I have finally come to the conclusion that I can no longer eat junk food like a college student and process it with the metabolic rate of a 5-year-old. After growing a tad bit soft around the middle (despite the scale readout, which remains the same as the day I graduated high school), I have reluctantly decided it's time to re-join the gym. Yes, I said "re-join"...as in, I was a member for a month or two before, but I quit. It was much easier for me to "quit the gym" than for Chandler Bing in one of my favorite episodes of "Friends." Poor Chandler ended up going to the bank to cut them off at the source and ended up with a joint checking account with Ross. (See, everything in life really does related to an episode of "Friends!") In order for me to quit, I just have to quit going. Maybe there's something to be said for that monthly fee automatically deducted from your paycheck.
The gym downstairs in the basement at work really is a nice, state-of-the-art gym, and it's located right by the exit to the garage, so there really is no excuse to skip. Although forgetting my gym bag and workout clothes has lately been my most-used "excuse." Whenever I pass the gym for the exit to the parking lot, I sometimes feel a small pang of guilt--but it's usually silenced by a detour to Tappy's Frozen Yogurt on my way home. Then the guilt that returns is two-fold.
Well, I finally committed to another membership and have gone a grand total of three times in the past two weeks. I tried yoga and discovered it was far more difficult that I expected. I'm not flexible AT ALL, so the instructor's direction to bend over and touch my toes left my arms hanging awkwardly in the air far above my bare feet. I did enjoy the 10-minute rest period at the end of the workout where we laid in the dark and focused on relaxing. In fact, I thought I might be unable to drive home immediately after the class for fear I would fall asleep at the wheel!
When it comes to going to the gym, it is my belief that there are two types of people in the world: 1) those who admit their hatred for the gym and only go out of necessity and 2) those who declare their love for the gym (and who are coincidentally what I believe to be full of $#!%). Let's face it--no one likes to go to the gym. Anyone who says otherwise is either showing off or is clearly in denial. I feel like a hamster on a treadmill, and all those weight machines give me sore muscles the following day that I didn't even know I had! Now every time I unwrap a candy bar, I'm left looking at the wrapper wondering, is this Snickers REALLY worth 40 minutes on the treadmill?!
The fact remains that I love to eat. It's seriously one of my favorite past times. While I've been blessed with a high metabolism, I'm kidding myself if I think it will last forever. The day it slows down is the day I'm in trouble if I don't jump start some healthy habits now. That's why I decided to re-join the gym. Like I said, I'm still just starting out, but hopefully, I can ultimately view it as a necessary life change that I will need to maintain forever--unlike a yo-yo dieter who tries Weight Watchers to lose 30 lb. for a high school reunion then falls off the ice cream wagon and returns to old habits soon thereafter.
I'm in this for the long haul. So until they invent a pill that allows women to eat WHATEVER THEY WANT WITHOUT GETTING FAT, (which, ironically, is every woman's biggest wish), I'll be that hamster on the treadmill, sweating to stay in my current-size jeans. I can still most likely be persuaded to meet you for frozen yogurt afterward, though!
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Skating to the Oldies....as an "Oldie"
A couple years ago, a friend and I decided we were going to take up roller skating as a way to get exercise that didn't involve A) the boring old treadmill or B) a weekly commitment to the dreaded gym. Now I'm not talking about rollerblading--I'm talking about old-school, 4-wheels-with-a-stopper-in-the-front roller skating.
After all, I was close to achieving pro status as a kid, and the exact same roller rink I visited on a regular basis still happens to be located almost exactly 5 minutes from my apartment. Since my once-cherished white, pink and purple skates Santa Claus brought me for Christmas were long-gone and would never fit my size 7 feet anyway, I was on a quest to locate the perfect pair of brand new skates.
I decided on a pair of killer black derby skates, which are just like roller skates--only they hit below the ankle like regular shoes. To this day, one of my biggest fears (no lie) is falling and breaking my ankle--thus, having to forgo wearing high heels. For me, life would be unthinkable in that condition! As a result, I concluded that an ankle-baring derby skate would allow for "give" if I happened to trip over a small child and fall flat on my face. Since ankle injuries seemed less likely and they were super-cool looking, I dropped the $70-or-so bucks on a brand spankin' new pair. I was so excited!
I discovered on my first outing that re-learning to roller skate would be a bit of a challenge since I hadn't attempted to do so in about 20 years--literally. I'm happy to report it's probably the cheapest form of entertainment one can find this day and age that guarantees a good time (and sore muscles, too, I've recently learned). I was shocked, however, when I was asked to sign a waiver before I was presented my wristband indicating admission to the rink. As it turns out, anyone over the age of 18 is required to sign a waiver, ensuring the roller rink won't be sued, should said person fall and break an ankle or a hip. Ah, lawyers...they always find a way to spoil the fun--and make you feel geriatric at a mere 30 years old.
It was a tad off-putting to be discriminated for being too old to enjoy my favorite childhood past time in a totally risk-free environment, but I understand the ways of the world have changed. One signature later, I was off to change into skates and lock up my shoes and handbag in the same lockers we used as small children. Looking around the rink, nostalgia overtook me-as did the familiarly faint smell of giant pickles from the snack bar. The place hadn't changed much, except for the new brightly colored carpet that replaced the hideous orange carpet of the early 90s. Plus, I was cool again--I brought my own skates!
The baby learning rink in the back was my first stop as I became re-acquainted with the foreign wheeled objects on my feet. It was like a scene right out of Bambi. I can imagine I must have looked like a baby deer learning to walk to all the happy-go-lucky kids and their onlooking parents. Not so much like "riding a bicycle," roller skating wasn't so quick to come back to me after a 20-year absence from the activity. Maybe I should have started with a glass of wine to calm the nerves; however, at this point, it was too late to turn back.
I mustered up enough courage after a few laps on the kiddie rink to make my way to the "big" rink (which, I must admit, looked a tad bit smaller than I remembered as a kid). My fear kept me from taking off like a bullet. Instead, I had to ease a bit more into it. After all, I had a lot further to fall than I did as a 10-year-old. Kids shot past me as I got my bearings, leaving me to feel like the "old person" I used to weave in and out of as a roller-skating champ some 20 years ago.
After a few laps, I felt more assured that I knew what I was doing, and it all started coming back to me. The music was different--as was the scenery from an older woman's perspective. I found it ironic that the once-craved snacks from the snack bar seemed to entice a gag reflex rather than a rumbling stomach. But all in all, it was like I was a kid again. Only my sore muscles and heavier breathing indicated I didn't have the endurance that once came so easily as a child. Did I mention getting older sucks??
As the music blared and kids whirred past, I was reminded of the countless birthday parties and random Sunday afternoons my childhood friends and I had spent at the Interskate roller rink, clad in colorful Lycra skating outfits we adored. I used to feel like a United States Olympian as I twirled and turned in the center of the rink where the more "experienced" skaters showed off their tricks to the addictive thumping beat of songs from New Kids on the Block, Milli Vanilli and Michael Jackson. At this point in my 30s, however, my main objective was to stay upright and not worry about crushing a small child.
It really was a thrilling experience returning to a place where I had once felt so alive and free. Though the music was a little different, with the same old wooden floor I'd circled hundereds of times and the God-awful floor-to-wall carpeting, it felt for a second like merely days had passed, and I couldn't help but smile. And despite the waiver I was required to sign that indicated otherwise, I really was a kid again...and I had finally returned to pay a visit to my old stomping ground.
After all, I was close to achieving pro status as a kid, and the exact same roller rink I visited on a regular basis still happens to be located almost exactly 5 minutes from my apartment. Since my once-cherished white, pink and purple skates Santa Claus brought me for Christmas were long-gone and would never fit my size 7 feet anyway, I was on a quest to locate the perfect pair of brand new skates.
I decided on a pair of killer black derby skates, which are just like roller skates--only they hit below the ankle like regular shoes. To this day, one of my biggest fears (no lie) is falling and breaking my ankle--thus, having to forgo wearing high heels. For me, life would be unthinkable in that condition! As a result, I concluded that an ankle-baring derby skate would allow for "give" if I happened to trip over a small child and fall flat on my face. Since ankle injuries seemed less likely and they were super-cool looking, I dropped the $70-or-so bucks on a brand spankin' new pair. I was so excited!
I discovered on my first outing that re-learning to roller skate would be a bit of a challenge since I hadn't attempted to do so in about 20 years--literally. I'm happy to report it's probably the cheapest form of entertainment one can find this day and age that guarantees a good time (and sore muscles, too, I've recently learned). I was shocked, however, when I was asked to sign a waiver before I was presented my wristband indicating admission to the rink. As it turns out, anyone over the age of 18 is required to sign a waiver, ensuring the roller rink won't be sued, should said person fall and break an ankle or a hip. Ah, lawyers...they always find a way to spoil the fun--and make you feel geriatric at a mere 30 years old.
It was a tad off-putting to be discriminated for being too old to enjoy my favorite childhood past time in a totally risk-free environment, but I understand the ways of the world have changed. One signature later, I was off to change into skates and lock up my shoes and handbag in the same lockers we used as small children. Looking around the rink, nostalgia overtook me-as did the familiarly faint smell of giant pickles from the snack bar. The place hadn't changed much, except for the new brightly colored carpet that replaced the hideous orange carpet of the early 90s. Plus, I was cool again--I brought my own skates!
The baby learning rink in the back was my first stop as I became re-acquainted with the foreign wheeled objects on my feet. It was like a scene right out of Bambi. I can imagine I must have looked like a baby deer learning to walk to all the happy-go-lucky kids and their onlooking parents. Not so much like "riding a bicycle," roller skating wasn't so quick to come back to me after a 20-year absence from the activity. Maybe I should have started with a glass of wine to calm the nerves; however, at this point, it was too late to turn back.
I mustered up enough courage after a few laps on the kiddie rink to make my way to the "big" rink (which, I must admit, looked a tad bit smaller than I remembered as a kid). My fear kept me from taking off like a bullet. Instead, I had to ease a bit more into it. After all, I had a lot further to fall than I did as a 10-year-old. Kids shot past me as I got my bearings, leaving me to feel like the "old person" I used to weave in and out of as a roller-skating champ some 20 years ago.
After a few laps, I felt more assured that I knew what I was doing, and it all started coming back to me. The music was different--as was the scenery from an older woman's perspective. I found it ironic that the once-craved snacks from the snack bar seemed to entice a gag reflex rather than a rumbling stomach. But all in all, it was like I was a kid again. Only my sore muscles and heavier breathing indicated I didn't have the endurance that once came so easily as a child. Did I mention getting older sucks??
As the music blared and kids whirred past, I was reminded of the countless birthday parties and random Sunday afternoons my childhood friends and I had spent at the Interskate roller rink, clad in colorful Lycra skating outfits we adored. I used to feel like a United States Olympian as I twirled and turned in the center of the rink where the more "experienced" skaters showed off their tricks to the addictive thumping beat of songs from New Kids on the Block, Milli Vanilli and Michael Jackson. At this point in my 30s, however, my main objective was to stay upright and not worry about crushing a small child.
It really was a thrilling experience returning to a place where I had once felt so alive and free. Though the music was a little different, with the same old wooden floor I'd circled hundereds of times and the God-awful floor-to-wall carpeting, it felt for a second like merely days had passed, and I couldn't help but smile. And despite the waiver I was required to sign that indicated otherwise, I really was a kid again...and I had finally returned to pay a visit to my old stomping ground.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Say No to the "Snedge"!!!!
Ah, fall is in the air. With the temperatures dropping from 102 to the 80s in the past couple of days, I am reminded that my favorite time of year is upon us (or so I'd like to believe). After all, Texas weather is unpredictable. I'm told that our days of 100-degree highs are over, but we shall see. Dallas weathermen and their forecasts are about as reliable as a politician in delivering on his campaign promises.
Speaking of politicians, I am so ready for this election to be over--but I promise to steer clear of talking politics on this blog. After all, they say you should "write what you know," and my knowledge about shoes, fashion and cosmetics far outweighs my knowledge of the political arena.
While I am sad to say "adios" to my dozens of colorful, strappy summertime wedges, sandals and open-toed heels, I look forward to boot season and colorful-sweater weather. I don't know what it is about fall, but it's always been my favorite season. The leaves start to turn, and there's a certain crispness in the air. Now is the perfect time to shop for summer clearance items, and I highly recommend that you do take advantage of the amazing deals. My mailbox is overflowing with coupons and store mailers, and, while thumbing through the summer-inventory sales and several fashion magazines over the past few weeks, I couldn't help but notice the upcoming trends for fall and winter. One of them perplexes me, and, quite honestly, scares me a little bit. It is none other than the wedge sneaker.
Don't get me wrong, I love a good wedge shoe. But this compilation of a wedge heel and a sporty sneaker in one is just plain goofy-looking. And they're everywhere! The salesgirl at DSW had on a pair, they're in all the fall catalogs--I've even written copy for a few of them. I just don't understand the concept. Have fashion footwear designers completely run out of ideas and resorted to strange mutations to standard designs for something new and fun?
I don't know--it just reminds me of some bad fashion trend held over from the early 90s. Frankly, these "weakers" or "snedges" (hey, if the fashion industry can use such words as "jeggings" and "shooties," I can coin my own fashion terms) are just plain U-G-L-Y! They look like something you'd sport if you were preparing for a trip to the moon. I honestly believe Justin Bieber is somewhere behind this scheme.
Nevertheless, fashion trends come, and they go (thank the Lord!). So while I won't be jumping on board a NASA-funded trip to the moon in this season's "snedges," I'll applaud your courage in wearing the strange shoes (and will most definitely make fun of you behind your back at the hideousness of your fashion sense). I guess at the end of the day, I must remember--to each her own!
Speaking of politicians, I am so ready for this election to be over--but I promise to steer clear of talking politics on this blog. After all, they say you should "write what you know," and my knowledge about shoes, fashion and cosmetics far outweighs my knowledge of the political arena.
While I am sad to say "adios" to my dozens of colorful, strappy summertime wedges, sandals and open-toed heels, I look forward to boot season and colorful-sweater weather. I don't know what it is about fall, but it's always been my favorite season. The leaves start to turn, and there's a certain crispness in the air. Now is the perfect time to shop for summer clearance items, and I highly recommend that you do take advantage of the amazing deals. My mailbox is overflowing with coupons and store mailers, and, while thumbing through the summer-inventory sales and several fashion magazines over the past few weeks, I couldn't help but notice the upcoming trends for fall and winter. One of them perplexes me, and, quite honestly, scares me a little bit. It is none other than the wedge sneaker.
Don't get me wrong, I love a good wedge shoe. But this compilation of a wedge heel and a sporty sneaker in one is just plain goofy-looking. And they're everywhere! The salesgirl at DSW had on a pair, they're in all the fall catalogs--I've even written copy for a few of them. I just don't understand the concept. Have fashion footwear designers completely run out of ideas and resorted to strange mutations to standard designs for something new and fun?
I don't know--it just reminds me of some bad fashion trend held over from the early 90s. Frankly, these "weakers" or "snedges" (hey, if the fashion industry can use such words as "jeggings" and "shooties," I can coin my own fashion terms) are just plain U-G-L-Y! They look like something you'd sport if you were preparing for a trip to the moon. I honestly believe Justin Bieber is somewhere behind this scheme.
Nevertheless, fashion trends come, and they go (thank the Lord!). So while I won't be jumping on board a NASA-funded trip to the moon in this season's "snedges," I'll applaud your courage in wearing the strange shoes (and will most definitely make fun of you behind your back at the hideousness of your fashion sense). I guess at the end of the day, I must remember--to each her own!
Saturday, September 1, 2012
"Dyeing" for a Change
This morning, it took me a moment to recognize the reflection staring back at me from the mirror. It's only been a few days since I darkened my summer highlighted-blond locks to a rich, fall reddish auburn hue--although, when it comes to hair color, change is nothing new to me. What can I say? I get bored easily. My hair color changes like the weather in Texas.
The quickest and easiest alteration you can make to your physical appearance for the sake of boredom involves a supply of chemicals and a little bit of bravery (or simply the former and a good stylist whom you trust completely).
As someone who's seen my share of hair color chemicals over the years, I've also experienced plenty of hair emergencies. Any woman who has decided (after margarita number 4) to change her hair color at midnight after a trip down the grocery store boxed hair color aisle can appreciate my not-so exaggerated use of the word "emergency."
Maybe we all should have paid better attention in elementary school art class when the teacher explained the basics of the color wheel. Unfortunately, accidentally achieved pink hair cannot be expunged simply by putting on more brown dye to cover it. (Lesson # 2--never call your boyfriend in tears, looking for moral support after a hair-dyeing experiment gone awry. Lesson #1 was to withstand the desire to color your hair while under the influence of tequila.)
Yes, I've had every hair color under the rainbow--many of which were purely accidental. However, I must say there's no such mood elevator quite as effective as freshly dyed locks that turn out drop dead gorgeous. It instills confidence and makes you feel like a brand new woman--assuming that others even notice the difference. I can't tell you how many times others have looked at me after a drastic change and said, 1) "there's something different about you..." or 2) absolutely NOTHING! So help me God, I'll kill you for not noticing something quite so drastic as a blond head gone red overnight because, let's face it--a professional dye job doesn't come cheap!
I guess ultimately, it doesn't really matter what others think about my color, though. I know my boyfriend and dad prefer me as a tan blond even though I am a natural brunette (I think, at least. It's been a loooong time since I've seen it!) If you know anything about me at all, it's that I'll do what I want! And if I feel fabulous, that's all that counts. One thing I can tell you for certain right now is that I feel like a brand new woman, ready to take on the world. Oh, and in case you were wondering--redheads (in this current moment) really DO have more fun!
The quickest and easiest alteration you can make to your physical appearance for the sake of boredom involves a supply of chemicals and a little bit of bravery (or simply the former and a good stylist whom you trust completely).
As someone who's seen my share of hair color chemicals over the years, I've also experienced plenty of hair emergencies. Any woman who has decided (after margarita number 4) to change her hair color at midnight after a trip down the grocery store boxed hair color aisle can appreciate my not-so exaggerated use of the word "emergency."
Maybe we all should have paid better attention in elementary school art class when the teacher explained the basics of the color wheel. Unfortunately, accidentally achieved pink hair cannot be expunged simply by putting on more brown dye to cover it. (Lesson # 2--never call your boyfriend in tears, looking for moral support after a hair-dyeing experiment gone awry. Lesson #1 was to withstand the desire to color your hair while under the influence of tequila.)
Yes, I've had every hair color under the rainbow--many of which were purely accidental. However, I must say there's no such mood elevator quite as effective as freshly dyed locks that turn out drop dead gorgeous. It instills confidence and makes you feel like a brand new woman--assuming that others even notice the difference. I can't tell you how many times others have looked at me after a drastic change and said, 1) "there's something different about you..." or 2) absolutely NOTHING! So help me God, I'll kill you for not noticing something quite so drastic as a blond head gone red overnight because, let's face it--a professional dye job doesn't come cheap!
I guess ultimately, it doesn't really matter what others think about my color, though. I know my boyfriend and dad prefer me as a tan blond even though I am a natural brunette (I think, at least. It's been a loooong time since I've seen it!) If you know anything about me at all, it's that I'll do what I want! And if I feel fabulous, that's all that counts. One thing I can tell you for certain right now is that I feel like a brand new woman, ready to take on the world. Oh, and in case you were wondering--redheads (in this current moment) really DO have more fun!
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Peanut Butter & JELLIES!!!!
A wave of nostalgia swept over me as I recently visited several of my favorite shoe stores and encountered rows upon rows of jellies sandals. As a child of the 80s, I had my fair share of "plastic wear," and I sported it like the fashionista-in-training I was. I guess we should have known then the pains I was willing to undertake for the sake of fashion. I wore those things until my ankles bled and Mom made me toss them out. It broke my heart when she insisted I stop wearing jellies, but I guess I understand her point of view at my now more mature age of 31. It's difficult to stand up when you're sliding around in your own pool of muddy sweat. Ok, so they didn't make for pretty feet, but I sure felt like a princess when I wore them.
To this very day, some 26 years later, I can still remember my most favorite pair. Nonnie took me to Payless Shoe Store and I picked out a solid (no-holed) clear pair with an allover white lace print. They reminded me of Cinderella's glass slippers. What more could a little girl want in a shoe?! I was devastated the day my dad ran over them with the lawnmower and cut them in half as a result of my leaving them out in the middle of the yard. As a kid who grew up out in the country, there were no fashion runways to prance down, so I spent a great deal of my time barefoot in the backyard. A part of my soul mourned the loss of such unique and beautiful jellies--and I never again saw another pair like them.
I chuckled to myself a couple days ago when I learned from my mom that my 2 1/2-year-old niece, Tori, has discovered the joy of jellies and their likeness to Cinderella's glass slippers. I guess you could say the apple doesn't fall far from the family tree. I swear to goodness, Tori is a miniature version of me at that age, and I must admit--I'm so proud (and a little scared for my brother and sister-in-law!).
I just hope that Nonna (my mom) doesn't mind a little foot sweat so that my favorite niece can feel like the princess she is. Maybe Mom has become a tad bit more tolerant in her golden years as a grandma. I can't wait to take Tori shopping and buy that baby girl any pair of jellies she has her little heart set on. Call it a right of passage if you will. I just want her to experience the joy that colorful plastic brought me as a child. Ah, jellies---the greatest invention since sliced bread and peanut butter!
To this very day, some 26 years later, I can still remember my most favorite pair. Nonnie took me to Payless Shoe Store and I picked out a solid (no-holed) clear pair with an allover white lace print. They reminded me of Cinderella's glass slippers. What more could a little girl want in a shoe?! I was devastated the day my dad ran over them with the lawnmower and cut them in half as a result of my leaving them out in the middle of the yard. As a kid who grew up out in the country, there were no fashion runways to prance down, so I spent a great deal of my time barefoot in the backyard. A part of my soul mourned the loss of such unique and beautiful jellies--and I never again saw another pair like them.
I chuckled to myself a couple days ago when I learned from my mom that my 2 1/2-year-old niece, Tori, has discovered the joy of jellies and their likeness to Cinderella's glass slippers. I guess you could say the apple doesn't fall far from the family tree. I swear to goodness, Tori is a miniature version of me at that age, and I must admit--I'm so proud (and a little scared for my brother and sister-in-law!).
I just hope that Nonna (my mom) doesn't mind a little foot sweat so that my favorite niece can feel like the princess she is. Maybe Mom has become a tad bit more tolerant in her golden years as a grandma. I can't wait to take Tori shopping and buy that baby girl any pair of jellies she has her little heart set on. Call it a right of passage if you will. I just want her to experience the joy that colorful plastic brought me as a child. Ah, jellies---the greatest invention since sliced bread and peanut butter!
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Reality Bites
In recent years, reality shows have become wildly popular, but my question is this: "are they actually real?" The answer in a word, hardly. I find it quite ironic that tapings of The Real Housewives, Big Brother, Survivor, Big Rich Texas, etc. are considered to be reality shows. The fact is, they are as far from reality as can possibly be imagined.
Honestly, in what world do teenagers have plastic surgery that's routine as bi-yearly dental cleanings and women shop around the clock for designer fashions that cost more than a year's rent? Hello, it's not reality!
Millions of people tune in to these shows weekly to satisfy their cravings for a dose of reality TV for one reason...to witness the train wrecks that they are. I can't even have a lunchtime conversation with my coworkers (you know who you are) without a discussion arising about the latest happenings to one of the "real" housewives of whatever-city-has-disgraced-its-namesake for D-rate publicity. I don't have much to contribute to those conversations because A) I don't watch those shows and B) I couldn't care less.
I don't mean to get on my "teenagers-today-have-no-idea-what-real-life-is-like" soapbox, so please forgive me, but it must be said that the reason they expect Daddy to hand over the keys to a brand new SUV on their 16th birthday is partly a result of these so-called reality shows. It's almost as though they feel a sense of entitlement because that's what is portrayed on the sets of these TV shows.
I remember like it was yesterday...the minute the credits rolled at the end of the first Sex & the City movie, my mother's first words were, "You know that's not reality." Bummer. I would love to live in a New York City studio apartment and still have the means to drop thousands of dollars on Manolos and Dior on my writer's salary. But as a real-life writer, I can 100% honestly vouch for the validity of my mother's statement. While I do have a semi-unhealthy obsession with shoes, I sure as heck don't have the likes of Louboutins or Jimmy Choos lining the shelves of my closet.
Don't get me wrong...I'm all for TV shows allowing everyday folks possessing God-given talents the ability to shine and receive accolades and recognition they would otherwise never receive (yea for The Voice and Project Runway!); however, I'm not about to waste my time watching wealthy, catty women bad-mouth each other while cameras are rolling.
I also think it's great that certain reality shows help morbidly obese individuals with lifelong eating disorders drop the pounds that present life-threatening health problems and keep them from feeling a sense of self worth. But sending a group of people to a tropical island and taping them as they duke it out over team challenges in order to determine that last man standing....NOT reality!
If you want to film a true reality show, drop contestants off in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a magnifying glass and a pocket knife and see if they can actually survive MacGyver style. But don't for a second pretend that they're out there "roughing it" with a camera crew standing ten feet away feeding them McDonalds cheeseburgers between takes. That's not survival!
Bottomline, for the sake of guilty-pleasure entertainment, reality shows are fine. But as for passing them off as real life, the tribe has spoken....."reality shows bite!"
Honestly, in what world do teenagers have plastic surgery that's routine as bi-yearly dental cleanings and women shop around the clock for designer fashions that cost more than a year's rent? Hello, it's not reality!
Millions of people tune in to these shows weekly to satisfy their cravings for a dose of reality TV for one reason...to witness the train wrecks that they are. I can't even have a lunchtime conversation with my coworkers (you know who you are) without a discussion arising about the latest happenings to one of the "real" housewives of whatever-city-has-disgraced-its-namesake for D-rate publicity. I don't have much to contribute to those conversations because A) I don't watch those shows and B) I couldn't care less.
I don't mean to get on my "teenagers-today-have-no-idea-what-real-life-is-like" soapbox, so please forgive me, but it must be said that the reason they expect Daddy to hand over the keys to a brand new SUV on their 16th birthday is partly a result of these so-called reality shows. It's almost as though they feel a sense of entitlement because that's what is portrayed on the sets of these TV shows.
I remember like it was yesterday...the minute the credits rolled at the end of the first Sex & the City movie, my mother's first words were, "You know that's not reality." Bummer. I would love to live in a New York City studio apartment and still have the means to drop thousands of dollars on Manolos and Dior on my writer's salary. But as a real-life writer, I can 100% honestly vouch for the validity of my mother's statement. While I do have a semi-unhealthy obsession with shoes, I sure as heck don't have the likes of Louboutins or Jimmy Choos lining the shelves of my closet.
Don't get me wrong...I'm all for TV shows allowing everyday folks possessing God-given talents the ability to shine and receive accolades and recognition they would otherwise never receive (yea for The Voice and Project Runway!); however, I'm not about to waste my time watching wealthy, catty women bad-mouth each other while cameras are rolling.
I also think it's great that certain reality shows help morbidly obese individuals with lifelong eating disorders drop the pounds that present life-threatening health problems and keep them from feeling a sense of self worth. But sending a group of people to a tropical island and taping them as they duke it out over team challenges in order to determine that last man standing....NOT reality!
If you want to film a true reality show, drop contestants off in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a magnifying glass and a pocket knife and see if they can actually survive MacGyver style. But don't for a second pretend that they're out there "roughing it" with a camera crew standing ten feet away feeding them McDonalds cheeseburgers between takes. That's not survival!
Bottomline, for the sake of guilty-pleasure entertainment, reality shows are fine. But as for passing them off as real life, the tribe has spoken....."reality shows bite!"
Thursday, March 29, 2012
"Google" It!
If I had a nickel for every silly argument Jeremy and I had that ended in the resolve to "Google it," I can assure you I'd be writing this blog for a living as I'd no longer need my day job. Lately, I've caught myself wondering what did we do before Google?
In the olden days, if we needed information about something, we had to look it up in the encyclopedia. Well, I'm sad to say that, just a few weeks ago, Encyclopedia Britannica announced they will no longer print hard copies. Everything is now digital. I'm not ashamed to admit that the English/grammar nerd inside of me was a little disappointed to hear the news.
As much as I hated scouring the pages of those massive reference books for information to fill countless school reports, I relied on them all throughout my elementary education. While one could easily suffer a hernia from carting them around in a backpack, they were filled with all kinds of facts from "A" to "Z"--literally. I'm really kinda sad to see them go. I realize that, in an ever changing society that's constantly making technological advances, the time would eventually come for the extinction of these dinosaurs.
It's a shame my nephew (who's nearly 12 years old) will never hear his parents utter the words, "Look it up in the encyclopedia." He only knows the instant gratification that Google and other online search engines provide. The other day, I asked him if he even knew what a card catalog was, and he replied, "You mean that big cabinet with all the little drawers?" Ugh--I'm older than I thought!
While I do appreciate the convenience of settling a fight about song lyrics or the inventor of bubblegum on the spot with the use of my iPhone, there's something to be said about the mystery of who's actually right. Well, thanks to Google, that mystery is solved (and I can gloat about being right!)...because there are some things you just can't find in an encyclopedia anyway.
In the olden days, if we needed information about something, we had to look it up in the encyclopedia. Well, I'm sad to say that, just a few weeks ago, Encyclopedia Britannica announced they will no longer print hard copies. Everything is now digital. I'm not ashamed to admit that the English/grammar nerd inside of me was a little disappointed to hear the news.
As much as I hated scouring the pages of those massive reference books for information to fill countless school reports, I relied on them all throughout my elementary education. While one could easily suffer a hernia from carting them around in a backpack, they were filled with all kinds of facts from "A" to "Z"--literally. I'm really kinda sad to see them go. I realize that, in an ever changing society that's constantly making technological advances, the time would eventually come for the extinction of these dinosaurs.
It's a shame my nephew (who's nearly 12 years old) will never hear his parents utter the words, "Look it up in the encyclopedia." He only knows the instant gratification that Google and other online search engines provide. The other day, I asked him if he even knew what a card catalog was, and he replied, "You mean that big cabinet with all the little drawers?" Ugh--I'm older than I thought!
While I do appreciate the convenience of settling a fight about song lyrics or the inventor of bubblegum on the spot with the use of my iPhone, there's something to be said about the mystery of who's actually right. Well, thanks to Google, that mystery is solved (and I can gloat about being right!)...because there are some things you just can't find in an encyclopedia anyway.
RIP
Encyclopedia Britannica
1768 - 2012
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