Archive for the ‘Because I Care’ Category
Bushwhacked
Posted on: May 12, 2014
I’ve been on this health-ish kick lately (to further specify, I’m just trying not to inhale every single thing thrown in front of my freaking face. I’m human. I don’t know how to eat 7 million vegetables a day or say ‘no’ to a manhattan, but I am trying to be a better me), and have been falling in love with the gym.
I use to take a boot camp class that was incredible and changed my entire body and mind, but with being in the newsroom a zillion hours a week and holding down four jobs and a NEW INTERNSHIP (!!!!!! Just let me finish a few sentences without parentheses’ and we can discuss) my available hours to gym it up are weird. But I love it! I’m lifting weights, sweating all over disgusting gym machines, and talking to trainers about supplements and stacks and UGHH it feels so good. I see regulars and we do the “whatsup” nod to each other and I’m sure soon enough that we will all be best friends, drinking protein shakes at the park and laughing about our former fat selves … or maybe not. Whatever. A girl can dream, right?
While I’m loving the gym and their insane playlists (really, out of this world. I’ve almost asked who makes them and if I can jump in to the rotation), I am 100% not in to the gym bathrooms. Let me rephrase- I am 100% not in to the full on bush every single time I walk in to the locker rooms. It’s bush central. Lot’s of bush. Bush walking around, bush towel drying, bush SITTING ON THE ACTUAL BENCHES WHILE IT FINDS ITS CHONIES. How. Why. STOP.
I’m so pro woman. The pro-est of woman and god we are beautiful creatures, but can I just not see your bush? Can you hide that thing? I don’t care what you do with it, but can I just not have it in my face every time I walk in to the room? I’d say I see a minimum of eight new bushes a week. I’m averaging four gym trips a week and each one of those trips includes a stop in the locker room to lock up my oh-so-valuable purse (no value, quite honestly. Less value than an empty wallet. It’s. sad.) and with every turn of the corner in that freaking room is a goddamn bush.
Maybe I’m the prude? Maybe it’s just weird for me to walk around naked in a room full of women. I’m actually starting to like my body and it still freaks me out that women of ALL SIZES AND SHAPES are so ok with theirs.
And, I’m insanely jealous. To be able to feel so comfortable in your own skin … a girl can really dream. I envy each and every one of those women, of all ages, that rips off their gym clothes and full frontal walks to the sinks to wash their hands. Naked. Totally accepting of their body. One day, Tracy, one day …
On a brighter note- internship! I got one! It’s paid! It pays shit! But it pays!
Starting this summer, I will be working for an actual publication! I think this means I am actually fulfilling my dreams of writing and I am scared as shit but it’s beyond exciting. My boyfriend can attest that I’m almost always exhausted and I usually fall asleep within seventeen seconds of seeing him (he’s the greatest I SWEAR), but I’m the happiest I’ve ever been working my ass off to catch this dream. It’s all happening you guys; it’s all happening.
Hi, kids.
I totally understand your complete lack of interest in the blog. Really, I do. With the zero posts that you’ve received and read in the last year, I fathom the disinterest. You see, I became the editor-in-chief of my school newspaper and all writing has come to a halt while I deal with building a new, baller resume. That resume may or may not include the four jobs I currently hold to keep living the dream and also full-time school schedule. I’m pretty sure the last time I wrote a post, I was also diving in to a new, severely INCREDIBLE relationship. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been and (gross yourself out) madly in love. In addition, I lost a bunch of weight, gained some back, lost some more and then ran a 5k in 30 minutes. I’ve been battling body image issues like a mutha, but the gym has been newly found therapy and in the few spare hours I have per week, I hightail it over and get my ugly-sweat on. To say that I am busy is an understatement.
But, I care! I swear I do! I need to keep this blog alive! If I could turn back time (cue Cher voice), I would be documenting all of the absolutely ridiculous events in the last few months, but hey. I’m here now, right? Can I tell you about a cinema class I took over winter break? It was horrible. and magical. and really miserable. but also really wonderful.
Let’s start with the wonderful:
- I’m watching movies I’ve never seen and probably never would see because I have a fear of watching movies.
Tracy.
What.
I know. You see, it’s not that I can’t sit through one (well, that’s a slight fabrication…) I get emotionally invested … easily … in everything. I cry over commercials. I cry when the right song comes on at the right moment. I cried watching The Real World the other night. The Real World. It’s the THIRD EPISODE of THE SEASON and P.S. I’M TWENTYNINE. When you’re this emotional about the MOST INSIGNIFICANT THINGS, it’s really difficult to commit yourself to a full 90+ minutes of a storyline, let alone an ending that may or may not play in to what your head has already concocted. I’ve started slowly falling in love with actors and movies I never thought I would have any interest in. Would you believe that this girl is actually enjoying- nay, seeking out silent films? I know. Breaking barriers here.
- Adults in college level classes talk a lot and I do not want to be one of them. I know that technically every student in the room is an “adult”, but there are two or three guys that are older than 35 that LOVE to hear their voices whether they’re being relevant or not. I debated putting this in the “miserable” section, but it is truly a wonderful experience whenever they chime in and I don’t. I’m constantly reminded to shut the fuck up because I’m borderline the fourth oldest person in the room and in competition with two other people for teacher’s pet. The teacher’s pet part is due to the fact that the professor is also my journalism professor during the regular semester and he constantly reminds me and the class of how much time we spend together. If one of the old guys isn’t interjecting with one of their irrelevant non-movie stories, it’s usually my professor asking “Hey Tracy” this or “so Tracy, what do you think about…”
and, well ya. There’s the wonderful. The list of miserable?
1. You’re either absolutely insane or grinding your ass off if you sign up for an 8 a.m. class during Winter Break. It’s the worst. I’m barely alive before 11 a.m. and to have a professor that you like expecting you to be engaged in the class because everyone else except the four 35-year olds is asleep is the worst. The. Worst. And now I’m the teachers pet because no one responds to “Who is Judy Garland” and I don’t want my professor to feel that old. See, I care.
2. No coffee. How the fuck I survived a morning class without coffee or food is a goddamn miracle and in my books an automatic A. The classroom had a “problem” with insects and animals. Yes, animals. Food and drinks were strictly prohibited in the room and I sat through a MOVIE CLASS for three hours per day, four days a week without a perk.
Someway, somehow I passed the class and am currently missing it more than ever. I’ve been busting my ass every week as the editor-in-chief for this newspaper and am flat out exhausted. It’s tolling spending hours upon hours on a project that you 1. aren’t getting paid for and 2. have to be the biggest cheerleader for even when everyone has doubt in your abilities. I’ve learned more about myself in the last three months than the last twenty years. I’m constantly reminding myself that everything that happens in the newsroom is a learning opportunity and I will apply it in my professional life at one point or another.
And, I need to write more. I need to remember that this is important to me. Just holding the glimmer over here guys, holding the glimmer the best I can.
Glimmer of Love
Posted on: September 4, 2013
She is my muse, love. My life. My soul, which I never knew or believed existed until I felt her breath… my breath, filling my lungs. Lately words have been flowing from my heart that I never expected to hear, feel, or believe. It is as real and as drastic a transformation as I have ever experienced. Apparently, it is wholely possible to look forward to speaking to someone just moments after hanging up the phone – to miss someone mere seconds following farewells. It seems that, despite all doubt, in all appearances, potentially, probably, ipso. fucking. facto. that love not only exists, but that I find myself eyebrow deep in it. This is a first. Many firsts, in fact. But, certainly the first time I find myself deep in something that did not require legal, medical, or moral assistance to get out of.
I am writing this for the same reason I’ve ever written anything, because I have to. I have written, to date, a number of letters beyond my ability to count (which is to say, I’ve run out of fingers and toes) regarding the subject of love, the subject of my love, addressed to… well, you get the point. I have killed four pens, 2.5 notebooks, and three packs of evelopes in just a couple of months. So for anyone wondering if The Duke of Glimmer has been writing… he has, but only for one person as of recently. And although she prefers not to share my attention, I’m sure she’ll grant me reprieve in this case.
My love is music, for I found her through music. My love is friendship, for I found her through friendship. She is dance, and light, and laughter… gorgeous hot days, and long desert nights. She is drugs – I will not lie. The greatest (seriously, the greatest) drug I’ve ever known. I am convinced she is the path to my enlightenment – if that is a thing and it can truly be achieved. And if not, I’m just fucking happy. Really happy. Happy enough to write this sappy post that you will probably read, say “awww,” puke, then take an insulin shot. And that’s fine.
The point is that it’s real and it’s out there – love. It’s not something you’re expecting to find, or that you seek out on purpose. It just grows, organically – non GMO, always fair trade. I didn’t even know I wanted it until love found me, but now I’ll fight with the passion of a thousand souls to keep it, this fire that burns in my heart. There’s no formula, just live your life and let it find you. It will. Somehow it found me. Somehow there’s a beautiful woman in this world who is just like me, but better… so much better. Genuinely, just ask Tracy, she’s better… and she loves me, lucky fool that I am. So for anyone struggling or lonely out there – trust me, if you’re holding the glimmer, sooner or later the universe will send someone to share the burden.
Whatsup, Ireland? How’s it going, Ecuador? Good to see you Germany and Indonesia! Thanks for stopping by, Alaska! (Listen, it’s practically its own country and I betcha a few Palin’s will 2nd the motion. (and in one swift sentence, there go all of our Alaskan readers, floating away on glaciers with their polar bears and igloos…TRACY, SHUT UP ALREADY.))
I wanted to start this post with a big shout out, thanking all of our international readers for checking out the blog! We’re so happy to be a click in your day! Now, you are more than likely an actual friend (shock- we actually have them) reading these words, who’s left the warming embrace of political, social, and economic turmoil, also known as “The United States of America,” for greener pastures in other countries (ya, I’m talking to you, Hamburg), but you have no idea the absolutely absurd amounts of value I place upon you. While some may believe that hounding your friends to read your eloquent words formed into barely readable sentences is hardly considered notable “hits” for a blog, I have much lower expectations (morals/values/whatever) and appreciate each and every one of you bowing down to peer pressure. Not only have you accepted my bullying, you’re actually passing this blog around to your little commie/socialist/grass skirt wearing friends (we are an actual blog. We have stats. I know exactly who you are. Don’t trip…I know no names, only exact locations where blog was accessed. I kid. We’re not that creepy. I think…)
Can someone explain to me the significance of daylight savings time in 2012? Yes, I specified 2012. I did not ask the significance of daylight savings time in 1912, where every household had at least four working family members, a block of ice for a freezer, and a butter churner in the back yard. Ok, maybe it wasn’t that drastic. Maybe it was? Any time period pre- regular automobile ownership is something I will never comprehend. I have a hard enough time watching Don Draper manually change the TV channel on Mad Men (but MAN I can TOTALLY get behind drinking scotch and smoking in the workplace..), let alone understanding the complexities of a 1912 lifestyle. What I’m trying to get at here is that we no longer need to subscribe to the idea that farmers need more daylight, while we’re dragging ass for a few days adjusting to a time that was forced upon us.
And what the fuck, world? Some states participate, some don’t? Some countries do, some countries don’t? Apparently, Indonesia sat down last year and said “meh, we don’t want to do daylight savings time this year…” What? How? Who declared this and why can’t we vote on it in California? And, really, what kind of ass-backwards state do WE live in requiring more daylight and fewer homos? SWITCH THAT UP PLEASE.
PS- Do you know how incredibly depressing it is watching the sunrise on your morning commute and then watching the sunset during your afternoon drive home? (Don’t get me started on new traffic congestion because people are now blinded by the rays on the drive home. Buy some sunglasses, flip your mirror down; we’ll all get through this together.) Although my office is awesome, it’s still INDOORS. It’s like the world is telling me “HAHA! How much would you have enjoyed THIS today?!?”
-Tangent- It’s an incredibly sobering feeling when you realize you can no longer online date for lack of quality men. Listen, I’m not searching for the finest cut filet mignon. Although I love filet mignon, I would choose a New York (unless you’re buying, because HELLO- New York cut is ten times more flavorful without that bougie filet price tag…). Ya, I’m using steak as an analogy for online dating. You understood it, so stop judging me (and if you didn’t, brush up on your beef knowledge before messaging me on facebook again. You’ll have even more potential to become my actual friend. Need even more of a backstory? Go here:http://wp.me/pHfRF-3m ) Almost every single person I’ve met online has been a complete opposite of what their elaborate profile described to me. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve met a few (very, very, VERY FEW) genuine guys from this whole experience, but not enough to make me believe that you’re not all a bunch of liars. A couple tips, guys:
- Don’t send me a picture from 2008, hell anything earlier than August 2011. I don’t care that you seemed to be the “man” in a picture with a sombrero and 30 stacked solo cups in Cabo. It’s Cabo. My parents have the same exact pictures, in the same exact bar, at their time share. I’m sure it was an awesome trip, and you just love the way your skin glows, but you’re 40 lbs heavier in real life and balding. Fortunately, you’re still moderately attractive in real life, but how can I not judge someone creating this “I’m wealthy with a full head of hair and ripped abs” persona online, who shows up at a bar in Tevas with a gut.
- We’re in LA, not the Colorado outback. Get rid of your Tevas.
- I’m sure your bff4LYFE is this super hot chick that you drooled over in high school, only to become besties over facebook in college after being rejected too many times. That’s awesome, really. Maybe refrain from putting every single picture of the two of you on your profile? I promise there is little to no competition, but I want to know you’re not looking for a third in the bedroom as I peruse your digital problems.
- It’s weird emphasizing your mom is your best friend. My mom is my best “mom” friend, but my best friend is my best friend, not my mom. My parents are awesome and we’re super close, but (and they’ll remind you..) they’re not my friends. They are my parents. They have friends that are a lot cooler than some “20 something chick” they created that drunken, hazy night in the 80’s. True story- At 10 years old, I tried “running away” after an argument and in the midst of searching for my favorite stuffed animal (totally necessary)my Dad swooped into my room, packed my bag, walked me downstairs, opened the front door, ushered me out of the house and said “Best of luck! Call me when you find a family better than this one!” Real bonding moment with Dad there… As excited as I am in wow-ing your folks with my…charm…I have little to no interest in shopping for lingerie with your Mom or calling her to gossip about orgasm articles in Cosmo. You should feel the same way.
My bigger problem is figuring out where one goes once realizing online dating just won’t work. Do I join an anonymous help group? Is there some kind of “singles only” farm we get shipped off to? Speaking of farms…..I was going through some old photo albums a while ago and found a picture of our first family dog, Samantha.
“Aww, Mom! Look! Samantha! She was so sweet to me…” –me
“Ya, until she tried to attack your brother when we first brought him home from the hospital.” –mom
“Um…What?” –me
“Your brother was sleeping on your lap and Samantha was insanely jealous. She jumped onto the couch and almost bit his face off. We had to put her down after that.” –mom
“EXCUSE ME?!” –me
“Honey, how many times do we have to go over this? She also attacked the neighbors, the neighbor’s kids; she was an old, aggressive beast. There was no other option.” –Mom
(my face goes blank. My jaw drops to an almost unhinged level.)
“Mom. Wait. Are you fucking kidding me right now?” –me
“Oh, come on. What’s wrong now?” –Mom
“MOM. YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU AND DAD TOOK HER TO A FAMILY THAT HAD A FARM OUTSIDE OF SAN DIEGO WHERE SHE COULD RUN AROUND AND HAVE MORE DOGS TO PLAY WITH!!!!!!” –me
“Oh, you believed that?” –Mom
“WHAT WAS MY OTHER OPTION, MOM?!?!? I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD!! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU NEVER TOLD ME AND LET ME LIVE THIS LIE FOR TWENTY YEARS?!?!?” –me
Don’t get me started on the story of my second best friend and pet fish- Bubbles. I’m still fuming.
Glimmer in the City
Posted on: March 1, 2012
Oh, hi. Come here often?
Shall we just get all of the apologies and excuses out of the way? I can’t possibly write another exquisite piece knowing all 2 (yes, we lost 2 of you) of our readers would rather stab themselves with dull, diseased envelope openers than see me have the gall to actually blog/write/rant/complain again. In fact, after discussing blog topics with a few trusty friends, I have a pretty strong feeling you’ll all hate me in less than 8 minutes and 2000 words, so who really cares? We move along.
I’ve missed you HTG! To say that I’ve been going through A LOT in the last few months is a major understatement and disservice to my life, but apparently some higher up form decided I paid enough dues in real-estate hell to earn a position at my DREAM COMPANY. I’m sure you all remember Duke’s fabulous announcement a few posts back, congratulating my meager crawl across a now noted plateau in my career history, but this is different. This is major. In fear of divulging too much and the very real possibilities of actually losing said job because of said blog, I will try and remain as anonymous about it as possible- but you should know I’m pretty important now (not like you thought differently before…), and I welcome any and all forms of flattery and bribery.
In addition to my new title of “severely important”, I’m also officially a commuter!! I’ve been in some form of working world since I was 16 and never had to drive more than 20 miles to any job. For a few years there, my commute was 13 miles round trip. I know. I was lucky…and incredibly ungrateful. On a good day (and leaving before 7am…gross…), I’m faced with 40 minutes of concrete, commentary (thank you always, Howard Stern), and cars. On a bad day, it’s 2 hours of planning how quickly I can get out of my car on a moving freeway to gently tap on someone’s window and ask how they became such a shitty driver in a city that doesn’t walk. As horrible as it seems, I truly do find a sense of peace thinking there’s a “we’re all in this together” hidden attitude in each and every car on that freeway. I’ll stop being positive now; my friends say it’s ruining our relationships.
With all this new found time to….be by myself….I’ve started having some profound conversations…with myself. Please note- I’m really not interested in your idea or definition of profound. This is my blog after all.
- If we commuters could all collectively agree to drive a minimum of 40 mph on the freeway between the hours of 7am-9am and 5pm-7pm, we’d all be far less disgruntled and I’d imagine additionally having a generally happier demeanor. What’s most disturbing is that I would assume 75% of drivers on the freeway at those given times are every day users (I mean, only an idiot or tourist would get on an LA freeway before 9am for fun…which is describing pretty much all of LA. Fuck.), which means they have an already decided on ramp and off ramp. Can we all just start pinky swearing to stay in our lanes til appx 2 miles from our exit? Also- sorry trucks, but you’re out of this equation entirely. You are awesome and ohsonecessary for too many reasons to list, but you’re officially not allowed on that freeway between those times either. I can’t tell you how many trucks I’ve been stuck behind IN THE FAST LANE at 8am. No. mas. Profound- right.
- I’m going to start the campaign to turn the 101 into a toll road. I’m positive this will come off as elitist, but this is what happens when you’re stuck in a car for 15 hours a week. Not only will the city benefit from the major influx of funds from said toll, our “thriving” public transportation will pick up and actually become of use to this city. Mass transportation seems to work in every other city besides our own, so why not try to make ours, at the very least, half as good as San Francisco’s (pipe dreams….). Additionally- fewer cars on the freeway, fewer accidents, fewer carbon emissions, less of a need to punch people in the face every time they ask where you commute from…
- Stereotypes are true. Take that statement as you will.
- The lack of windows on a car/truck/van is directly related to the amount of whistles I receive. Apparently, I give off the “PLEASE do me in your creepy vehicle immediately” vibe. Still working on that one… (ps- I really just need to know if that has ever worked. Please, someone just chime in and let me know if you have ever whistled at a girl and she walked over to your car and banged you. I just, I need closure and to know this actually works for me to understand the whistling phenomenon.)
- Speaking of banging, can we just get over Chris Brown being the worst human being alive already? I GET IT. He beat our favorite princess up. He’s already the spokesperson for those needing anger management courses, must we hate him forever (for ev ev ever, for ev ev ever…had to, sorry..)??? Sean Penn laid a few fingers on Madonna and his box office sales didn’t fall- hell he’s friends with Venezuela now (ok maybe this isn’t good). What about Bobby and Whitney (bad example again, Tracy)??? He beat the crap out of Whitney, but New Edition still tours, so I’d assume we got over it. Or the infamous Ike and Tina? Ike died revered as one of the best producers of all time and he beat the absolute SHIT out of Tina FOR YEARS! And lest we forget Mrs. Hilary Clinton. Yep, good ol Hil use to beat up Bill. We never really questioned who wore the pants in that relationship, but clearly- we got over it. Can we all just agree that Chris is kind of a douchebag that makes records I really want to dance to?
Told ya you’d hate me..
Well Done
Posted on: September 14, 2011
Why hello there, glimmerheads! It’s been a hot minute (week, month, whatever) since we’ve spoken, but how are you? Me? I’m alive! Believe it or not, I held the glimmer long enough to not buy a gun and “go corporate” and instead got a new job! (Pause for gasp, shock, sigh, and breathe….)
Now, said new job is still within the same company, but at the absolute very least, I’m no longer responsible for spoon feeding or physically wiping my bosses’ asses. I no longer have to scrub coffee out of the poor, tantrum ridden carpets! No more verbal abuse over the phone as bossman blames me for his chauffer’s poor driving skills in Omaha! I survived hell! Can you believe it?! I now have actual responsibilities, and yes, that scares me closer to death than I need to be, but ultimately a pretty goddamn rewarding drive home, full of reflections of daily accomplishments and accolades. Who would have guessed how far a simple “you’re awesome” or “thank you” really goes? My new job makes me feel needed, wanted, appreciated- basically how any normal human being should feel. This may explain my lack of posting, but after switching to this new position and thanks to multiple comments from coworkers, I realized I was on suicide watch for the last three years. Apparently, once you start smiling again, people get weirded out by the lack of somber attitude, and wonder what’s really wrong. I’ve been elated to inform them, my absolutely freaked out parents, and all of you that I’m actually HAPPY!
Ahhhh fuck.
This blog is sooo gonna die soon.
Nope, I will not let it.
There are so many other aspects of life in which holding the glimmer is absolutely crucial. I’d tell you the recent events of a gorgeously long legged pedestrian (ya, that’s actually me, all five foot five of me) crossing the street and getting hit by a drunk driver AFTER said drunk driver had already hit a car and was trying to flee the scene around 3am in Hollywood, but I still have anxiety and leg spasms, so why not dive into where holding the glimmer is most needed- my love life.
Here is my declaration: I’m officially an on-line dater. Go find me. I don’t care. I just told you I’m online dating; do you think my integrity, morals, or values really matter anymore? Actually, are you mildly attractive with a steady income, little to no emotional or personal issues that need fixing (ie: mom/dad issues, past major drug problems, abandonment anything…)and need a date? Needle in a haystack I say, but hey, maybe you’re out there! Blog dating is still online dating, right? Duke, I think I’m on to something here…
Online dating, you are a beast of many colors. After a slightly too long “off and on” relationship, I decided I was interested in feeling actual worth again and with little to no interest in wading through the pudding-like consistency of a bar scene to find my next beau, signed myself up for some good ol internet fun (don’t you dare define fun, ok?) And fun I found!
After completing the unnecessarily arduous profile, I sat back and relaxed, hoping Mr. Right (now?) would show up in my inbox. Roughly 39 seconds later, I received this: (please note, every single name below HAS been changed (kinda), in fear of repercussions and, well, I slightly feel bad for them…)(Ok. Maybe some haven’t. Sue me.)
___________________________________________________________
Ikeepawordforyoualways:
Gorgeus Halo my beautiful. I am in study to become doctor at UCLA. GO BRUINS! Wanna meet to talk to me possible today ? Ciao
____________________________________________________________
Ok. Who the fuck is in charge of admissions at UCLA, because this person either needs to be fired, or sue the shit out of Ikeepawordforyoualways for slandering such an institution.
____________________________________________________________
Justthetip:
Wanna cuddle?
____________________________________________________________
Right. Let’s cuddle. Is this before or after you saw my legs off with a dull machete and carve out my arms then spoon feed me my toes with my own (now detached) hand? (Let’s be real honest. Screen name Justthetip- hilarious. Do I want to cuddle? I don’t even remember what it’s like to cuddle, let alone if I even know HOW to cuddle, but you bet your ass I want to. Unfortunately, I have to trust my instincts and anyone willing to be that forward in a “first impressions” kind of world gives me the heebee jeeb’s.)
After countless “let’s bang” or “will u marrie me plz” emails, I thought I found gold when I struck up a convo with a seemingly literate and attractive man. After a few email exchanges, we decided on meeting for drinks. I mean, what could go wrong over drinks?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing went wrong. There was good conversation, he made me laugh, I made him laugh, we shared some similar stories, parted ways with phone numbers and decided to meet up for dinner a week later. Easy enough, right?
The day of date, he suggested Hamburger Hamlet (let it be known- this restaurant was AWESOME…. in 1972. It was a celebrity hot spot, dark and intimate, couldn’t get a table for hours. This place is now an elderly melting pot, tables always available, a sad old hostess and a menu full of tasteless “creations” with a Rockefeller like price tag.) I cringed inside and thought to myself, “with all the awesome restaurants in Los Angeles, of all places to ever choose, of any restaurant that serves to the under 80 crowd, WHY THIS PLACE?” It wasn’t fair to judge, so I kept my first instinct quiet and decided to make the best of the decision and show up.
I got to the restaurant and sat down at the bar about 10 minutes before anticipated date and ordered a Jack and Coke. As I’m waking my senses with whiskey, and realizing my date is now 10 minutes late, in walks M (that’s what we’re calling him. Just go with it.), wearing a zip up hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and with ear buds still in ear, because who could stand to walk in to a restaurant without music, right? Kill me.
We say hi, give an awkward hello hug and he comments, “Oh, you’ve already started?”
Well OF COURSE I’ve already started drinking. I hope my eyes didn’t roll back too far into my head when making eye contact, because I promise they would have if I were fully sober.
“Excuse me, bartender? Can I get a screwdriver?” –M
A Screwdriver. Really. A. Screw. Driver. A screwdriver? Are your parents in Laughlin for the weekend? Are we in your mom’s garage playing beerpong and listening to Blink182? Is this your first time consuming alcohol? Honestly, think of the last time you ordered a screwdriver from a bartender, waiter, hostess, whomever. I’m sure it won’t take too long for you to think about because you NEVER HAVE. Screwdrivers are for children who don’t drink. Screwdrivers are in lieu of Mimosa availability.
Sigh. Just go with it Tracy, just fucking go with it.
We get a table and start trying to form a conversation, but I’ve never sat next to a man who’s ordered a screwdriver, so I’m a little off myself. The waiter comes by and asks if we need more drinks and I order another Jack and Coke and M orders a Corona. Yes, a Corona. Because, what better beer would you want to quench your thirst while sitting at a restaurant that charges $50 a person minimum. I was under the impression that Corona’s were reserved as a “pool” beer, a “beach” beer, maybe an “on sale at a great price” beer, but never have I thought Corona’s were an “order at a restaurant” beer. Maybe it’s just me.
After being informed of M’s lack of interest in shell fish because it “tastes weird”, we are ready to order. As a connoisseur of the soup, I ordered the lobster bisque with a half chicken sandwich. Probably not my best order, and damn those garlic fries looked good, but I was on a date. One must be aware on a date.
“I’ll have the 12oz angus rib eye.” –M
“How would you like that prepared?” -waiter
“Well done, of course.” –M
woah.
Excuse me. I said excuse me. Are you joking? Are you fucking kidding me right now, sir? Did you honestly just order a well done steak, and then further emphasize how well done you enjoy your steak with an “of course”?! Of course you enjoy the taste of footwear for dinner? Of course you’re cooking off a campfire in Uganda?
The waiter awkwardly walks away, and M goes right back in to full conversation.
“WOAAAAHHHH woah woah woah. Hold on a second. We need to assess something here. You’re from Chicago and you just ordered a well done steak?” –me
“Ya, I don’t really like raw meat.” –M
“Oh of course, I mean, who eats raw meat.? But a well done steak? You should have just ordered a hamburger, or we could have gone to 7-11 and gotten you some beef jerky. Medium? Medium rare? Both non-raw options that give you full flavor of the steak. That just seems like such a waste of perfectly wonderful meat.” –me
“It’s just how I’ve always had it. That’s not going to change.” –M
“Well ok, I uhhmm, I have to go to the bathroom……” –me
I take out my phone and text Courtney- “he ordered a well done steak.”
“I’ll call you in 5. Get out of there immediately.”
And I did. I pulled the “my friend needs me and I have to go” card. Of course I felt guilty, but I couldn’t sit with this man and watch him attempt to cut that poor piece of meat, knife grinding into the gristled, tasteless product.
Maybe I’m that girl. Maybe all I could think of was introducing this specimen to my father at a dinner table and he orders a well done steak, with repercussions of us both getting verbally berated by the man for wasting meat, money, and time. Maybe this makes me sound like the biggest bitch of the west coast, but what else would I discover from a man who orders….screwdrivers…and eats leather? I’m just not willing to take that chance. I may be single, but I’m not desperate.
So yes, justthetip, just for a second, just to see how it feels.
Do you know how many times a day I get asked if I have a gun?
Moments ago, our Chief of Compliance walked out of a heated meeting in our Chief of Legal’s office, which just so happens to be right across from my desk. She slammed her papers on my desk, threw her glasses across the room, and asked if I had a gun. I forced a chuckle, gave some kind of witty “OHHHHH It’s THAT kind of day” response, and went back to my important Sarah Palin gchat convo with Duke. A mere 49 seconds later, above mentioned Chief Legal strides out of his office and to my desk- “I just need one bullet, just one.” Um. Excuse me? REAL SHIT, CORPORATE. REAL. SHIT. I understand corporate is brutal, but recently this question has been surfacing more often than “Tracy, where’s the toner?” (same place as it has been since the day we opened up shop folks. The toner has yet to move. The toner will never move. The toner is still in the exact same place as the day you asked a year ago. I still remember this conversation because you then proceeded in asking where the supply room was and I asked if you, as a founding officer of this fine establishment, knew where anything in this office is. You replied with “no”, a hearty laugh, and a swift exit. I digress.) Does corporate really think of guns that often? Are we thisclose to letting the postal office off the hook and coining “going corporate?” Do I get a gun too?
Please?
Speaking of firepower, here’s your fun fact of the day:
Operation Glimmer was a code name used to throw off the dirty Germy’s during WW2.
(Thank you again, Howard Stern and Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Glimmer)
Oh glimmer, how you make my world go round….
In continuing with our efforts to keep this blog going and holding the glimmer in any way, shape, or form – I’m going to clear up some confusion. You see, Duke and I are often asked what exactly it means to “hold the glimmer”. Most of the time, I respond with “How am I supposed to know?” or “Who the fuck are you anyway?” or “Find your own definition, you bastard devil child!” This time is different. I may have an answer and you may have to continue reading to see if this really fleshes out in to a worthy response. Chances are dimmer than a candle during Chanukah, but let’s hold the glimmer (see what I did there.)
The problem with defining hold the glimmer is that it’s a lot like love- everyone has their own interpretation (my love definition comes from Sleepless in Seattle, yours…unclear (and stay tuned for the next blog on how movies ruined my ideals of love, life, friendship, money, …everything.))
A few years ago, I sat down to a regular Sunday night of catching up on important current events and cultural affairs (read- trash TV) before the monotonous work week. As I was perusing the options, the remote got jammed and landed me directly in the middle of Lamar and Khloe’s televised nuptials (slight fabrication, I chose to stop where I did. You see, up to that point, I had yet to watch any Kardashian filth. These Kardashians run amok throughout my town, live directly across the street from my boss who constantly reminds me of their lavish affairs and camera crews, and have yet to do anything of worth outside of beautifying their family for money and seriously awesome threads.) As I watched in awe and dismay, I started realizing the Kardashians are what’s wrong with the world (big statement with no follow up. Sorry.) You know the saying, “The world is your oyster”? Well the oysters are running out. They’re nearly fucking extinct. And it’s the likes of those Kardashians who are ravenously inhaling them; raw, fried, doused in vinaigrette, whatever… Do we finally understand the oyster comments now? OK.
So with the idea that the world is your oyster, comes the fact that you actually have to find your oyster. This is no easy task and I have no advice in how to find said oyster, as I’m currently still figuring this out myself. You’re reading this blog. You get where I am in life. From 9-5, it’s not pretty.
You may have to dig through three hundred shredded paper boxes to find one receipt for your bosses refundable car wash, alphabetically organize your said boss’ preferred hotel choices for when he stays in New York, or merely clean 20 coffee cups a day for the shmucks who left them in the sink and “forgot” to rinse them out the day before. You may get yelled at for stealing toilet paper from the bathrooms because upper management decided they had no interest in further budgeting for your or any of the other two hundred and seventy employees constantly running nose. These instances are all variables, all events that change from day to day and there is really only one way to handle them: hold the glimmer.
Holding the glimmer is keeping the hope that someday, somehow, somewhere, you will find your oyster. Some find immediate relief in drinking, be it at the office (I don’t follow the “it’s 5pm somewhere!” rule. “There’s alcohol somewhere that’s not being consumed” is my rule.) , at a conservative family function when you’re the only one with “liberal” seemingly tattooed to your head, or in your third year of the same class that’s keeping you from your BA. A cup is a cup after all, and your relationship with what’s in that cup is entirely up to you and the cup. Maybe your definition of “hold the glimmer” is laughing at old people when they fall. Falling is funny and age should not be a factor in laughter and entertainment. I don’t judge. I’m the one making paper clip chains, remember? Maybe you’re brand new to the entire concept of hold the glimmer, and your idea consists of inhaling expensive cupcakes, listening to Insane Clown Posse, all while reading our blog. GO CRAZY, you weirdo (but change the fucking station and take off the makeup. You probably look ridiculous. Just sayin…). You do you, and send me a red velvet one if you can. But in the mean time, whichever way you find most effective- hold the glimmer. Hold it tight, hold it close, just hold the glimmer.
Below, you will find proof of Duke and I attempting to bar blog. As he posted before, it was a complete debaucherous mess, ending in aioli on Asians (and multiple other sauces and fried foods), a righteous Friday morning hangover, and no post. Write a comment, Shoot us an email, “like” our facebook fan page, and follow us on twitter @holdtheglimmer and @DukeHTG….because we have feelings too.
Guess who’s who?
The Game
Posted on: May 10, 2011
I’ve started playing a few new games at work that are revolutionizing my 8 committed hours to the office. You have to understand, I work in the epitome of corporate, at the assumed “bottom of the totem pole”, titled CEO’s slave. It’s a daily lottery of which farm animal my duties will most resemble or which exec decides to skip their therapist for the night and just hang around my desk, complaining about compensation, as if I’m making more than a PE teacher in Wichita. Finding ways to entertain myself is difficult, especially when the “soul” count is at a very depressing bare minimum and diminishing with every broken copier complaint. Staying sane becomes the pinnacle of importance and most difficult of tasks, especially when it’s expense report day and not one executive is expecting less than your monthly salary in a single report.
First, I say “good morning” and “how are you” to every single person I pass on the way to my desk. Seriously- Every. Single. Person. This game would be irrelevant if its sole intent was to learn more about the people I work with- of which I promise to have no interest. Seriously. I have my clique here, my inner circle of “normals” if you will, and have no interest in further friending from “how are you”. It’s just too dangerous to stray. The last thing I need to hear at 8:30am and before my first cup of coffee is how you stayed up until 2am cleaning your daughter’s throw up from witnessing your son’s explosive diarrhea. What’s your problem asshole? Why would I ever want to know that you were knee deep in kid shit a mere 6 hours ago? Don’t you know that I can tell the last time you washed your hair, and it wasn’t yesterday; what about those fecal hands? I’m not interested in breeding and you’re only further scarring me from the thought. I’m simply buying time, folks, not friends. Sometimes, people get out on the right side of the bed and acknowledge your existence then respond with their go-to of the day, usually the weather (corporate lives for weather conversations, especially in elevators. It’s a phenomenon I have yet to understand, but is on my list to conquer before I send out my “FUCK THIS PLACE, YOU SHMUCKS” mass email.) Most times, a trusty head nod or half grin to symbolize lack of ability to communicate well with others, but still appreciated in my book.
Now, you should know that my desk sits at the end of a green mile-esque hall (electric death chair and all), right in front of our trusty CEO’s lair. The location of my desk, and the number of people I pass by in the morning, enables me to spend a solid 27 working minutes before I even press the button to turn on the worlds slowest computer. I’d hate to pull out Charlie Sheen’s last and only form of compensation; but in my book, by 9am, I’m already winning.
If you’re interested in a real time cruncher, try the water game. Every 18 minutes (more or less depending on who signs your paycheck), get up and get yourself a cup of water. You deserve it. Take the long way, of course. Not only are you hydrating that numb corporate body, you’ll also be making a new, wonderful, anonymous, full of games friend: the corporate bathroom stalls. You see, if you’re drinking three cups of water every hour, your bladder has no other option than being holed up in the handicap stall (it’s spacious. There’s a handle bar and a place to put your purse, coffee, laptop…whatever. I feel no guilt in fully appreciating one of the minimal luxuries offered to the handi-CAPABLE. Besides, I’ve yet to see anyone on the third floor wheeling their ass in here. Equal opportunity employer? I think not.) The benefits are countless; a healthier lifestyle, a little exercise, and of course the few minutes of quiet meditation before bossman throws a fit over the temperature of his coffee.
Another game I suggest, nay, implore you to try is modestly titled the paper clip chain. I know it sounds slightly above a preschooler’s level of competency, but it’s a wonderful mind occupier. You’re on an hour long phone call with AT&T regarding the Iphone you DIDN’T drop in the toilet? Make a chain. You were just asked to make 20 copies of a 200 page presentation due in two hours? Grab yourself a chair by that copy machine and make a chain. See, it’s not the chain that’s entertaining, it’s the “after chain”. These chains will give you minor gratification while assembling, but it’s when you hear the “What the FUCK” from the copy machine at 3pm and realize the eighty clip chain you worked on earlier that morning has been found that really gets your endorphins running. haHA sir! Those paper clips aren’t gonna separate themselves! This game is also an awesome way to see who’s the new scumbag that takes things off your desk while you’re away. You see, having to detach ONE paper clip from a chain of FIFTY takes time. This isn’t an easy process and only the most skilled of assistants can unchain a paper clip swiftly. So, while I’m casually walking back to my death lair after my tenth cup of water before 11am, you’re still untangling my paper clips, and 9 times out of 10 I will catch you. And then I’m allowed to assume you’re the asshole not shutting the supply room door, or the prick that leaves his dirty forks in the break room sink for some maid (read: me) to clean, or the shithead that “forgot” to refill the paper after making one thousand copies of your MLB fantasy league. That’s just how it is folks. I didn’t create the game; I’m just the MVP.
Glimmer Talk
Posted on: April 27, 2011
Are five days enough to let the heat cool off from the Spike Lee/Tyler Perry black-on-blacker race wars? Speaking of which, I think that bitch Madea snuck into my dresser drawer and replaced all my ties and dress socks with panty hose and a do-it-yourself home weave kit! Hey, if the mumu fits… no no, fuck that shit, I’ll keep my day job, thanks very much. It may be hectic and thankless, but it’s dignified – sort of. Anyway enough about transgendered millionaires, here’s a bitch-fit about you and me…
Look, I get it. You’re busy at work. I’m busy too. I work for one of the biggest defense contractors on the planet. The team I work with, the shit we do – it represents roughly 9 billion dollars in potential revenue. So trust me, I am fucking busy. But, I also have needs. I get lonely in this tiny office with no windows. Our understaffed team is made up of a tough skinned little old lady and two over-the-hill programmers. While they are all friendly and great to work with, they couldn’t understand me on a personal level if their pensions depended on it. Alright, I’ll be honest, I’m one of those people who needs constant communication with someone… ANYONE… but preferably someone who cares enough to reciprocate my attention. So when I’m not training stubborn financial experts, testing software modifications, troubleshooting user issues, answering calls and emails, or working one of the many side projects that totally aren’t in my job description – I like to reach out and touch who ever is available, digitally I mean. I’m talking about my only medium of sanity between the 8 to 5 hours, gchat. If you’re on it, if I see your name on a daily basis, chances are I’ve asked what you’re wearing at least a few times. And if you’re cool, you’ve probably lied and described something far more interesting than the bland corporate costume you bedrudgingly threw on that morning. Maybe it’s kind of sad, but that’s the best entertainment I get all day.
People are different, though. We all have different schedules, responsibilities and distractions swirling around our heads. We have diverse needs and communication abilities as well. So it’s no surprise that there are so many various types of gchatters. How many, you ask? Did I take the time to categorize them and compile a list one day while stuck on a teleconference that really had nothing to do with me? Maybe I did. And maybe now you have something to read as you multitask between facebooking and pretending to give a shit about your job…
The Ghost – I IMed you three hours ago and you still haven’t responded, even though your status never went idle (yeah, I noticed, that’s what it’s there for). Do you have me on the pay-no-mind list? Did you die at your desk and your twitching rigormortis-stricken hand just keeps moving the mouse to fool your friends into thinking you’re still alive? I know, I know, you’re furiously firing off emails and other such banalities that are paramount to your career. Seriously though, everyone has a few a minutes in their to day to say hi to a friend and see how they’re doing. In some cultures, that’s how they show they care.
The Brick Wall – Hi. OK. You? Yeah. Oh. Cool… I don’t think talking to one of these ice boxes even qualifies as a conversation. I don’t know a lot of people who are completely bereft of personality – but maybe being at work just sucks it right out of you. Perhaps you’re really quite interesting and have fascinating stories and opinions in real life, but you’re just illiterate or can’t type well. No no, I understand. You’re busy. If you don’t even have the time to formulate full sentences or share a complete thought, maybe you should cut the bullshit and go handle your business. I don’t want to tell you how to be a better slave or anything, it’s just an idea.
The Cliffhanger – You could be the greatest storyteller ever, if you could just finish a god damn story. You escaped from the whore house brawl, stole the cop car, chased by thugs, you jumped from the speeding vehicle, hid in the bushes, then suddenly…. Ten minutes go by, twenty minutes, your name turns idle, you get logged off… What happened? Did the thugs catch you as you were finishing that sentence? No warning, no “hey, I’ll be right back, sorry.” I don’t hear from you again for two days and when I finally do, you don’t even have the decency to finish the story! In the meantime, I broke three office chairs from hanging on the edge of them for so long. It’s not just the stories, either. It happens during just about every conversation we have online. They never end, you just disappear as if we weren’t even talking. Imagine if we were having a discussion in person, and right as you were about to make a point, I turned around and walked away…
The Emo Queen – God, life is SO hard, isn’t it? Shit, I pat myself on the back just for getting out of bed in the morning. But once I’m caffeinated and showered, I lose the morose attitude and brighten up quite a bit. After all, it’s just life – no big deal. Then I get an IM that goes something like, “Kill me pleeaaaase, my mom said my green shirt is uglyyyyy. I want to dieeee.” Wow. Relax, sweetheart. Don’t kill yourself just because your mom is a shallow bitch and you have no taste… my mom points out that I’m losing my hair all the time. You want to know why I’m losing it? Because of her. That’s no reason to cry. Check my wrists – no scars, Ma! So get over yourself, throw a sweater over that tragedy, and make your mom happy for a change. Try doing it with a smile – it’s easier than you’re making it.
Tracy- The Perfect Gchatter (she put me up to it, I swear) – How am I? Well besides choking on my tea from disbelief, I’m great! Thanks for taking the time to ask. Oh and you have an interesting anecdote, follow up commentary, and a warm, positive outlook? Holy cow, it’s almost like there’s a human being on the other end of this electric window! Perfect gchatter, I know your name isn’t always Tracy, but I am always happy to hear from you. Hell I might even stop what I was doing just to say I miss you and make plans to hang out. Then, when all that show of emotion is done, we’ll actually bid each other farewell before getting back to the insanity of corporate life. I’ll do it with a smile on my face, because my day has just been MADE – you can bet your sweet ass on that.
I could go on for days, I’m sure. But in the interest of time and space, I’ll wrap this up. Let’s be real, nobody is perfect. We’re all different. I’m guilty of being all those characters at some point or another (and so is Tracy, but don’t tell her I said so). My only goal here is to poke fun and make people aware of how they come across when they’re click clacking with their buddies. Next time you’re escaping the monotony of your work day, just remember that’s a real live person you’re talking to – probably a friend. So act like it. lol. omg. asl? gtfohwts.
Back to life…
Posted on: April 22, 2011
Ya…
So…
Apparently, when you don’t write something for 20+ days, people go ape shit crazy, start questioning your morals and integrity (jokes on them!), and lose any glimmer of hope in the definition of “commitment.” I get it. I do. I’m the asshole. I told you wonderful people that I would be posting on a regular basis, and I’ve slightly dropped the ball in keeping you entertained. Ok, ok….OK! I beyond dropped the ball. I slashed the ball with a machete, doused it in gasoline, and threw it in my bbq at Coachella (I mean, you can’t eat raw hamburgers…) With the explanation always comes the excuse, and boy do I have a good one: life. Life, you say? Yes. Believe it or not, I have a life. People actually enjoy my presence from time to time and really, who am I to judge them. It’s a phenomenon I have yet to fully understand, but in the last 20+ days, I have been busy fully embracing life. And life, well…life punched me in the face with a cold, gave me a 103 temperature, hacking cough, and snot faucet nose. Thanks, life. Really.
And, with that……I’m following up the last, slightly too awesome post with one about Tyler Perry (there go our 4 readers, Duke, sorry…).
AND WHAT? I was in the gifted class throughout 8th grade. We were elite. We always beat those regular kids in spelling bees (I’d specifically call myself out on those wins, but with last weekend’s conversation with my elementary school teacher, apparently I didn’t win first place in 5th OR 6th. At the time of hearing this, my world entirely slightly fell apart. But, talking about it makes it ok, or something? I didn’t need to win every spelling bee. My future children will still like me. Right? Whatevs- the regular kids didn’t even place. I have enough room in my purse to hold that grudge. You know, not EVERY child makes it into that program.) I can wow your mind-holes with a post on Tyler Fucking Perry.
I can admit to not knowing enough about Tyler Perry to flagrantly judge him; but judge I will. There’s more than enough judging to go around in this blog, and why not judge Emmitt Perry Jr?
Wait. Who?
Yep. Emmitt Perry Jr is in fact Tyler fucking Perry.
And where do we go when searching for understanding, knowledge, or random facts on Chernobyl? Wikipedia, of course. And WHAT a Wikipedia HE has! Tyler’s early life is too incredibly emotional and somber for me to discuss, and even had me contemplating switching topics. Nobody enjoys a rant on some guy with a sordid history; but, like any good writer/actor/porn star: the show must go on.
I have one nine hundred burning questions in my mind: At what point did America collectively say “We need more movies about men in dresses”? At what point did we think to need not one sequel or two about a man wearing a dress and acting like some form of grandmother/dear abby/every neighbor you hate, but SEVEN sequels?? At what point were we dumbed down enough to pay $10+ to see a character scream “hallalujER”? I’ll admit to never seeing anything Madea related, but how did Mr. Perry become one of the highest paid directors of our time….all while looking like this:
and this:
Now, I am ALL about making money (mainly because my bank laughs at my bi-weekly direct deposit and I’m contemplating ebay-ing my mexican turtle collection to fill my gas tank for the month (it’s a REALLY good collection)), but one has to question what lengths one will go through to obtain such paychecks, all while keeping some shred of dignity intact. Sure, Mr. Perry is a self made gazillionaire- but I can’t help to pity the stereotypes he perpetuates to attain it. And now for some IMDB love:
At long last, Madea returns to the big screen in TYLER PERRY’S MADEA GOES TO JAIL. This time America’s favorite irreverent, pistol-packin’ grandmomma is raising hell behind bars and lobbying for her freedom…Hallelujer!
After a high-speed freeway chase puts Madea (TYLER PERRY) in front of the judge, her reprieve is short-lived as anger management issues get the best of her and land her in jail. A gleeful Joe (TYLER PERRY) couldn’t be happier at Madea’s misfortune. But Madea’s eccentric family members the Browns (DAVID and TAMALA MANN) rally behind her, lending their special “country” brand of support.
Meanwhile, Assistant District Attorney Joshua Hardaway (DEREK LUKE) is on the fast track to career success. But Hardaway lands a case too personal to handle – defending young prostitute and former drug addict Candace Washington (KEISHA KNIGHT PULLIAM) – and asks his fiancée and fellow ADA Linda Holmes (ION OVERMAN) to fill in on his behalf. When Candace ends up in jail, Madea befriends the young woman, protecting her in a “motherly” way as only Madea can.
Really. High speed freeway chases. Prostitutes. What exactly is “country” brand of support? Is that better or worse than good ol fashion…support?
Isn’t anyone mad about this? Is it just me, the bored little white girl who has a problem with blockbuster movies titled “Madea Goes to Jail” and “I Can Do Bad All By Myself” and…..Oh god. I just got racial. Stop the presses. Everyone breathe for a minute- we’re gonna get through this together. Look, Spike Lee is on my team:
“”Each artist should be allowed to pursue their artistic endeavors, but I still think there is a lot of stuff out today that is coonery and buffoonery. I know it’s making a lot of money and breaking records, but we can do better … I see these two ads for these two shows (“Meet The Browns”,”House of Payne”) …. and I am scratching my head,” he said. “We got a black president, and we going back to Mantan Moreland and Sleep ‘n’ Eat?”
I’m almost positive Spike feels the same way about Mr. Martin Lawrence. Remember that guy? Remember Def Comedy Jams, Martin, or Bad Boys? HUMOR! ENTERTAINMENT! Well, “Daaaamn Gina” is now running around in a dress and a fat suit and who do we have to thank for that? No…not Will Smith- Would we ever catch him in Women In Black? (The answer is no- stop thinking about it) This is entirely Tyler Emmitt Perry’s fault.
Ultimately Tyler, you are doing bad all by yourself (see what I did there!) You have the money and power, you know the right people and you’ve made your name in the industry; so maybe it’s time to stop dumbing us down and maybe we should start questioning your actual writing abilities. See, with this somewhat new found success and status as Oprah’s bff, I expect more out of you. If and when you decide to make a movie that doesn’t involve glamorizing every negative stereotype ever created; I may change my opinion on your wasted talents. Until then, and I’ll use your words: “Put the shut to the up, okay?”
Hold the Glimmer 