Cosmo, Deconstructed

This week, Shaw's is having some sort of insane sale on 12 packs of Pepsi products. I know this because yesterday I spent 15 minutes in line behind a woman who was trying to buy an entire floor display's worth of Sierra Mist. The cranky old checkout woman was baffled by the whole transaction . . . is Sierra Mist a Pepsi product? Is Schweppes ginger ale? How do you even pronounce 'Schweppes'? Can we get a manager over here? Bueller?

While all this was happening, I had a plenty of time to browse the magazine racks / contemplate my own mortality. Which is how I even noticed this in the first place:

That would be Cosmopolitan magazine, with a faux-naked Lady Gaga on the cover. I should note that I spent a good portion of monsoon-weekend watching the Telephone video and contemplating making my own smoking glasses. Needless to say, Gaga in granny panties intrigued me. So, in a moment of grocery-store-impulse-buy weakness, I tossed Cosmo in my cart.

Now -- the last time I actually purchased an issue of Cosmopolitan, I was probably 14, and on my way to someone's pool party / sleepover.

It was a simpler time.

These days, I am a loyal reader of Bust, Bitch, Vanity Fair, and the occasional tabloid. Yeh, I like to keep abreast of how lonely Jennifer Aniston is, and whether or not Katie Holmes is preggers. But I usually draw the line at the heavy duty "lady-mags" . . . Elle, Lucky, Allure, etc. Which is why I was almost surprised to get home and find Cosmo in my bag.

So I sat down to lunch and started flipping through this glossy new world . . . and an hour of shame-eating later, my brain had officially exploded.

I feel like I need to share this experience with someone -- so internets, I choose you! Let's digest this amazingly whack lady-propaganda together, shall we?


What We're About to Read:

Welcome to the April issue of Cosmo! Spring is in the air, and you know what that means! Sex-capades and shimmery eyeshadow! Wheeee!! I can't wait to see what the 'Sex Article they Can't Describe Here!' is . . . its gotta be pretty freaky-deaky if the worldly Cosmo editors are censoring it. Also -- '50 Things to Do Butt Naked'? And here I could only come up with 32!



Page 30 -- Lady Gaga Wants You:

Wha-whaaa. Cue disappointment sound-effects. I don't know what I was expecting from a Cosmo interview, but this somehow managed to make the most eccentric performance artist of the times just . . . eh. Perhaps it has something to do with the target readership of Cosmo, which is ostensibly 14 year old girls and Snooki. But yeh -- they made Gaga fill out the effin' Cosmo quiz. Notice how she basically wrote in her own answer for every lame-ass question. Nice try, Lady!



Page 36 -- The Rise of the Less Successful Boyfriend:

Favorite Quote: "Give him opportunities to treat you in inexpensive ways. E-mail him a link to an affordable restaurant, and ask if he'll take you. Or point out little things you covet -- a hat, a pair of earrings, even a cupcake -- and say, 'I need to have that. Will you get it for me?'"
Everyone knows that successful relationships are built on a foundation of material goods and fancy dinners -- so keep those hats and cupcakes comin', boys!



Page 57 -- 4 Signs He's Hiding Something:



Seriously?! Way to fuel the paranoia-fire, Cosmo. The next time your boyfriend clears his throat or actually shares the details of his day with you -- throw that lying bastard out! Or, you could just cut the pockets out of all his pants. Problem solved!


Page 60 -- The Guy Report:

I'm going to print this out and keep it in my wallet for handy bar-reference. I recommend you all do the same.



Page 62 -- Why He Loves Your Cooking -- Even If It's Bad:

At first, I was trying to figure out how they stretched this to a full-page article. Or why this was deemed an article-worthy topic, period. To summarize this ground-breaking piece of journalism: dudes (by Cosmo's definition) are like giant 8 year olds who will gladly eat whatever crap is put in front of them.



Page 76 -- Beauty, HIS PICKS:

And here I'd been thinking that only chicks judged me based on my choice of nail polish color -- but it turns out, guys have very strong opinions about this, too. Um, direct quotage, in case you missed this: "Nails grown barely past your fingertips are the ideal length [ . . . ] They look feminine but won't stop you from, say, unzipping him or sexting." Brain exploding in five . . . four . . . three . . .


Page 116 -- Fun, Easy Ways to Fall More in Love:



I LOL'd so hard at this, I cried . . . and then I couldn't stop crying, for some reason. Best tips ever:
"Notice stuff about him. And then tell him."
"Really thank him. If he helps you paint your bathroom, leave his favorite salty snack in the pantry."
"Defuse a fight. Calling him by his pet name in the middle of an argument cools things down [ . . . ] Say something like 'Baby, I hate fighting with you.'"
"Learn a funny joke to tell him that night."
And don't even get me started on that '5 Best Compliments You Can Give Him' box! Seriously, have I accidentally stumbled into a hot-tub time machine back to 1950? I'm fully expecting next month's issue to have a 'Get Back in the Kitchen! 5 Great Sandwiches You Can Make For Your Man!' feature.



Page 118 -- The Sex Article We Can't Describe on the Cover:

I've been waiting for this one, Cosmo! What lurid new sex trend are you about to reveal to your innocent readers? Fetish porn, orgies and bears -- oh my!
Wait a second . . . "oral sex"? That's your top-secret-uber-steamy article of the month??
Dude . . . this really is a magazine aimed at 14 year olds, huh? Not that that's any comfort -- especially with this effing side-bar:




Page 122 -- Be the Girl Every Guy Wants to Talk To:

Please note the first heading in this article -- 'Don't Say A Word . . . Yet'. Instead of, like, talking to a guy, you should, like: "try to casually touch the guy your talking to 5 times within every 15 minutes". And don't forget: "Being a bit fearless by sharing something that's a little out there -- for instance, recounting the time you won a karaoke contest with your awesome rendition of 'Endless Love' or admitting that you've seen all the Saw movies at least twice -- shows an attractive amount of balls-out confidence."

Page 156 -- Read This Before You Drive Alone:

Translation: FEAR! FEAR! FEAR!!!!!



Page 174 -- 50 More Things to Do Naked:

My personal fav is #31: "Bid on eBay. Wearing nada will make you feel ballsy, so you'll get exactly what you want." Huh -- I always thought sitting around naked in front of your computer buying used crap you don't really need was a sign of clinical depression . . . but thanks for setting me straight, Cosmo! Girl power!




Page 178-- Send Him a Secret Sexy Message:

Now, I don't consider myself a bra-burning feminist or anything . . . but this page of Sexy Secret Messages for Your Man -- which are printed on cardstock and designed to be pulled out of the magazine and actually used -- is making me wanna go throw paint at someone.
Also, I am totally gonna use these "Sexy Messages", so watch your mailboxes!




Most Amazing Weight Loss Ad of the Issue:

Ok, so if I'm reading this right -- you're supposed to live on "Almased" and vegetable broth for a week, followed by several weeks of "Almased" and one meal of veggies and lean meat. Why does this sound like a recipe for failure in a glass?



Sigh. Well that brings us to the end of the issue, folks! I think we've all learned a little something, right? I know I have! I need to find myself a dude who drinks microbrews and never puts his hands in his pockets and, ideally, is more successful than me. To do this, I must keep my nails short (but not too short), learn some funny jokes I can tell him while simultaneously not talking too much, and caress him 5 times during a 15 minute conversation. Also, stock the cabinets with snacks and my crappy-ass attempts at cooking. Also, send him sexy secret messages and ask him to buy me cheap hats.

Also -- oral sex!!! Tehehehe!!!

T is for Toolgirl, Who's Terribly Handy . . .

After a rainstorm of biblical proportions, I was all set to start my Build-An-Ark project . . . but lo, the sun is shining once again! In fact, today was so damn lovely, I was inspired to do some spring cleaning / home improvement.

Now . . . I should note that I was raised in a family where doing things the "right" way with the "correct" tools was generally scoffed at. Why bother looking for a hammer when you can just pound that nail in with mom's old shoe? Who needs a flashlight when you've got a booklight / cell phone / Game Boy to illuminate your path? As a result, I've learned to just live with a lot of malfunctioning appliances, burned out overhead lights, and a tub that doesn't exactly drain correctly.

But the appearance of sunshine made me so giddy this morning, I rolled up my sleeves and decided to clear away some winter cobwebs before the next round of rain and gloom. And since my schedule will soon be filled with school and work, I figured I might as well get my household in order while I can. So I dragged the stepladder up from the Basement of Doom and changed all the lightbulbs in the apartment to low-wattage, energy-saving ones. Then, by the light of freshly changed bulbs, I tore apart my closet and got down to some good ol' fashioned organizing!

I have lots of hats. And shirts. And skirts. And not a lot of dresser space.

Alternative storage solutions were called for.

Soooooo . . . I strolled over to Target in the lovely bright sunshine, and came home with this bad boy:

Meet My First Drill! Drilly McDrillerson!

Wow, you guys -- do you know how much easier shit is when you have a power tool?!

Don't answer that.

Anyway -- behold, the fruit of my labors!


Julie gave me this hanging candle holder for Christmas, and I've been puzzling over how to hang it for months now. Clearly, those hooks with the sticky tape on the back weren't going to cut it. But with my new pal Drilly, mounting a hook into the ceiling was a snap! I might need a slightly longer chain to hang the light from, but overall it looks lovely.

After drilling into the ceiling, I was ready to tackle a wall. But I was still a little nervous about attempting this. My apartment building is very old, and there's no telling what secrets / faulty wiring lie behind the walls. Perhaps a more conscientious person would have used a stud-finder -- or even a tape measure -- to figure out the best way to mount something. I used the next best thing to a stud-finder -- Papa G.

Papa G: "Good afternoon, Guarie Design Group."

Me: "Papa, it's me. I have a home improvement question."

Papa G: "Oh, God . . ."

Me: "If I just drill into the kitchen wall, will anything bad happen to me?"

Papa G: "Well, you could electrocute yourself. Where'd you get a drill?"

Me: "How will I know if I'm going to electrocute myself?"

Papa G: " Just don't drill directly above any light switches or electrical outlets and you should be ok."

Me: "Ok. If you don't hear from me for a few days, it probably means I've zapped myself and I'm being eaten by the cat."

Papa G: "Good luck!"


So, I called upon the protective powers of the Patron Saint of Household Chores, and went to work. And not only did I survive -- I managed to successfully hang this Ikea storage rack that's been in my closet for months!

You have no idea how happy this thing makes me! I have no drawers in my kitchen. At all. My silverware has been living on the sideboard in these little metal containers -- which look way cooler hanging from the wall!

After my success in the kitchen, I moved on to the closet:

Fancy-pants new rack . . .




. . . means no more hunting for lost scarves and hats!

Who knew hanging shit on the walls would be so satisfying/empowering! If anyone needs any drilling done, you know who to call!*





*ew - not that kind of drilling, you pervs!

maeby this time . . .

blargh, it is march. tis the season for madness!

i feel like i haven't seen the sun in a year. i'm beginning to think this might really be the end of the world -- earthquakes, tsunamis, blizzards in places where we grow citrus. i fear that boston is doomed to become a gray colony of mole-people. or perhaps we'll be overrun by glittery vampires, escaping the sun.

i need to get out of the house.

i'm not going to lie to you, internet people. i've spent the better part of this week in my bathrobe, watching Arrested Development. when i confessed this to my therapist, she said, "well, that's fitting!"

rut roh.

seriously, though -- nothing cures late winter SADness like an amazingly clever sitcom. i don't know why i didn't pay more attention to this show until now. i seem to jump on the pop-culture fan-wagons about 4 years too late. so in 2014, i'm gonna be all about vampires and Lost. adjust your christmas shopping lists accordingly.

anyway -- so yesterday, i tore myself away for the antics of the Bluth family, put on some clothes, and dragged my pathetic ass to the gym. i was fully prepared for a beat-down by Ron. i have not been very consistent in my gym efforts of late. my procrastination efforts, however, have been off the charts!

Ron has switched up the workout routine to a 30 minute, full-body gorefest. last week, i was left shaking and sweating, flat on my back in the middle of the weight-lifting room while Ron's smug face spun above me. this week, i was prepared for a similar out-of-body torture experience. and i wasn't looking forward to it.

"what's the point of all this exercise bullshit, anyway? the world is clearly ending soon. i should be out eating ice cream and making bad decisions."

once Ron and i got down to business, however, my rouge muscles seemed to pull themselves together and turned out a decent workout. at one point, as i lunged the length of the gym, Ron called out, "you are lookin' goooood right now!" i assume he was talking to me and not the WWE-wannabe who was grunting menacingly on the other side of the weight bench.

when i'd completed my final crunches and was sprawled on the floor at Ron's feet, i asked him to give it to me straight.

Me: "am i improving at all?"

Ron: "you've definitely got potential . . . i mean, you're lookin' good right now. all you need is consistency -- you just gotta get in here and do this routine every other day, and throw some cardio in on the off days, and you'll see the results."

Me: "i get kinda intimidated when i'm doing the workout solo, you know? i've . . . i've never been athletic at all, i've always been kinda goofy and clumsy, so i feel really self-conscious when i'm back there tryin' to do crunches on the big rubber ball without you there to make sure i don't roll away."

Ron: "you gotta be confident! you got this -- and you already look great as it is, you're just tryin' to tone up a little bit. trust me, i wouldn't tell you no lies . . . you don't need to feel self-conscious."

Me: "spring is coming. i'm freaking out about shorts. also, bathing suits."

Ron: "don't be thinking about the summer or the clothes or any of that. just work on bein' consistent, and you'll see the results. you've got this."

this is why i'm paying Ron the big bucks -- to tell me that i'm not a giant mountain of mole-flesh that should just go home and wait for the apocalypse to start. he also puts my goals in perspective. they are not as insurmountable as they might feel, here in the deep cold depths of winter.

the sun will shine again. i will wear shorts again. don't over think it. you got this.

catty

Look who has a new roommate!



Due to some complicated family disasters, I have been given the OK to welcome pets into my apartment! Soooo . . . everyone meet Emily, the cat I've had since I was 14. Which makes her a dottering old woman in cat years. Like Carol Channing.



Actually, Em is a lot like Carol Channing. She's always had this aura of raggedy-ness to her, like we just pulled her out of a dumpster -- even though she's been a pampered indoor cat since kittenhood. Apparently, you can take the kitty out of the derelict house in Revere, but you can't take the derelict house in Revere out of the cat.

She's also totally wacky and acts like a dog. She comes dutifully when called, but only if you say her name in this high pitched sing-song voice "Eeeeemmmmmmilllllllieeeee!"

I suspect Emily was the runt of the litter, and never quite got the hang of basic cat behavior. She has shitty balance. She will take five minutes to psych herself up for the epic leap from sofa to floor. She never quite got the hang of the cat tongue-bath, either. Instead of finding a discreet corner and grooming herself, she'll crawl into your lap, lick your hand, and then rub herself against it. This is either incredibly lazy or incredibly brilliant.

Emily is also skinny as a crackwhore, dispite the fact that she loves to eat, and will often eat so fast that she pukes. The only way I was able to lure her out from under a chair yesterday was with the promise of yummies:


I was a little afraid that the move to the big city would be traumatic for a cat who has only the left the confines of my parents' house a few times in her entire life. But she is adjusting rather well, and is slowly starting to explore . . .


Even she is horrified by the condition of my ancient kitchen floor.

Emily and I share a mutual love of watching TV, so that's what we did for much of yesterday:

"That Dr. Phil is full of shit! Put on Tyra!"



"And get that camera out of my face, bitch!"

And while I'm still paranoid that the apartment is not totally cat-proofed, we seem to be settling in nicely here! And now, when I'm talking out loud to myself or the TV, its like I'm ostensibly talking to Em.

Meow meow meow meow meow meow!

sk8er boi

kick-assed

As my previous post so cleverly (read: lazily) illustrated -- I had a birthday!

I turned 27 on 2/7. Which seemed only mildly cool until I started to figure out the "magic" birthdays of other members of my family, and realized that not everyone lives to see this numerological milestone. For example, my brother will have to wait until he turns 127 on 12/7. Sorry, Ev.

Anyway -- birthdays are always an excuse for festivity, magic number or not! I definitely dragged the celebrating out for a whole weekend. A weekend full of booze, fried food, and waffles.

And it was glorious!

So after a delicious party-bender, I returned to the gym for my Monday afternoon session with Ron. I was feelin' ok -- a little bloated, maybe, but certainly not hungover.

"Are you ready for me?" Ron asked.

"Sure!" I blithely replied, as I wandered over to the weight room and plunked myself down on the giant rubber exercise ball.

Five minutes later, I knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. The muscles in my arms felt like they'd been replaced with waffles.

"Are you sweating maple syrup?" asked the 6-foot talking lobster with Ron's voice.

"I'm dying!" I groaned, and rolled ever so gracefully off the ball and onto the floor. Where I planned to remain until Spring.

"Party too hard?" Ron asked, as he pressed some slightly-less torturous 3lb dumbbells into my hands.

"It was my birthday weekend," I said.

"Ahhhhh . . ." Ron said, as he propped my limp body up against a wall. "Seven reps, you can do it . . . ok, seven more . . ."

Ron was not about to let me off easy, even though I was about to let loose a weekend's worth of junk-food all over his sneakers. I'd had my fun, and now Ron -- and my pathetically uncooperative body -- were going to make me pay for it.

At this moment, I hated Ron. The same hot, prickly, frustrated rage I felt towards every gym teacher and soccer coach I've ever had. Why are you making me do this? I can't! Not today. I can't.

It turns out, I could. And I did. Ron cut the end of the session a little sort and let me off without much of an ab workout. He was probably also afraid that I was about puke all over him. I limped and crawled frantically out of the gym like I was escaping from some sort of POW camp.

Never again, I thought to myself. That SUCKED.

At first, I blamed Ron. Couldn't that bastard cut me a break? It was my birthday . . . er . . . month, after all! I was pissed. And . . . disappointed.

I'd been feeling so good about my little baby-steps of gym progress. Lifting weights and doing crunches had made me feel strong and powerful and capable. Like my body was a well-tuned machine, instead of a doughy sack of insecurities. I was on the road to becoming a stronger, healthier, less insane me . . . and now I was back to square one. Cue the crying and shame eating.

It's taken a little time to shake off the frustration. I'm realizing, though, that getting in shape really takes a certain amount of commitment. I've always rolled my eyes at people who get up at 5am on Christmas Day to get in their workout or whatever . . . but I'll bet those people feel pretty damn good when they're done.

Yes, there are going to be days when my brain says, "Eff it, Tea -- let's skip the gym today. You went yesterday, you can go tomorrow!" Or, "Life sucks, have another beer!" I can choose to listen to that voice -- and there will probably be times when I do -- but there will be consequences. I will feel like ass the next day. My strength training will come to a standstill, and workouts will get harder. I will continue hallucinate that Ron is a giant crustacean.

Basically -- I gotta make a commitment. Which, for a commitment-phobe like moi, is scary shit. But I also need to choose what's more important to me -- feeling good in the long term, or self-gratification in the short term.

Heady stuff, man. And I thought I was just signing on to drop a few pounds for bathing suit season!

This week, I'm gonna get back in the saddle and commit to the plan. Four strength training workouts a week -- 1 with Ron, 3 on my own. That's 2 Upper Body Days, 2 Lower Body Days. I'm also gonna be brave and hit up the Sunday morning yoga class. I'm gonna include my Couch to 5k training sessions as warm-ups before my strength training sessions.

I don't have to do everything perfectly, but I have to make the effort. Time makes things easier -- but only if you stick with it!

Sticking with things has never been a strength of mine. But this is all about getting stronger -- in every sense of the word.

27

1. February is a short month.

2. As is customary with my magic-short-birthday month, I have been doing a lot of eating/drinking/partying!

3. Blogging, not so much.

4. I have seen lots of lovely bands:







5. I ate wondrous pomme frites while bicycles twinkled above me . . .


6. I hung out with the locals and watched J.Bo's karaoke-DJ destiny be fulfilled!





7. We also played darts . . .


8. Apparently, I have taken very few photos in the month of February. I must rely on stock-images from the internets!

9. But Libby did come over and take pictures of me for her photography school assignment. Hello, Libertine!



10. My apartment smells like springtime:



11. On my birthday, I had a lovely massage here:


12. The massage lady was very nice. Especially after I fell asleep on the table.

13. Chicken and waffles changed my life!!



14. You should all stop reading this blog and go, immediately, to Tupelo in Inman Sq. I'll wait for you to get back.

15. And while I'm waiting, I will think about how lame all the Superbowl ads were.

16. Except for the one with Betty White:


17. Chelsee and I have seen lots of movies, in preparation for the Oscars.

18. I love this girl:


19. This girl, too:


20. And speaking of Carey Mulligan, An Education sparked some serious "50's-style-retro" cravings. The cure?

21. Diners . . .


22. . . . and shopping for vintage goodies.

23. I found these old school menus, which will make lovely art for my kitchen . . .






24. I also found $600 Chanel pumps for $68!



25. But now it's time to get back on the bandwagon. Less shopping/partying/waffles, more job-hunting/FAFSA-filing/weight lifting!


26. I promise my next update will feature more words . . . and perhaps some wacky stories of my gym exploits. That's what the readers want, yes?

27. For now -- here's to my lucky year!