Domesticism.

"If a tree falls on a woman...what the fuck was a tree doing in the kitchen?" -mylifeisbro.com (sorry Harris)

Because I am arguably female, I thought it would be fitting to share some of my favorite household appliances.

Vitamixer

The motherfucking champion of blenders. While I was studying abroad, they had a Vitamixer demonstration every day at the Kensington Whole Foods. It could chop anything, and had some sort of unnatural and destructive horse power. I usually stayed for the demonstrations because the free samples supplemented my steady diet of bread, cider, yogurt, and disillusionment. G-d I looked good that summer.

They’re incredibly expensive, but can you put a price on a blender that makes steaming hot soup or freezing ice cream depending on the speed? That’s like trying to justify not buying a miniature pony for your only daughter. She was only young and optimistic once.

My dream was to own one of these puppies after graduation, but things are looking pretty bleak. I was hoping it could be the catalyst to my raw foods diet, however after some much needed soul-searching I realized the danger that comes with eating raw bacon.


Tonic Water Dispenser

Two of my favorite things in this cruel and fattening world contain 0 calories: tonic water and mustard. Since you can’t really combine alcohol with mustard, tonic water wins out in the end.
Not only does it save you a few hundred calories in a mixed drink, but can stretch out any of your favorite juices. It gives that little carbonated kick you so desperately need after a long day of pretending to care about school and avoiding eye contact with homeless people.

To put it simply, I have little to no upper arm strength, and constantly carrying liters of these bastards back from the store is tiresome. It would be so much easier to carbonate your own damn water, or at least until you purchase the much sought after shake-weight.


Bread Maker

Carbs are the bane of my existence. I love bread, potatoes, and anything that destroys any form of misguided diet I have attempted. I grew up on sourdough and portugese sweetbread so I can once again blame this misfortunate addiction on my parents.

Usually I would say that Iggy’s bread is the best out there, but it all pales in comparison to whatever Chris makes in his breadmaker.

His entire apartment smells amazing during the process, and watching the entire thing is like witnessing a beautiful idea or bastard child be born. Iggy’s pales in comparison to his home made bread, and I hope to one day possess his culinary skills. Since I will probably start a kitchen fire before such a miracle occurs, I will have to satisfy my bread fetish at farmers markets.

Illegal Immigrants

By far the best kitchen appliance, they make whatever you say without even the touch of a button or demand of a recipe. Since they have no paperwork to speak of and technically don’t “exist”, they have amazing endurance and are willing to perform even the most arduous tasks.

After all, a lasagna and pie are nothing compared to jumping an electrical fence and swimming against the river. G-d bless America and all of her amenities.

They're not zombies...or strippers...they're zombie strippers.

I had forgotten how much I loved campus. Walking the hallowed streets of West Philadelphia is a privilege not to be taken lightly, and only the strongest Drexel degenerates and preppiest of Penn survive. I enjoy knowing that at any moment I could run into a friend, as opposed to NYC where I practically knew no one and it was a miracle if I got to work on time, let alone had a clue where the hell I was.

However, I had also forgotten the awkward run-ins that frequent the college campus. With over 14,000 undergrads alone you think you would have a hard time seeing the same people multiple times in one day. You are oh so terribly and horribly wrong.

It's an art to avoid acquaintances you don't really feel like catching up with. You both make eye contact with one another, silently acknowledge each others presence, and move on. It's generally accepted, and tedious at most. It only becomes awkward if one person tries to verbally or physically acknowledge the other, only to be shunned.

Since it's my fourth year here, I am forced into this social survival skill at least 10 or more times a day. Or I actually talk to them because we're "friends," I "live" with them, "drink" with them, or have "passed out on their floor." When it comes down to it, everyone just wants to go about their own business and move on without waving to everyone they know like a retard on speed.

On a happier note, last night I was lucky enough to view "Zombie Strippers" featuring the talented and beautiful Jenna Jameson. It was one of the most politically stirring films I had seen in a long time, as they remarked on the ineffectiveness of the Bush administration. The movie projected that America would declare war on most of the world, and in an effort to create super soldiers that couldn't die and could feel no fear, they made a zombie virus. Unfortunately this virus made its way out of the lab and into a nearby strip club, where Jenna and a bunch of her friends became infected. Thus giving them totally awesome super stripping powers. The entire movie was pretty much stripping and the slow decay of models and the plot. It was amusing though, and well written for its intended purpose. It made us all laugh multiple times, and we even weren't that drunk.

I highly recommend it, especially for those who are keen on seeing Jenna shoot billiard balls out of her vagina at such a speed it blows a man's head off. It's located on-demand in the "free movies" section.

Philthadelphia Zoo

West Philadelphia is like a rare gem in a sea of tarnished and tawdry baubles. An oasis in a desert of filth and grime. A 250 calorie buffalo chicken taquito lasciviously and majestically turning in its glass case at 7-11.

There is no better example of its majesty than the two hour free open bars at Bamboo bar. Sure the average person in attendance is more heavyset than fit, wearing red plastic payless heels, and has a fro that can only compete with mine. But to complain is throwing this generous gift back into the face of the bouncer who just wrestled the dreadlocked man to the ground for taking pictures of him.

On summer nights one can find a good portion of Drexel there, given the odds of knowing someone who has won an open bar. We combat the rest of the crowd, and bring up the literacy rate with every embittered engineer. It's not someplace one wants to go every weekend, but it's nice to get off campus for the alcoholic Disneyworld of ghetto's.

Saturday was no exception for Natty's bday, and it had been a while since I had ventured to the clusterfuck that is the spring garden subway stop. Per usual I stuck my heels in my purse because giving up is not only convenient but less physically painful. Brandon and I had been separated by the boys and girls lines, but he was still close enough to hear me yell "it's all yours" while rubbing my stomach in a circular motion. Either I've gained weight in the week since I've been back, the people in line had no sense of humor, or the extent of their public high school education had not prepared them for that moment. (I'm going to go with all three) He had to assure the people around us I was not actually pregnant and going to an open bar, and I took this free moment to change from flip flops to heels.

It was my first time having actually been legal in this glorious venue, and I was disappointed that we could no longer double fist our plastic cups but finish them one at a time. My drink of choice had also changed as well. No longer was I downing vodka cranberries or "cape coder's" as my mother likes to affectionately call them. However, I doubt the pretentious name applies to a couple shots of rubbing alcohol and generic cranberry juice picked up at Costco. I only touch vodka tonics now, because Manhattan hasn't broken my spirit but made me realize that life is too short for love handles. Or taste buds.

Per usual the crowd was less than stellar, but one particularly affectionate man had taken a liking to Natalie and spoke to Brandon about how to properly woo her. The man explained that he was a performing artist "going to make it big" and he even had the tattoo of a microphone with a dragon wrapped around the cord to prove it. Then he broke into song. Brandon told him that in order to have a real shot with Natalie, he had to discuss poignant topics with her, such as Pokemon. The gentleman was confused as to why Natalie avoided his approach and person at all costs.

We lost Brandon several minutes later, although it was only around 10:30. He woke up in his apartment the next morning with $50 more dollars than he went out with, an unaltered bank account, and a new baseball cap.

He was well and chipper enough the next morning to leave several voice messages on my phone screaming to get the fuck up because we had to go to the zoo. He and Alex then came over with a good supply of beer to drag myself and Danielle out of bed, who had still not fully recovered from the night before. We finished 3/4 of the beer, and then drank the rest of them on the walk to the Philadelphia zoo or in the zoo itself. Senior year didn't start for another couple of hours, and the weather was just too good to enjoy it sober.

The Philadelphia zoo was somewhat ghetto compared to the RI Roger Williams zoo, and the lack of elephants or rhino's was more than depressing. If I had known I was paying $18 to see a couple of fresh water penguins and overrated monkeys, I could have just stayed on campus. We were watching a bunch of tiny free range orange monkeys, when we inquired about the apparent loss of lemurs. The zookeeper replied that they had their own island because they were special. I argued that lemurs were in no way special. I knew their kind, they just demanded an island because they were high maintenance. Fucking lemurs.

The highlight was definitely the small mammal house, but then again I do get overexcited about small creatures that resemble the late Mr. Mittens. After a good four hours of trekking around in the heat and forever scarring small children, we decided the best way to end the last day before senior year was with a barbecue on our ghetto ass porch. Surprisingly nothing caught on fire and noone burned themselves too badly. It was purely a nice reminder that some things still haven't changed since freshman year. Especially when we took a stroll by the rape garden and saw a group of students playing guitars, fiddles, mandolin's, and a banjo to some 1970's pop song. Good to know Drexel accepts only the true winners.

OPTIMUS PRIME, GO!

I was coming back from Natalie's apartment after a rousing marathon of Bridal Bootcamp on demand, when I nearly got attacked by a west Philadelphia squirrel. My instinctual reaction was to scream "Jesus," but considering I was in the AEPi backyard I shouldn't have been surprised that no one rushed out of the house to help me.

So far living on the corner of frat row hasn't been bad. Sure all of my important windows are facing Sig Ep (read: bedroom and bathroom) but I haven't heard too much late night obscenity yelling. However, campus is dead and school doesn't officially start until the 20th. All I have left to do until then is bitch about my cramped living conditions, spend time with the people I haven't seen in 6 months, and continue my wild and fervent quest to find the lost cardigan. It was my favorite one, and held a lot of sentimental value. It's survived way too many nights out to get lost in the move, and if there is a higher being then it will return to me unscathed or there is no justice in this damned cruel world.

The move in itself was interesting. When my father told me I was going to be riding my mattress, I instantaneously agreed without thinking. After the habitual two day incubation period when "thoughts" or "feelings" finally register, I had a vision of riding in a completely dark and airless U-haul van. My lifelong struggle with motion sickness and the back of dark vans without the previously promised candy weighed heavily on my mind. However when we taking all of my precious belongings out of Manhattan I realized it was all open space and it wasn't going to be that bad. Except when my drawers fell on me. And I had to duck every time there was a cop.

My last week of "relaxation" in NYC went well. I got to drink at the Rose Bar in the Gramercy Park Hotel for Lacoste L!ve, saw the Colbert Report with Harris, and spent my last night wandering around fifth avenue for Fashion Night Out. I was really enjoying the free champagne and swiping all of the fall catalogues from stores, until I got caught in the flash mob at the Juicy Couture flagship store. All of these punked out girls around me started to break out into synchronized dance moves, and I couldn't get out of their way fast enough. Before I knew it I was trapped in the middle of their mob that was being filmed and viewed by everyone in the store. It took me a good minute to find my way out of their dancing circle of death, and I'm afraid to look at any video footage posted online.

Before I left I was also fortunate enough to interview famed Parisian fashion photographer Justin Wu, which is available at the RJW blog here.

The transition from work to college has been more than enjoyable, and I had forgotten how amazing campus is. I really did miss my friends, and I'm glad to know I won't take them or any of the stupid shit they do for granted anymore. The upcoming nine months are too precious to waste, and I'm already planning an epic halloween costume. The only question is how to make an Optimus Prime costume look slutty. However, like the old proverb goes "where there's a will there's a way," and I certainly do have the necessary drive. And scissors.

HBO doldrums

Because there are only so many Ke$ha (the patron saint of underage drinking) music videos to distract me from how truly terrible the True Blood season finale was, I thought I'd post instead. First of all, I have never liked Bill and Sookie as characters. Bill has little to no personality, and tends to cry blood at inopportune times. The whole "southern gentleman" thing is throwing me off as well. You can't wear a denim shirt and leather jacket, speak like an undead colonel sanders, and then expect to be taken seriously. I also think he's using Sookie as a beard to get to Eric. He obviously has a thing for blondes, and if anyone had to choose between the Norse G-d Alexander Skarsgard and friggin' Rogue from X-Men, he's going to hands down go for the viking. Anna Paquin's (Sookie's) best role was in Fly Away Home, when she flies cross country with her dad to lead a bunch of geese across the border or something. It was one of my favorite movies as a small child, given my awkward relationship with random animals that tended to turn up in our yard.

The Entourage season finale was much better, even though I stopped caring about the show after season 4. What that show is for males is what Sex and The City is for women. Sure both shows have their witty moments, but all of the characters own self-importance is tiring. I wonder what would happen if they all met each other. None of the Entourage guys would touch Carrie with a 10 foot pole. Drama would probably fuck Samantha and get a rare and incurable social disease. Vince would probably be really high and tweaking out in the bathroom, previously unaware that women over the age of 25 exist, and haven't been taken out behind some barn Lassie execution-style. However, I could never speak ill of Ari Bloom. That man is a saint.

Sweatpants Etiquette

Hell has officially frozen over- Natalie graced the fair isle of Manhattan with her presence this past weekend. Granted it was mostly because of some delusional fantasy involving Patrick Dempsey (staring at him is like staring into the sun) but sanity and clarity have never been her strong points. At least funneling isn't an issue.

We were lucky enough to attend the US Open while she was here, purely because I had randomly won a pair of tickets. We don't spend money on frivolities not involving alcohol and/or tiny animals.

After getting off the subway to the stadium, we quickly realized that it was much windier than we had anticipated. And that we could easily make $50 a pop scalping our tickets and getting the hell out of there. After ten minutes of deliberating whether or not this was the best or worst idea ever considering our mutual love for competitive sports, we ended up going in.

Our seats were horrible compared to the Lacoste box a few days ago, and I was suffering from a bad case of vertigo. Natalie was also quite cold and concerned about getting ill before her impending birthday. I wished we had brought our cardigans, but I don't get chilly that easily due to my less than stellar circulation. I can't really feel anything, including emotions.

There were bags and wrappers and hair pieces flying everywhere from the extreme wind, and we were far more amused from people watching than what was actually going on in the game. We left pretty early, with the intention of living the dream that night. (Drinking heavily in sweats on my roof)

One of the things I miss most about school is going over to my dear friends places in sweatpants and a hoodie. We've all known each other since the first week of freshman year, and they're the only people I will hang out with in sweatpants. If that isn't love I don't know what is.

On the nights we feel like being anti-social and avoiding the bar and frat scenes, a couple of rounds of pong and a movie or food network will suffice. This has only come to bite me in the ass once, and will forever haunt me.

To sum it up, I didn't realize that my friends entire frat and my least favorite sorority would be at his house as well. Long story short I attempted to hide my face but was recognized anyway, and tried to leave the scarring humiliation behind. Then I changed into something more slut-tastic and sharpied on a hitler-stache for my roommates mustache party, accidentally offending a German exchange student and random Drexel trash.

However, back in Manhattan, Natalie and I were trying to enjoy my view and some whiskey. To our left there were two men singing Rihanna to one another while drinking wine and eating a very late dinner off of fine porcelain. They were too awkward to be dating one another, so we just assumed they were bro's. Within minutes they approached us, giving some sob story about how their dates had stood them up, and how all women were whores. We wholeheartedly agreed, and I was amazed that they had the audacity to completely button their cardigans to the very last button.

May Kinko's burns in hell.

When my errands consist of not having to plead with, scream at, and consequently sexually proposition the incompetent assholes at Kinko’s in order for them to print something, I get to go do fun things like hang out at the kibbutz they call B&H electronics.

It’s this huge electronic store akin to Disneyland for the huge nerd or Drexel engineer. Floor upon floor of anything you could ever desire short of an animatronic pony or social graces. It’s also almost completely run by Hasidic Jews, which is thoroughly amusing because it reminds me of my hometown on Shabbat. It's almost impossible to drive through the streets when they have taken over like an overdressed gang. Granted they’re very nice people, and judging by my nose and hair immediately recognize me as one of their own and try to help me. Regardless of how sullen I seem to be looking that day.

On Monday everything was well and good in there, and I gratefully accepted a handful of Israeli candies to supplement my steady diet of bagels and disillusionment while waiting in line for customer service.

It was at this point the cashier, dressed in full Orthodox garb from his yarmulka to heavy beard, magically pulled a customers credit card and wad of cash from under the box he was disposing of. The customer was overjoyed with the cashier and thanked him profusely. The cashier assured him it was nothing, and that “he was good at finding money.” It took everything within me not to double over laughing, but then again I am already going to hell.

The only thing more amusing than stereotypes are how people try and pretend they aren’t true. Like when they glued quarters to the floor of my high school cafeteria. I’m pretty sure the Mexican principal was the only person to not try and pry it off the floor in hopes of purchasing 1/3 of a cookie they forced the retarded children to bake. But in retrospect he was probably wasted.

Monday I was also fortunate enough to attend the opening night of the US Open because my boss is awesome. Emilie and I got there a tad late because of the bastard they call public transportation, but we were able to see the game from about 8:15 onward. Watching it from the Lacoste luxury box that contained the magic they call air conditioning didn’t hurt either. However, as much as I dislike competitive sports (except when I was flipping off other swimmers underwater during races) this was actually an amazing game and I got to see Venus and Federer win. There were also an astonishing amount of attractive men there as well, so the people watching was just as entertaining as the game itself.

It had been awhile since I had forced myself to remember the rules of the game. More or less since that summer I went to tennis camp and got attacked by a garden snake. There isn't much I remember from camp, besides trying to pull the huge reptile off of my arm and hitting on my instructor. I'm sure he enjoyed being harassed by a ten year old.