Ok, This is Disgusting

Read this.

If you're lazy, fine. Here's all you need to know:

A medium-sized popcorn and medium soda at the nation's largest movie chain pack the nutritional equivalent of three Quarter Pounders topped with 12 pats of butter, according to a report released today by the advocacy group Center for Science in the Public Interest.

First: Um. Ew.

Second: don't give me a hard time, ever again, for smuggling sushi into the movie theater. I'll be a bourgie-ass, sushi-eating, non-heart-disease-having bitch, oh yes I will.

The thing is, popcorn does not have to be the nutritional equivalent of a tub of lard in order to taste good. At the very least, theaters could start offering popcorn not popped in something that might as well be called "Death Via Saturated Fat" for those of us who enjoy popcorn and also value unclogged arteries.

Seriously, especially in cities like DC with plenty of food snobs, people would willingly pay for non-crappy, non-fried food (can you even call it food when one of the chief ingredients is coconut oil, which is 90% saturated fat? At that point, doesn't it just become buttery food-like product? Blech.) at the movie theater and portion sizes that don't rival state-fair-eating-contest proportions.

Who needs 44 ounces of carbonated high fructose corn syrup at a time? No one!

Really. Why are we still doing this? A bunch of restaurateurs and purveyors of all things fatty got their knickers in a twist when New York adopted a law to ban trans fats because partially hydrogenated oils are exceptionally sucky for your body. They said things wouldn't taste right and people wouldn't buy them.

Guess what? They were wrong. I haven't seen one news account of someone's business going under because they can't use trans fats.

Why are movie theaters still allowed to serve this crap? Why haven't people demanded better?

I would love to open a theater that offers wine, sushi, veggies and hummus, edamame, guacamole, and other healthier options, and I bet it would be a big hit.

In an age where people are eating themselves to death, there have got to be other options.

LA Times via Vulture.

I'm So Doing This

In a year. When my wobbly bits are a little less ... wobbly.

It's not a new thought. It occurred to me while I was in college that maybe I should go and pose nude for an art class and immortalize myself before gravity and shitty metabolism took over. Of course, you never think that will happen before you're 30, and well, I was busy. It slipped by.

Now, of course, I've got more than enough chutzpah. The body won't be perfect in another 365 days, but it'll be better, and that's good enough.

Funny, I already know exactly how I want to be dressed: a big oversized men's dress shirt, with french cuffs, and lacy lingerie that actually covers my bum (no thongs!). Dark brown hair of the Bettie Page/Veronica Lake variety with some blondish (but not too light) highlights. Sky-high heels. Not stripper heels. But high. With a vintage-y kind of flare.

Basically, I want to look like Dita Von Teese (and yes I realize the picture does not match the description I just gave, but it's one of the few I could find that's safe for work, so just bugger off, why don't you). But you know, brown. And maybe one completely nude. Just so I can be all, fuck yeah, I'm awesome, but with the scratches from my schizophrenic cat properly airbrushed.

That'd be hot.

I will totally be one of those narcissistic bitches with that shit hanging over my headboard, and I won't give a damn.

Mmmhmm. This is the best idea I've had in a while.

Via Washington Post.

bacon influenza

it blows.

Technological Knowledge FAIL

I have jury duty today.

Montgomery County has blocked us from accessing Facebook via the free wireless service, in the jury lounge but Blogger, obviously, is still available.

Seriously?

Turn That Smile Upside Down

If negroes want to know why women are always scowling here, it's because when we don't, we're subjected to have to listen to you lie about leaving your business cards in your other pants.

Seriously? This is the very epitome of "seeing right through you like you're bathing in Windex." (Thank you, Mariah, for that little gem.)

Case in point: I took the bus yesterday. OK, yeah, that was my first mistake. Bus people are different from train people, who are different from plane people, who are different from private jet people. Whatever. I was wearing boots with four inch heels. It's a shorter walk from the bus stop to the office than it is from the Metro.

Anyhow, I like to sit face facing forward so I don't slide all over the place and there was one seat left in this particular orientation beside what I can now accurately describe as a corny-ass fedora-rocking nudnik.

I knew it was a bad idea, and I should have just tolerated the sliding, because as soon as he discerned where I was going to sit, he looked way too thrilled.

Fuck.

Of course, at that point, you've already momentarily made eye contact and doing anything else is really quite rude, so you're stuck.

I sat with my Ipod head phones in my ears, signal numero uno that I do not wish to be fucked with.

Silly me.

I fucking forgot to scowl. And I thought I'd sat on his coat so I apologized.

Nudnik took this as an invitation to play 20 questions. Why is it niggas always want to do this shit just as you're getting to David Gilmour's epic-ass guitar solo in "Money?" Because they want to make you hate life, that's why.

But, the sooner I answered his questions, I figured, the sooner I could go back to Dark Side of the Moon. As soon as I revealed my (somewhat) southern roots, this fool dropped his metropolitan act and one of the most back woods, country-ass southern accents I've ever heard exited his mouth.

I detest southern men.

The ones I meet are always unappealing. They expect you to know how to cook with ham hocks and collards, share their phobias toward gay people, share their oft-backwards views on religion and women's place in society, empathize with their bitching and moaning about how much more expensive everything is here, and they are way too friendly and they get pissy when they find out you're from a southern state but are actually quite bristly and unfriendly, thank you very much.

Yeah, so Nudnik didn't stand a chance. And yet, he persisted.

"So where are you on your way to?"
"Work."
"Oh. Where do you work?"
I told him where I work.
He quizzed me on a football score to see if I was really telling the truth. It was funny to see his eyes get kinda big as the realization appeared on his face, that yes, this broad was in fact, way out of his not-really-employed young ass league(he was probably my age, maybe a couple years younger. I really need to send out a memo: You must be at least this old-- 28-38 yrs-- to ride this ride. -Management). You'd think that would be enough. But no.
"Well, I represent this R&B artist (code: I don't really have a job, but hey, maybe you'll buy it). She's up and coming. Her name's--"
I cut him off.
"I don't do music reviews. And I don't know the person who does."
Pause.
"So where are you going?"
"You already asked me that."

At this point I pulled out my book ("Into the Beautiful North" by Luis Alberto Urrea-- it's good, if rather depressing) which is seriously the final OK-I've-indulged-you-but-now-I-have-more-important-shit-to-get-to move.

"We should exchange contact info!"

I just looked at him and didn't say a word. He fiddled around in the pocket of his jeans.

"I left my business cards in my other jeans," he said.

Right. And I left my White House security clearance badge in the 740i I've got parked in my driveway.

I didn't even bother rummaging. I just looked straight at him.

"Hmph," I said, right before burying my nose deep in my book. "I left mine in my other purse."

I Effing Love Joan Holloway

Just for this. Well, this, in addition to her general busty, high-falutin' awesomeness.

Also: Look at you, figuring things out for yourself!

Via NY Magazine.

Quote of the Day

It jiggles uncontrollably. And I need to have some control over my jiggle.

-Philly Diva, talking about why she feels the need to wear Spanx. (It's her ass)