oprah takes on the universe

believe me when i say i accidentally happened upon the oprah show the other day only to find that our almighty maven of midday gab has added The Universe to the list of things under her control. as if the new york times bestseller list, the beef industry and the minds of most of the 25-45 female demographic weren't enough, oprah has now found a way to alter the time-space continuum in favor of losing weight, advancing a career and (a perennial favorite) finding the perfect man (note: in this particular universe, no man ever seems to be in search of the perfect woman--very curious).

anyway there she sat, with nary a hint of irony or humility, among a panel of "experts," discussing with utmost seriousness the ways in which you (yes, you), with a little guidance from her (the all-exalted) could command the universe to give you exactly what you want. conceptually, i was able to follow them partway down their promise-laden path. the premise was, as i understood it, that if you project positive energy out into the world, the world will respond in kind by delivering to you those things which you most deeply desire. makes sense enough, and we're all familiar with the notion that if you put out goodness, goodness comes back to you. only one problem: in true oprah fashion, the suggestion was carried to ludicrous heights wherein everything from a publishing deal to a 27-inch waist could be miraculously obtained by these so-called positive projections.

"just put it out to The Universe and The Universe will respond", the great one promised.
clap, clap, nod, nod, went the audience.

one by one, her over-eager panelists described case studies of individuals once poor, fat and lonley who were suddenly keyed in to "the secret" and almost overnight found financial freedom, extreme weight loss and true love. all this would be far less disturbing to me were it not for the fact that the big O and her guests kept referring to the Universe as though it were Santa Claus or some other benevolent figure with a bottomless bag of goodies ready to reward those who follow its carefully outlined laws.

"The Universe knows when you don't believe in yourself, and that's not gonna get The Universe to give you what you need," holy O would say.
clap, clap, nod, nod.

now look. i do believe in the idea that if you appreciate what you have and do the best with what you're given, things will generally turn out all right. but to suggest that your puny lil thoughts are going to bend universal matter in such a way as to generate your every wish and desire (especially those related to piddling requests like "a man" or "to lose those last ten pounds") is pushing even the grotesquely skewed limits of oprahdom.

if you want a better career, put some effort into it. if you wanna lose weight, drop that cookie and get off your ass. and if you want a man (lord only knows why you would, but ok), learn to love yourself and eventually one of them will do the same.

take that, Universe!

Dr. Genius and the Medicali Crew

picture me: i'm riding in a shuttle van from the cancun airport to my all-inclusive wedding resort get-a-way (for my friend's, wedding, NOT my own) and with me are a handful of newly-graduated medical students (none of whom i know) who are headed for the same destination. the ringleader of the group (who will be referred to as Dr. Genius) is a generously fed woman in her late twenties with a snout where a nose should be and a voice that would make a braying donkey sound like celine dion on her best day. she blabs and she blabs the whole ride through...about how she likes to party, about her astonishment that she hasn't yet found a man (i roll my eyes here) and about all the food she's going to eat when she gets to the resort. swell. like we give a shit. then she proceeds to tell of her frustration at her patients' all-too-common ignorance. the conversation goes as follows:

Dr. Genius: "i mean, i know you're a plumber or whatever, but do you never have time to read?? come on!"

Other Doc: "why, what happened?"

Dr. G: "well, i was explaining to him that his symptoms, while equivocal to flu symptoms, were really just from a bad cold"

Other Doc: "you're always using big words like equivocal, maybe that's why they're confused"

Dr. G: "yeah, you know, you're probably right. i just like to use the exact right word to mean what i have to say, ya know? it's like so good that way. more people should do it. it just sucks when people look at you like they have no idea what you're saying. whatever, pick up a book, people! hahahahha!" snort!snort!

hmmmm, dr. g, could it be that your poor blue collar patient was so dumb as to not understand how his symptoms could be equivocal to those of the flu?...or is it that "equivocal" ACTUALLY means:

"of uncertain nature or significance"

and you're an idiot?

for the record: the word you MEANT to use was "equivalent."

god help your patients.

to fet or not to fet

a friend of mine recently confessed to me, with some modicum of sheepishness, his penchant for south asian women. "i can't explain it," he said, "i'm just attracted to every south asian woman i see. is that wrong?"

hmmm...that's a good question, so we got to talking about the all-too-pervasive FET.

a fet, for those of you who don't know (or who can't admit to yourselves that you have one) is a fetish for dating a particular group of people. usually, there are odius cultural myths associated with people's development of these fets, I.E. (not e.g.), a fet for asian women because they're percieved as doeish and subservient, or a fet for black men because they supposedly have humongoid magic sticks. the point is, fets are often based on racial biases and harmful generalizations and they're just no good.

but wait...is it possible to have a fet that's soley aesthetic and harbors no deeper implications? this is what my friend (i'll call him "mikey") and i decided to explore.

we began to probe the origins of his south asian predilection and soon discovered something very interesting. while "mikey" claimed not to be aware of any misconceptions he may have of south asians and simply be drawn to them on a physical level, his reasons for the attraction eventually belied his own biases. as it turns out, south asian women "fit" perfectly into his world of progressive politics, cultural openness and a streak of dating women "from the nile to the oxus." he maintained a subtle assumption that all south asian women are worldly smart lefties that would naturally match up with his own tastes. so even though he would never say "i like south asian women because [insert cultural bias here]," there was still a subconscious draw towards this group of women that seemingly fulfill a prefabricated slot in his mind. does that make any sense?

in the end, his fet really was a fet. the good thing about "mikey" (that's not common in most with the fet) is that he recognized the potential, examined the evidence and upon determining the fet to be true, took a step back to rethink his preferences. no matter that he's currently pursuing a south asian woman that he met in a coffee shop, or that he made out with another south asian friend of his last weekend. the boy has been cured of the fet! or has he? probably not. but at least he's aware of his own biases now. and that's not something many people can say.

gold's gym and the bra-less wonder

so there i was, doing a set of abs at my local meat locker yesterday, when i came up on the incline and found myself face-to-face with my arch nemesis: the bra-less wonder! (dun-dun-dun!). who is this mysterious foe and why have we sworn rivalry against one another, you may ask?

it all began about a month ago when bra-less wonder first stepped on my hair. i was stretching out on a mat in an area full of empty space when she perched right above me at a 90-degree angle, scowled into the mirror ahead and started grinding her dingy reeboks into my ponytail. never able to comprehend why one human would knowingly inflict pain on another, i assumed she didn't see my foot-long tail (which blends deceptively well into the dark padding on the gym floor) and i motioned up to her to step back. she frowned down at me, apparently annoyed that i dare interrupt her reflective self-loathing, and gave my bundle of hair one last twist before releasing it. i scrambled to my knees, ready to give her what's what when i was blinded by a pair of fiercely sharp nipples glaring at me from under her sweat-soaked lycra top. i tumbled backwards, gasping for air. never before had i seen such a sight! it hurt to look, and yet i could not turn away. by now she'd noticed that i was staring and turned another 45 degrees opposite to me with a look of disgust on her face as if to say "how dare you!"

how dare i? how dare YOU?! or rather, how in the hell DO you? for those of you who don't have boobs, imagine a 2-pound sack of pudding hanging off either side of your chest. now imagine running, jumping, squatting and doing just about anything with no carefully designed carrying case strapped on to protect you from the inevitable jostling. that shit's straight painful!

and on top of that, bra-less wonder, what are you trying to prove?

i'm all for feminist statements. go ahead and burn bras or whatever other pointless shit you feel will help. but please, for the love of all that is decent, at least tape band-aids over your nipples when you're at the gym. it's bad enough that we have to grunt, stink and heave side-by-side, the least we can do is ease up on the visuals. PUT THOSE NIPS AWAY!

three times now we've run into each other (all four of us) and each time her nipples just seem to get bigger. i've thought about writing her a letter or subtely slipping a sports bra into her locker, but something tells me bra-less wonder is beyond my reach. all i can do now is pray that the next time i see her i look away before they catch me.
living in constant fear...

hear ye! hear ye! the renaissance fair doth sucketh!

in the interest of amassing as many ridiculous experiences whilst on this planet, i attended the maryland renaissance festival today. oh yes that's right, i'm talking THE renaissance festival: 25 dork-filled acres crawling with every goth, computer geek and dungeons and dragons turdball in a 100-mile radius all dressed in their fanciest tights and homemade corsets. fabulous. never seen more veiny cleavage and saggy white asses in my life. and everything ends in a superfluous "e". (faire, shoppe, fucke, shite...whatevere)

now what would possess one to take an entire sunday, drive nearly an hour out of town and pay the $14 entrance fee to a poorly disguised toursit trap?

morbid curiousity for one. haven't you ever wondered what Ed the IT guy does for fun on the weekends? or where Cynthia the disaffected tattooed whale of a women serving you your morning mochaccino feels her most sexy? you need look no further than your local renaissance festival, where every manner of misfit can cometh and make much merriment.


we're hotte! 

imagine a place where you could be your absolute self if your truest form is an awkward ducky with unforunate looks and a proclivity for speaking in "ye olde english." this is like their christmas! and i simply could not let one more year pass without exposing myself to the fasincating horror of this most screwy of subcultures. religious fanatics and cultists have nothing on these people. they are FOR REAL about this shit. take for example my attempt to utilize the "privies" (the oh so clever label for a semi-circle of porta-potties baking in the rural maryland sun). here's a typical exchange that you might hear between Me (i.e., any normal person just looking for a place to squeeze out ye olde bladder) and "Old Wench" (some old hag with wrinkly cleavage and bad teeth. see pic below)


dumb old wench 

me: excuse me, where're the restrooms around here?

old wench: why welcome, ye fair maiden! thou hast cometh to the right place to avail yourself of the foulest the bowel doth offereth.

me: you said what now?

old wench: amble, me lady, in such a direction as the sun doth shine to find yourself eshrined in the circle of privies that await your dainty practice.

me: ok so i'm talking about peepee here. what exactly are you trying to tell me?

old wench: oh! ye! doth! thouest! ye! (and on and on she goes like this until i spot a guy coming out from behind a makeshift wall yanking up his tights and figure that must be the spot.)

like i said, THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT KIDDING.

the interesting thing is that there were so many of "them" speaking their dork tongue and spinning their dork game and in some instances even finding dork love.
i guess it's kinda nice to know that there's a place (and a wench) for everyone out there. makes the world feel a little less cruel and gives this forlorn romantic a sliver of hope that maybe she too will someday find her knight (or in my case, more likely a jester).

but most important of all, i had an opportunity to achieve one of my lifelong dreams:
to walk around in public chomping on a giant turkey leg like a true royal.

THAT is what it all doth be about!


arrrr! deliciouseth! 

the art of public pooing

(this one's in honor of my BFF)

before we begin, let me warn you that this one's gonna get a bit dirty so if you're squeamish (or still believe in the fantasy that girls shit rose petals) stop HERE.

still reading? well then consider yourself warned.

as a woman with highly functional bowels (avg. three times a day! aren't you proud?), i find myself in need of expelling my goods outside of the home more often than i'd like. and in doing so, i usually wind up in a sticky situation (sorry for the unfortunate pun).

tell me if this sounds familiar:

you gotta take a big shit and have to do it in a public setting (probably work or school or coffee shop, whatever). you need to go REAL BAD, but fear the exposure and judgement of others in so open a setting and thus plug the turtle back in its hole for another time. how unfortunate!

many people i know wouldn't be caught dead dumping in public, but let me tell you, you need not fear it. there is a system! and after so so so many successful bouts, i've got it all figured out. just follow these simple rules and you too could be pooing all over the place in no time!

1) when you stroll into the restroom casually case the place to take account of who saw you coming in (it helps to note the shoes to accomodate your limited angle from inside the stall later on)

2) pick your target toilet (preferably one at least two doors away from any other occupied stall) and get comfy, you're gonna be here a while

3) depending on your level of defecatory bashfulness you could get right down to business, but if you don't want those who witnessed your entrance (perhaps a boss or that girl who's always talking smack around the office) knowing it's you, give'em a few seconds to make their exit. (don't worry so much about who else is in the stalls...they won't know what's what if you do it right)

4) once the identifiable persons have departed, it's all you, baby! go crazy!!

5) by this point the air is likely filling with...well...i don't need to tell you what shit smells like. now comes the tricky part. if you run into someone just entering the space how will you convince them that the offensive odor was not your doing?! either you wait til no one's present in the common area OR if there's someone lingering about, you move quickly towards the sink with a scrunchy-nose-face and roll your eyes in the direction of any other stall that may have someone in it. give your "fellow innocent bystander" a knowing glance (as in "phew! can you believe the stink that bitch has got goin in there?!") and you're in the clear!

congratulations! you've now successfully lightened your load (both literally and figuratively).

now that's some good shit!

this is great! 

is he or isn't he?

this is my dog ralphie. and as he is currently the closest thing to a relationship in my life, it's only fitting that my first serious blog be about him. so i've been wondering...if animals were to have a sexual orientation, would my dog be gay?
some points to consider:
- ralphie has
1) great hair
2) a fetish for finely dressed asian men
3) the tendency to sneak up under much larger male dogs and steal a few licks

i guess it doesn't help that i bought him a red gingham harness and dress him up in an army green parka with faux fur trimmed hood, but hey.

clearly, we need more empirical evidence here but between you and me, he's not fooling anybody.



i'm so happy

my first blog

i wonder how many of these things begin with "so my friend said i should start a blog..."
at any rate, this one did. as if you don't already have enough mindless crap coming at you from all sides, it's time for me to add another steaming heap to the pile.

so get ready people, ghazaleh's about to blog!