20 Years of Snow

That's a Regina Spektor song, and technically there's no snow in sight, so technically I'm an exaggerating crybaby, but technically, I haven't felt my hands in 3 days. As many of my near and dears know, when the temperature drops below 70, I start to panic because all life seems to drain from my body. My extremities turn blue and I walk around with the mighty hunch of Julia Child (rest in peace, culinary giant), trying desperately to retain any kind of heat. And don't think I won't bring up the time I got frost bite. In San Francisco. It's true! No one seems to believe that my body could hate me so much, but I swear I was rushed to the emergency room following my highly anticipated ballet debut at the Russian Community Center. I could've been a star had it not been for that untimely circulatory malfunction. And the fact that I couldn't Chassé-turn worth shit. But I'll continue to type with numb fingers, because that's the sacrifice I'm willing to make for my writing. That, and I've already read all of today's gossip and obsessively refreshed Craigslist 82 times.

In other news, last night's Real World ranked quite high on the Jerry Springer meter. The first 2 minutes were the most horrifying, and really drove home the level of sick and twistedness that girls can achieve when they put their minds to it. After pushing Parissa's ass over like an inflatable clown punching bag, Trisha calmly proclaims to her dad on the phone, "I just pushed a fat girl, Dad!" She then screams something to the effect of "Hey, go work out - you've got a long way to go!" To which Parissa, ever the classy lady, responds, "What about your FAT ass and that disgusting gut you've grown since you've gotten here?! Why don't you keep eating, Ms. Piggy? Keep going." So just for those remaining few out there who don't understand why on Earth girls get complexes about their bodies and learn to value themselves according to the waist size of their Seven jeans, there you go. Nothing is more heart-wrenchingly painful, permanently damaging, and sickeningly effective than a girl criticizing your body. While I live for the trashy antics of reality show participants, sometimes they can be a little too real, and that shit last night made me extremely depressed for the state of girl solidarity. If you wanna hate on Trisha for insulting your mother, go for it. If Parissa annoyed the hell out of you for staying on the phone for 3 hours, go ahead and go psycho on her ass. But ripping out another woman's heart by calling her (non-existent) gut "disgusting," or making sure she feels like a lazy, worthless slob by telling her to "go work out" is truly the lowest of the low blows. So to counter this pathetic display of cattiness, here's something awesome I caught on the news the other day: http://www.ittakesagirl.com/ Schools are starting their own "Club Ophelias" to teach girls how to relate to each other and to be allies, not bullies. Hooray for the non-Mean Girls of the world!

And on another happy note, this parody of The Hills, produced by Judd Apatow and starring James Franco and Mila Kunis is rad: http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/56c2d6a703. Thank you to the always fabulous, never a mean girl, Whitney, for alerting me to that treasure.

Toxic

My Britney Disaster Meltdown Radar has been on high alert all day, and I'm thinking of seeking refuge in my emergency shelter in case this is the big one. You know it's not a good day when you wake up to Perez Hilton's report of Britney's alleged THIRD pregnancy. Granted, the source is the questionable yet disgustingly fabulous (and CHEAP!) In Touch Weekly, but I wouldn't put it past America's favorite Cheetos and Redbull endorser. Trying to block out that morning shocker, I then read reports of Brit Brit wandering into the Hustler Club in West Hollywood (perhaps I know of a Russian grandma that may have spotted her? They like to hang out in that part of town too, FYI) and doing the unthinkable. You thought the exiting-the-car crotch shot was icky, but Britney just won't settle for automobile-related disregard for hygiene alone. No, no - she reportedly stripped off her own skivvies (so she does own some!) to try on some classy booty shorts that proudly proclaimed (inaccurately) "Barely Legal" across the back. Did I mention she did this in the middle of the store? In front of 15 people? Oh, and then she tried to walk out with some other fine merchandise but was forced to pay. But before she left with all the dignity and class of an elegant gazelle, she stole a wig from one of the mannequins. She later donned the wig, hopped on board the crazy plane and piloted it all the way to Rainbow Lollipop Town where she enjoyed a long and fruitful reign as their pill-popping queen.

Now I'm thoroughly depressed. But not for long because my stories are on tonight, and nothing makes me happier than my stories. Parissa, Tyra, and Heidi - oh my! And while I never consciously intend to watch Gossip Girl, it always sucks me in, and before I know it, an hour of my life has been sacrificed to the prettiest boy around - Chace Crawford (no offense, Zac Efron). Dammit - I just IMDB'd him and discovered he was born in 1985 - life as a Cougar, here I come!

Ms. Fat Booty

That's a Mos Def song. But it's also the way American Eagle clothes will make you feel if you're over the age of 13, apparently. Sauntering in on my lunch break, I assumed I could throw on my standard size and waltz right out with another useless purchase under my arm. Little did I know their sweaters are custom-fit for girls without rib cages. I'm tempted to write a strongly-worded letter informing them that the good people at Victoria's Secret have continually assured me of my astoundingly miniature assets. A medium should allow for a little more room, thank you very much.

How on Earth does The Hills' Heidi manage to outfit her abundant, expensive curves (I majored in English to learn those kind of solid transitions, people)? The Hills last night was another train wreck, and it certainly made my Monday. Justin Bobby supposedly kissed some fugly chick in front of Audrina, but the camera was mysteriously obscured so we can't be sure if it really happened. This may have been in the script, though Lauren's repetitive slack-jawed, wide-eyed reactions lead me to believe the writers' strike has left the cast to fend for themselves in terms of plot and dialogue. After mumbling some incoherent drug talk in Audrina's ear, she left with him in a car. She later claimed to have just dropped his ass off at home, but my money's on a gross threesome with the fugly chick. Justin Bobby later claimed to "not know what that was about," referring to fugly. I think that's generally what happens after a night of Ritalin, whippets, and Zema (which I believe has been off the market since 1991, but "Smirnoff Ice" didn't sound as funny). Somewhere else in these alleged "hills," Spencer's sister came to town and scared everyone shitless with her insistent assertion that Heidi is HER FAMILY NOW. Most terrified of all were Heidi, her new nose, and both implants.

Tonight is the black hole of television known as Tuesday. It's that awful stretch between Monday's MTV shitfest, and Wednesday's overwhelming bounty of entertainment (The Real World, America's Next Top Model, Gossip Girl, AND Project Runway). If I resort to watching another Dawson's Creek circa 2002 (that was Sunday's last resort), I may have to unplug the TV.

Blogs Over Baghdad.

The preceding title was a result of me scanning all the songs on my iPod and trying to cleverly insert the word "blog" into one. I was really hoping I could work it into a Britney song ("It's my blog, Bitch."), but no dice.

Welcome to my blog, readers (i.e. my sister.) This has been a project long in the making, and grossly ignored in favor of things like "my job" and "my family." So lame. But with the new year approaching, I decided to get a head-start on my resolutions (do more yoga, watch more of The Hills, pretend-kill less people), and writing more is a big one. The "obsessive and crafty" title is either a temporary and embarrassing name indicating the state of my life, or a permanent moniker that I will go on to trademark and make millions off of. So just be aware.

I was especially both obsessive and crafty this Thanksgiving weekend, and I owe it all to John Krasinski and my crochet hook. God, that sounded dirty and a little alarming. All I meant was that I swooned over JK while madly producing scarves, courtesy of the pattern in my Stitch 'N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker book. And because it's Thanksgiving, and it's not frowned upon to camp out on your couch, the guilt over my old lady pass times was minimal.

An uplifting discovery: License to Wed is totally not as horrible as one would expect. Really! The commercials featuring mechanical babies and an uncomfortably wacky Robin Williams do the movie no justice. Had the commercials featured more Krasinski face time, and sporadic rays of sunshine from the delightful Mandy Moore, the film may have actually done okay at the box office. Yeah okay, probably not. But I'm majorly obsessed with Jim (he IS his character from The Office, and I don't care WHAT you tell me about him being a "real person"). And I'm A little obsessed with Mandy's delightfulness. She's just so clean and shiny. But not in an oily way. More in like a sparkly way. My next blog may be devoted to how to achieve Moore-level delightful sparkliness. Step one: scrunch your nose, ALWAYS. Adorable!

Also currently on my obsessive radar: the Tales of the City book series. So I'm 30 years late to jump on the bandwagon - so what?! Lurid tales of bathhouses and discos never go out of style. After a string of bland "epic" novels that made me feel like my emotions were being manipulated a la a bad episode of Grey's Anatomy, Armistead Maupin's bad-ass trilogy is a fantastic salvation. Hallelujah for rampant drug use and casual sex in San Francisco!

Alright readers, (hi, Sister! Still there?) it's nearly quitting time, and The Hills is singing it's sweet siren song from the depths of my Tivo (or is that the sound of Justin Bobby's douchebagness competing against Spencer's?). More to come... (that is SO what she said. Zing!)