. I can’t walk into a grocery store without seeing a “fat” body with the head blurred out asking, “Which superstar let herself go??”

And how many ‘inspiring’ stories have we seen about women who were miserable, who made themselves miserable, whom we made miserable, who suddenly shed the weight and have become butterflies with twinkling wings? Because we now accept them? Because they now accept themselves? Why is our first instinct to hate ourselves? Why is the precursor to change self-hatred? Why do we allow it?

What perplexes me most is seeing people who have lost weight only to turn around to criticize or otherwise poke fun at people they perceive to be overweight. Do they realize they’re forsaking who they were? Who they are? Even worse, they’ve taken to projecting the exact shame and hatred they felt (or perhaps still feel) onto others. They’re blowing brand new seeds of negativity into the wind.

I’ll be the first to admit that we’re a terribly unhealthy society, but I feel it’s much less a physical problem than a mental one. We glorify, we demean, we root around in our obsessions, we communicate through our compulsions. We allow things we enjoy to become fetishes. We go to extremes. We don’t listen. We don’t hear. And we don’t think. 

Control is one of our most dangerous problems. Self-image issues are borne out of control. You’re either in or out of control, and being ‘out of control’ warrants consequences, usually self-imposed. Except the consequences only serve to handicap you more. And we teach this behavior to those around us, who, in turn, behave this way themselves. We create our own monsters. And so it goes, sometimes for a lifetime.

What I’m asking is that you take back your power. Don’t let anyone decide your worth – not a magazine, not a website, not a picture of a stranger you’ll never know. Don’t ever, ever loathe yourself. When you do, you’ve given every ounce of your personal power away. Don’t allow yourself to feel less-than. There’s no room in this life for less-than.

The responsibility is all on our shoulders. Self-hatred is cultivated and perpetuated by ourselves. Women who feel weak in their own skin will naturally lash out and drag you down to feel the same. Women who feel the need for separation and stratification will create both, leaving you on one side or the other, above or below. If you let them.

You can argue that the magazines do it, that television does it, but this mess is ours. Do we not have control over what we choose to let in? Do we not have power over what we choose to accept or reject? Do we not have power over what we stand up for or against?

The only way we will ever honestly and permanently feel better, whole and healthy, is by learning about ourselves, accepting the person we find, and gaining (or regaining) the ability to give and accept love. This is the heart of the problem. Accepting ourselves is what we need to do, not ten thousand crunches or skipping meals or berating ourselves. This truly has nothing to do with the chocolates. Learning to love ourselves, in whatever form we may appear, is what must happen. The rest will follow.

And once we do, we can teach our daughters to do the same.

And maybe we can break this cycle once and for all.

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BFF Application Form

It seems I’m not the only mom out there looking for a BFF. In our social media-heavy world, I was surprised that I read more about loneliness than I ever have. Let’s face it, though: It’s a jungle out there, and, frankly, my time is at a premium. So, instead of learning potentially unpleasant facts about other women as friendships unfold naturally (because who has time for that?), I’ve devised this handy application to screen potential matches.

 

Demographics

1. Name:  ___________________________

2. Number of children: a) None, b) 1, c) 2, d) Dear Lord!

3. Relationship Status: a) Single, b) Married, c) It’s Complicated, d) The authorities are on notice

 

Age Verification

4. What was Punky Brewster’s best friend’s name? ______________________________

5. Please choose one of the following: a) Coca-Cola Classic, b) New Coke, c) Diet Coke d) Coke Zero

6. Name two of Ronald McDonald’s associates:           ____________________                      ______________________

7. True or False: Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

8.  Name the following item:  _____________________________________________

 

Social Media

9. Do you use Instagram? If, so, please provide screenname here: _______________________

1o. Please provide most recent Facebook status here: _______________________________________________________

11. Do you have a Twitter account? a) Yes, b) No

If you answered yes to Question #11, please answer the following:

12. Have you ever tweeted or responded to tweets including (Select all that apply) a) naked body parts, b) invitations for virtual sexual activity,  or c) names and dosages of current prescription medications?

 

Lifestyle

13. How would you describe yourself? (Select all that apply): a) organic, b) vegan, c) gluten-free, d) lacto-ovo-vegetarian, e) beer and pretzels

14. What type of wine do you enjoy most? a) red, a) white, c) vodka, straight

If you answered A or B to Question #14, please answer the following:

15. Do you prefer: a) California varietals, b) imported wines, c) anything that comes in a box

16. Do you use any of the following words? (Select all that apply): a) mod podge, b) baby daddy, c) totes, d) selfie, e) zomg, f) cooter

17. Have you ever completed a craft found on Pinterest? a) Yes, b) No

If you answered yes to Question #17, please answer the following:

18. Did your completed craft involve a Mason jar? a) Yes, b) No*

 

*If you answered yes to Question #18, you have reached the end of the application. Thank you for your time.

 

19. I need eggs and tampons. I will go to a) Wal*Mart, b) Target, c) WHO CARES?!? to get them.

20. Describe a typical dinner for your family: __________________________________________________________

21. Have you ever watched a Real Housewives series? a) Yes, b) No

If you answered yes to Question #21, please answer the following:

22. Why?? (Please provide as much detail as possible):  __________________________________________________________________________________

23. Kesha is (Please choose one): a) what I listen to when I’m getting ready for the club, b) a grating, yet benign, pop presence that will likely soon disappear, c) delicious on french fries.

 

Historical Friendship Behavior

24. Have you ever engaged in the following behaviors upon the termination of a relationship? (Select all that apply)  a) had a good cry and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, b) got together with friends for a rejuvenating girls’ weekend, d) went shopping and/or got a new haircut, e) tracked that bastard down, slashed his tires, and peed in the bed of his truck.

25. When someone doesn’t text/call you back, do you (Please choose one): a) assume she’s busy, and give her time to respond, b) check Facebook for new updates beginning at the time of your text/call, and then text “GOTCHA!” when the first one appears, c) leave several voicemails tearfully expressing your disappointment, d) drive around and look for her.

26. Your friend’s significant other gives you an inappropriate up-and-down, followed by a not-so-subtle invitation. Do you (Please choose one): a) go straight to your friend and tell her. You don’t want her to be hurt by the wrong person, b) gently keep your distance from him, but maintain your friendship, c) pick up some new undies. It’s on like Donkey Kong!

 

Thank you for completing this application. Someone will be in touch with you shortly to schedule a round of drinks should a suitable match be found.

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The Grocery Store Hierarchy: A Sociocultural Examination

You’ve made it. You snagged yourself the finest undergraduate psychology degree money can buy, you’ve committed your time to bettering the lives of those with scruples enough to call ambulances to bring them to hair appointments, and you’ve got a shiny, new apartment, complete with a fridge, which is woefully barren.

You’ve got a few Franklins in your pocket, and since you’ve somehow managed to survive on a diet consisting solely of ramen and peach Schnapps for the better part of four years, you can honestly say you know a thing or two about thrifty living.  That said, you’re quite interested in applying your time-tested cash-saving strategies in the real world. When your day off rolls around, you know exactly where you’re going. You’re going to the Price Rite.

Sure, they charge for bags, and people get into fistfights over carriages in the parking lot, and most of the conversations heard in the aisles are strings of profanities in foreign languages, but the unmarked chocolate-puff cereal is the crunchiest in the tri-state area, your milk hasn’t leaked into the trunk of your car in three or four weeks, and the last time someone hit-and-ran your car while you were inside was nearly six months ago, so you tough it out. You can feed yourself (and Whiskers) for forty bucks a week. Be proud.

Grocery Aisle

Grocery Aisle (Photo credit: redjar)

A few years slip by, and one day, you awake to the realization that your apartment wasn’t infested with fruit flies before you started shopping at the Price Rite, you’ve spent over $350 in bodywork, they don’t sell cold cuts, and the meager selection of meat is of questionable age and origin (Is that pork?). So, you dig in your heels and join the rank and file at the Stop & Shop. You know this is the beginning of the end, but you’re more comfortable here. You can pick out meat, fish, all the labels are in English, everything has a label, the bags are free, and you can finally showcase your culinary skills by crafting ham sandwiches with Dijon mustard on rustic boules.

It’s all smooth sailing until the store somehow ends up in cahoots with a gas retailer, and you notice that the rectangular ninety-nine cent hash browns that you (and Whiskers) love so much are suddenly $2.99, the produce feels frozen, and the cold cuts are now ten dollars a pound. If you were at all handy, you’d take up charcuterie, but you’re not, and Whiskers is kind of a pig. Your twenty-cent discount per gallon of gas is, oddly, no longer satisfying. You begin to reevaluate.

Some may regard it as a step back, but you’re moving up in the world. You’re going to Wal*Mart. Prices are so low you’re throwing boxes and bottles into your carriage with reckless abandon. One package of refrigerated cinnamon rolls? Why not three? And how’s about a dozen and a half of eggs? Can’t go wrong! You’re even careful to avoid the meat that’s been recalled. And what’s this? A bakery, too! Fancy me up a birthday cake, Helga! We’re having an office party tomorrow.

You are almost having too much fun when you realize your constitution doesn’t allow you to shop there around the first of the month, the weekend, before a holiday, during a holiday, after a holiday, or anytime during the summer. And that you don’t enjoy verbal altercations as much as you thought you did. And that your roots are just too near in color to the rest of your hair to get by undetected. Plus, you keep running into your clients in the aisles. Awkward.

Rapidly exhausting your options, you decide you’re now ready for a more elevated role, you’re going to shop local. You take up with a local chain, with adorable dinged produce, free coffee, local bakery items, meats, and cheeses, and a killer prepared foods section. You may just be in love.  Except that you’re the youngest person in there, besides the baggers, and maybe it’s your imagination, but the other patrons seem to always be sipping their free coffee down at you in disgust. Is this a cult? Were you supposed to present an invitation? Are your yoga pants too ‘dressed down’? You’re a little distraught, but recover immediately after you find you purchased breaded “veal” cutlets that were actually chicken, wrapped up in your sushi was hair, and the fifth preposterously-dressed rich hag just drove her carriage into your car and wandered away. You’re over shopping local. Completely.

You’ve no choice but to pull out the big guns. You know what I’m talking about: Whole Foods.  You’ve been slowly inching towards your fate, albeit reluctantly. You like food, you do, but this has all become too much. You wander inside for the first time and find it’s a WONDERLAND. During the week, you fantasize about prepared fruit bowls and Meyer lemons, and not tripping over Smart cars in the parking lot. You enjoy “catching” your own frozen shrimp and crab legs, and dispensing yourself bags full of raisins (Don’t they just taste fresher?).

Sure, you muse about making jokes at the stock boy’s expense (Excuse me? I, um, lost my keys. Do you mind if I check your beard?) and loudly scolding others for choosing the domestic tomatoes instead of the organic ones. Blowing past people in a huff and ‘accidentally’ running into ankles are not acceptable behaviors here. You’ve been away from Wal*Mart, but not for that long. You do learn, however, that the clerks will say hello to you (Say hello back!) and that you should give a respectable distance to the barefoot babywearer standing pensively over the avocados. You think of a million things not to say (but you really want to) in such a place, but you realize, resigned, that these are a peaceable people who have yet to give you a hard time.

You find yourself satisfied, if not completely broke, fair-trade certified, organic cane-sweetened root beer in hand, as you determine how you will prepare your organic Russian Fingerling potatoes. Things are finally good, for the most part. As long as you like your current clothing – and in-state vacations – for the foreseeable future.

And if, by chance, your new and improved lot in life makes you cry just a little, kindly do so into your receipt. It’s the responsible thing to do.

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