#36: Ryan Gosling

Hey Girl.

Hey Girl. Riots, not Diets.

Hey Girl. Riots, not Diets.

Caution. Ryan Gosling uttering these words into any woman’s quivering ears may lead to a complete and total psychological break. Hell, just looking at him melts me into a pile of stupid. If I met him, I’d certainly look like a stalker. Or an imbecile. Probably an imbecile.

The simple truth is, Ryan Gosling is the perfect man. He oozes a combination of sex appeal and sensitivity that no mere mortal can reproduce. He can make a 1990s goatee/pirate beard seem cool again. Aaarrg! He worked an awesome scorpion jacket in Drive. An effing scorpion jacket. He wears Levis like they were meant to sit on those perfect, muscular, cut hips. Look at those eyes. I know you want to. He’s like a puppy dog. A puppy dog that needs a home. A puppy dog that needs a home and a female companion that can love him. Change him. Caress him. Adore him.

Oh, I'm sorry. Were you saying something important?

Oh, I’m sorry. Were you saying something important?

What? Oh, I’m sorry. I think I just blacked out. What were we talking about? Sex? No? Ah, yes. I remember now. Mr. Gosling. So, technically sex was the correct answer. Suck it.

The thing is, many of Hollywood’s elite males get women going for all of the right reasons. Brad Pitt was Numero Uno for most women for an entire decade (Just a note: I was totally Team Angie). Bradley Cooper is also delightful. The dude speaks French. Fluently. That’s pretty hard to contend with. But Ryan? This guy is different. He gets us. He understands our wants, needs and desires. He wants to make women happy. All women. There’s an entire feminist blog  that proves this point. I swear.

I’ll pretty much see any movie this man is in. He’s batting at about a 99% on the awesome scale anyway. One word: Drive. I don’t care what the man does after that film. Perfection. Ryan Gosling spends most of the film without dialog, yet he says so much. I think it was something like, “Hey girl. I saw you over there looking sad. Want a hug? I’ll take you for a ride in my car. Smile.” Side note though, where in the hell was his Oscar nomination? The Academy saw fit to nominate (and choose) a Frenchman, but they never recognized a classic American-God-like- wonderboy, with acting chops to match? I should have known The Academy was full of shit after Crash won the Oscar. I effing hate the Oscars. Dicks.

Everyone needs this jacket.

Every man needs this jacket. I’m not joking.

That brings me to Blue Valentine. Admission: I thought Blue Valentine was going to be a romance. A fucking romance. I was  profoundly wrong in this assumption. I’m possibly retarded. Still, Gosling made this two-hour Odyssey of Depression bearable. Spoiler Alert: This movie is not happy. Not at all. I felt gutted afterward. I wanted to drink. Then cry. Then drink again. If that’s not your cup of tea, look away. Run. Don’t look back. Just, sprint.

But ladies, if you value your life, please don’t bring up The Notebook around me. While Ryan is adorable in it (I can call him Ryan because he understands me), I’d rather remove my eyeballs with a spoon than sit through something that Nicholas Sparks is responsible for. OMFG he sucks balls. While I’ll admit that The Notebook is probably his strongest…um… novel, it doesn’t mean too much when your life’s work is a steaming pile of shit.

I’m clearly off track. Back to business.

I’m pretty sure Ryan Gosling is here to stay for the long haul. He just wants us to love him and accept him for who he is. No strings attached. He’s all man. All real. Perfection. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I feel the urge to watch old episodes of Goosebumps. Yep. I went there. I bet you thought I’d bring up The Mickey Mouse Club. Guess you were wrong. Boom.

And gentlemen: Try the scorpion jacket. For realz.

#35: The Royals

More specifically? Royal weddings.

The concept that a rational, American woman would wake up at 5am, make some tea, eat some fancy sandwiches, wear a hat and weep over a wedding that isn’t even a fundamental part of our current American society– well, that befuddled my poor husband. It irritated him so deeply that he demanded I stop speaking of it in his presence. Seriously. It kind of sounded like a threat. I decided not to test him. So, I called my sisters instead. On my cell phone. At least 50 feet from my house. Like I said, I didn’t want to test him.

I’ll admit it. I cried. And all of you other American, hat-wearing, tea-drinking, waking-up- early bitches cried too. Did you see Prince William tell her she looked “beautiful?” Did you? DID YOU? Well, I did. And then I wept for about 15 minutes. Uncontrollably. Seriously. I looked like Claire Danes in My So-Called Life. And I wasn’t ashamed. And OMFG, did you see Kate’s dress? Alexander McQueen nearly killed me with its blinding beauty. And Pippa’s dress? Sweet Jesus, I died and went to heaven. Yes. I know her sister’s name. In fact, I follow her for fashion secrets on People.com now.  And you do too. Admit it.

She looks like a fucking demon. And she's not even the ugly one.

Just a note: Fergie’s kids did not win the looks lottery. Just sayin’.

Why do women care about this nonsense? What broke inside of us when we were 5, just after we saw The Little Mermaid or Beauty and The Beast and we all individually decided– I am soooo into princesses? I know more about British Royals than I should as a red-blooded American girl. I have to trace it back to Disney on some level. I mean, it has nothing to do with Historical references, so I have to assume that the evil bastards at Disney have ruined me and are now hell-bent on ruining my daughters. Note to self: Research female mental difficulties and their connections to the Disney Empire (Insert the Imperial March here).

I have to admit (I mean, I have nothing to lose at this point, do I?), I fucking love everything royal. I love their clothes. I love their accents. I love that they all do charity work because they don’t have real jobs and they’re bored.  I think they bring some class to the entertainment world– a type of  class that we lack with celebrities like Paris Hilton, Kanye West and Sarah Palin (If you think that she’s anything more than a C-List celeb, blow me).

As the ceremony neared, I couldn’t wait to see what Kate was going to wear, what the overrated Anglican ceremony would be like or what the Queen would say/do/or wear. Oh, and this just in England:  You are clearly Catholic. Don’t try and pretend like you’re anything else, you pompous bastards. Only the Pope could put on a show bigger than that and he’s too busy advocating abstinence in Africa and ignoring the AIDS epidemic altogether (“If I ignore it, then I don’t have to explain why God hates Africans”).

Look, if you didn’t already figure this out, women love a good wedding. Throw in a Princess, a horse drawn carriage, high fashion and a true love story straight out of a classy upper-class British romance novel– you’ve got yourself a winner. All women can just imagine the witty dialogue than ensued during that courtship. To us, Kate and William seem like a normal couple. They seem like two people all of us could hang out with. Hell, they invited their pub owner to their damn wedding– that is admirable and awesome. More than this, I think every woman out there recognizes the fact that Princess Diana still has a hold on most of us. Insert Disney hypnosis + tragic death here.  That equals pure gold as far as entertainment value is concerned– no matter how grotesque the concept may be. Women want William and Kate to be happy.  We actually care if they are. We also want to be able to say later in our lives,  “Yep. I watched it. it was amazing.”

Go ahead and mock us. We don’t care. Sure, we were tired that day. Sure, we spent too much money on collector’s magazines instead of that hair dye we needed to buy because ‘my hair has gotten a little bit brassy this spring and I really need to highlight it.’ Sure, we watched every E! highlight on the wedding after the fact and raved about hats, dresses and flowers. Sure, my husband threatened to shut down my cable TV if I talked about “that damn wedding” again. Still, I hold my head high. As do you, my sisters.

Just think, we have a Royal visit coming up soon. I wonder what Kate will wear? I wonder if they’ll dine at the White House? I guess I need to turn on E!

Let me just check and see if my husband is in the house. Nope. I’m home free.

Royals away!

#34: GLEE

You knew this one was coming.

Intrinsically tied with Musicals, GLEE has something for every woman. It’s like a stereotype bonanza. I’ll just list a few– you know–to get your feet wet.

  1. The outsider with inexplicable talent
  2. The really, really hot Jock with a Heart of Gold
  3. The Gay kid with a killer falsetto and fashion sense
  4. Song
  5. Dance
  6. More song
  7. Witty reparte
  8. Teen Angst

We freaking love it. Seriously. Where else can I  hear a Broadway-like rendition of “Don’t Stop Believing” AND “Bohemian Rhapsody” in one episode? I think my head exploded watching the Season 2 finale. I actually teared up. I’m a Gleek. I admit it. Bite me.

Just sayin’…

I’ve tried to figure out what it is about this show that makes most women sit down at 9pm on a Tuesday and shssssh everyone in the room, ignoring the fact that they have a DVR and this behavior is unnecessary. I’ve already mentioned that being a theater nerd, the singing gets me every time. More than that though– GLEE brings a sense of joy to the room when I’m watching it. My suddenly mediocre day seems a little shinier with a bit of song, dance and sarcasm. Plus, Brittany’s one-liners about Gay Sharks and her cat reading her diary are epic. EPIC. I quote her constantly. She is the true hero of my Tuesdays.

This show also connects with more people than the typical musical. Would you rather hear a ballad/dirge, or a rocking rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart”? Hmm? Ladies? I rest my case. (On that note– I heart you Bonnie Tyler. Thank you for this song, as well as “I Need a Hero”. Footloose would not be the same without your genius.)

But there’s the ‘Joy’ element again. Women of all ages watch GLEE, singing their hearts out with every song. It’s like a glorious Karaoke contest in our minds. Well, at least in my mind. You want these kids, these misfits, to succeed. You feel pain when they don’t, and joy when they do. It’s a bit sweet– like how High School could have been with a little improvisational song in the hallways. The solos by my locker would have been awesome…

Lastly, we cannot forget the genius that is Jane Lynch, AKA Sue Sylvester. Whether you like the show or not– this woman is the shit. Hilarious at every turn, she never falters. I swear she makes half of her lines up and they are all good. Why she doesn’t have her own damn show, I will never know. I often use her Will Shuster hair jokes on other people, just to see if they’ll work for me. They don’t. Why? Because I’m not motherf^&*%@* Jane Lynch, that’s why.

We can only hope that a meteorite falls on the studio that they film in. Assholes.

My husband hates GLEE. He would rather light his face on fire and dance a sexy jig at the BP station down the road than sit with me and watch it. I think most men feel this way about things that are musical related–he simply defends himself by saying that it’s contrived. I accept this fact, but I still watch it (knowing that he’s a TV snob). I just think the show should be accepted for what it is. It’s just fun. It’s not a depressing period piece, it’s not a formulaic cop-drama. Hell– it’s not a even the typical American-30-minute-shitty-sitcom like Two and a Half Men. I effing hate that show. Charlie Sheen– go fuck yourself. Seriously. John Cryer too. Eff you. And that fat kid actor in there– go outside and run. For like, 15 miles. Then, don’t eat for 4 days. That should help. How is this show still on TV? How? Tell me dammit! Good God.

I digress again. Okay, so GLEE isn’t Mad Men. I am totally aware of this. Still, it’s unique and it has spontaneous song. I love.

On that note, I leave you with this. My favorite Brittany and Sue Sylvester quotes. I defy you not to laugh.

Peace out and enjoy.

Brittany: “I’ve been here since first period. I had a cold and I took all my antibiotics at the same time, and now I can’t remember how to leave.”

Sue Sylvester: I don’t trust a man with curly hair. I can’t help but picturing birds laying sulfurous eggs in there and I find it disgusting”

#33: Sex Parties

No, not the orgy kind. Get your mind out of the gutter.

I’m talking about several girls, coming together to discuss, view and buy sex toys (and other various objects of interest). Still kinky, but not in the way you were hoping.

You Pervert.

Most commonly known as the Pure Romance parties, the whole idea is to get together, get ridiculously drunk and then talk about sex. Openly. Without inhibition. Believe it or not, it can be quite refershing to know that your best friend’s mom is just as interested in that cute little vibrator as you are. Weird, but refreshing. Why, you ask? It’s actually a pretty simple concept.

When women are growing up and developing their, well, lady parts– there is this whole idea that we are supposed to be pure, innocent– For lack of a better term– virgins— until we get married. It’s all we hear. It’s psychologically deafening. During puberty, if a girl is remotely interested in the big ‘S,’ her parents might have a coronary in front of her– simultaneously. Let’s just say, it wouldn’t be pretty. We were discouraged from discovering things about our bodies that we actually had the right to know. Ever wonder why most women don’t orgasm during the deed? Yeah– blame society. While it is a-ok for a male to strut about and get his jollies off as soon as he discovers a wayward boner, girls are not so lucky. It sometimes takes us years to undo that damage.

Enter the Pure Romance idea.

Pure genius.

Imagine your mom doing this. Hysterical.

This company actually figured out how to capitalize on our repressed sexuality. It’s a great formula: Place 15 of your closest friends in a room. Add alcohol. Add vibrators, lotions, costumes and any other items you see fit- and you have one hell a party. Even better: men can’t come. At all. (Pardon the pun) That way, we can be completely open about what we like and want. I went to one a few weeks ago. I was astonished. Sometimes I am under the assumption that I am a sexual freak. I mean–crazy stuff. But after watching women inspect vibrators as closely as they would inspect a new car– and actually discuss the merits of one over the other– it was women’s lib all over again. I wasn’t the only freak in the room. In fact, my friend’s mom might be a bigger freak than me. While disturbed at this discovery, I was still impressed at that party’s ability to get women talking. We were actually talking about what works and what doesn’t work for us. We discussed why this vibrator would work and that one wouldn’t. We joked about lotions and costumes. We considered weird items like rotating vibrators and c$#@ rings. Most importantly, we didn’t feel like complete skanks for doing so. It was awesome.

If only we had that freedom as we were developing– no man would ever resist us after all those extra years of practice!

Can you imagine something similar for men? It would be hysterical. Picture this: beer, TV and a traveling porn salesmen. I mean, why have a group or men over when you can just have a date with the computer? (That and actually watching porn in a big man-group is a creepy.)

I actually think that women are more open about their sexuality than men are in general. Maybe we are just getting it out of our system, but the things I tell my girlfriends regarding my sex life would make any man blush.

I bet you want to know what I bought, don’t you? I will say this: I spent $68 dollars and it was well worth it. Ask my husband. He’ll basically tell you to let your lady go to the sex party. She’s buying it for you anyway.


#32: Underwear

Oh yeah.

This is one thing that both men and women can agree on: The Panty. It can be sweet, cute, useful, naughty and downright sexy, all wrapped up in one little lacy package.

Women love to shop for underwear. We will spend exorbitant amounts of money on all sorts of items meant to cover our lady parts. We become zombies– unable to control our credit cards. Look at Victoria’s Secret. What the hell is Ms. Victoria’s damn secret anyway? I submit that it is her ability to make women spend stupid amounts of money on underwear that will never make us look like Heidi Klum. That’s a pretty good secret. Can someone explain that one to me? I would like to look like Ms. Klum whist wearing a lacy bra and cheeky panties, yet I fail everytime. I call false advertising there. Victoria, I’m coming for you.

Just like alcoholic goodies, a man can usually tell what he is getting into when the panties are finally revealed to him in a drunken state. You see a girl in her knickers– you see who she really is.

Let me explain:

High School hookers. They'll make GREAT mothers one day.

1. The Thong/G-String

Have I said ick yet? Either this girl is a high school/college student or she gets around the block. Ladies, these contraptions serve no purpose other than dressing up in the bedroom. Your man likes ’em? Knock them out at home! Do a little dance for your man. Let him play with them. He probably loves them. Just don’t wear them everyday. That’s gross.

Frankly, they are unsanitary.

You know how you don’t like panty lines and that’s your excuse to wear this piece of butt floss? Yeah, we figured out your secret. I bet we can also guess how old and inexperienced you are. Newsflash: We can still see the lines. And instead of mocking the lines that are visible under your inappropriate dress, we are just calling you a slut.

These are H-O-T.

2. Granny Panties

If these are your cup of tea, you are either one of 3 things:

  • Old
  • Socially retarded
  • On your period

There are no other excuses to wear this shit. What if you were in a car crash and the ambulance driver had to strip you down? What if he was hot? Think about it.

They do make your booty look fly...

3. Boy shorts/Cheeky Panties

Chicks that wear these are usually the ones boys like to hang out with– but not date until everyone is a bit older. She’s the girl-next-door type. She’s probably the friend that was a virgin the longest.

Just sayin’.

Either way, this chick is cool. Scoop her up before that gross thong-wearing bitch. She probably won’t cheat on you, she likes football and she’s a tiger in the sack. Think about it: Boy shorts are cute, sexy and still have that tomboy edge. Score.

See? Legs of a goddess.

4. Bikinis

These chicks have rocking bodies and know this. You cannot get away with these panties unless you have a smokin’ booty and great legs. I’m not sure about her personality, but look at it this way:

  • They are not thongs, which makes her cooler than those hookers
  • She’s probably a bit older and more experienced than those hookers
  • She has a great body

What do you have to lose?

They ALL go commando. Need I say more?

5. Commando

Yes. Chicks can and do go commando. Sometimes you just have to. Every chick has and probably still does at some point out of necessity.

It does solve the panty line issue most of the time.

Some chicks just prefer it.Those chicks are dirty, dirty girls and don’t care what you think.

How can you spot one of these trailblazing soldiers? It’s pretty easy. When she is wearing a form fitting dress, do you see panty lines? No? Commando. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. Easy, eh?

That’s pretty much the gist of it right there. If you are getting naked with a lady friend, you now know one of our secrets. Go forth and conquer, knowing who that woman is. All you need to do is look at her undies.


#31: Crafts

I know what you’re thinking guys.

Not my lady. That’s the kind of lame and inane shit my mother is into. My lady would never stoop to loving crafts.

Let me ask you this question then: Has your girl ever scrapbooked? Last winter, did she take up knitting? Did she crochet you some sort of silly hat? Has she ever decoupaged a picture frame of the two of you– with jewels or hearts or glitter? Well, that bitch went to Michaels. I rest my case.

The Gateway to Hell. It's just a few steps more to Kirklands.

We are all guilty of a secret or not-so-secret love of crafts. I was a scrapbooking ninja in High School. I have even considered taking it up again now that I have kids. It’s the realization that I would have to walk into those stores to get what I needed– the thought makes me shudder. You know the ones. Rows and rows of fake flowers. Glitter. A framing section. The smell of potpourri lingering in the air. My husband calls these stores the Gateways to Hell. I call them Michaels, Homegoods, Joanne Fabrics or Hobby Lobby.

These stores are filled with women looking to get ‘crafty.’ See? Craft even has a verb use. These women come in many shapes, sizes, backgrounds and age groups. The older ones scare me. They’ll cut you to get to that polyester flower print fabric. They can be pretty spry when it comes to fabric. Just try and grab it. C-U-T you.

Even if you are one of the few females that hate these stores–as well as the lonely souls that wander them–all ladies can all agree that craft fairs/festivals are awesome.

I mean, who doesn’t want to wander a large suburban park area on a hot afternoon, busily searching for wicker chairs whilst downing a funnel cake? Not only are there rows and rows of craft booths for miles, but we are also treated to music, food and dance. Clogging anyone? I’m there. Don’t those little girls look precious? Forget the fact that they are totally out of sync. Those skirts get me every time! Darling. Plus, I can shop for things like pine cone bird feeders, a sign that says ‘Santa Stop Here!’ or even handmade PJs. These things are amazing. I think my husband likes them too. If I am honest with myself, I know he’s there for the food.

Cotton candy anyone? BBQ?

So, what counts as a Craft? A litany of things, my friend.

  1. Scrapbooking. I’m sorry, but it qualifies. You use scissors, glue and stickers. That’s right, I said it.
  2. Making Soap. Don’t fool yourself Hippie. While you are trying to save the world by creating biodegradable soap, you were being crafty.
  3. Knitting or Crochet. Yes it’s a hobby. A sad, lonely hobby. Let me ask you something. Do you participate in these activities with other people? Really? That’s what I thought. Sad and lonely. (I do love my scarves though, mom.)
  4. Cross-stitching or any other needle and thread activity. My mother tried to get me into this when I was younger. Ugh.
  5. Food related gifts. Yes, thank you for the complete cookie mix in a jar. It was awesome. What? Oh yeah, and the salsa too. What’s that? Did I use them? Totally. (As I am digging through my pantry, searching for them.)

    Food of The Crafting Gods. Friend of Man.

  6. Ceramics, woodcarving, etc. The producers of Ghost called. They want to remind you that you are NOT Demi Moore.

There are certainly others. I am open to suggestions and comments.

So, when your lady asks if you want to go to the Yellow Daisy Festival, understand that while she may deny it, she is totally in to the crafts. Just agree to go.

There will be a funnel cake in it for you.

#30: Ice Skating

I discovered The Cutting Edge when I was about 12.

I was watching the end. You know the part. They are at the Olympics, they do that crazy trick-thingy and he finally tells her that he loves her. My mother found me lying on the floor, crying. I told her that I wanted someone to ice skate with me and tell me that he loves me. She clearly thought that I had an imbalance.

Thus my love for ice skating was born.

Women adore this winter sport. It’s probably the only one that gets any ratings during the dismal Winter Olympics. I mean, what’s not to love? Ice, Bach playing to the rooftops, sparkly costumes–it’s a woman’s (and a gay man’s) wet dream. I would rank this on an entertainment scale, right next to Queer Eye for The Straight Guy and the Miss America Pageant. It’s a guilty pleasure of sorts. Still, it’s one of those pleasures we are not embarrassed to be fond of and it is certainly something that we will ALWAYS make our partners watch with us. You do know that your man hates this shit, right? He’s only watching it with you because he’s hoping to get lucky. Really.

If you are a straight man and you do enjoy ice skating, for the love of humanity– don’t tell anyone. Even if you were in musical theatre and dance class in High School, that does not excuse this behavior. Stop now. (Oh, and the part about your attachment to theatre and dance? Better leave that out of your argument. Not helping your case.)

I digress.

What I have always loved about ice skating usually didn’t involve the sport itself. It was the drama behind the scenes. Specifically the drama of 1994.

Nancy Kerrigan anyone? Tonya Harding? Oksana Baiul? Let me just school you on all three of these ‘situations’ in a nutshell.

Nancy Kerrigan was the All-American girl. Pretty, cuddly and a damn good skater to boot. Her nemesis? That other skater. The butch chick. The ugly one. Tonya Harding. She was also a pretty good skater–but not as good as the pretty one. The Winter Olympics of 1994 were coming up. People said Nancy had a great chance of winning it all. So, what did Tonya do? She hired her ex-husband to hit Nancy’s knee with a steel pipe. The result? Amazing TV gold.

YouTube Excellence.

Don’t you remember? “Why me? Why anybody?” It was awesome. To be quick, Kerrigan recovered and won the Silver Medal. Harding was banned from U.S. Figure Skating for life, released a sex tape, then she became a scary butchesque-boxer. Awesome.

*On a side note, I never liked Nancy Kerrigan. If Harding hadn’t put a hit on her, somebody would have. She gives me the creeps.*

What about Ms. Oksana Baiul?

She kicked Kerrigan’s ass in the Olympics and won the Gold. She decided to celebrate a few years later by inhaling about SIX Long Island Iced Teas and driving her car off of the road. I don’t know about you, but that chick can drink. 95 pounds and six of those drinks? What a champ.

Don’t you get it? Ice skating is the bomb. What girl hasn’t imagined putting on a sequined leotard and prancing around to a classical rendition of Living on a Prayer? What red-blooded, competetive lady hasn’t dreamed of clocking her nemesis with a club, a pipe or, well, something hard?

My shoelace came untied. And my costume is amazing.

When your guy says something like “Ice Skating is so lame,” kindly remind him that you would “never mess with an ice-skater because those bitches are crazy.” When he asks you about the male skaters, just give in and agree with him.

Why? Because men skating on the ice to classical renditions of Living on a Prayer in sparkly costumes… Well, that’s just gay.