Unapologetically Mundane » good times at everyone else’s expense

Steve Jobs Makes My Ears Hurt

katie ett — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 15:00:19 +0000

The only sad part about Steve Jobs being dead is that now I’ll never get to tell him personally how awful the iPod earbuds are.

Seriously, is there anyone out there who regularly uses his or her iPod or iPhone and hasn’t bought separate in-ear earbuds for it? And if you haven’t, is it only because you’re cheap and don’t believe that you should have to purchase new ones when you already paid for the sucky ones that come with every Apple purchase?

Kamran bought me some of the in-ear ones a couple of years ago, and the moment I put them in, I was like, “HOW HAVE I SPENT THE LAST THREE YEARS IN MISERY WHEN THESE EXIST?” Because the Apple earbuds are miserable. When my earbuds from Kamran started only half-functioning last week, I pulled the crappy Apple ones out of my old Nano box–I had clearly hung onto them because I anticipated wanting to punish myself for something later in life (maybe this post?)–and was immediately reminded that they almost seem engineered to suck.

Not only are they way too huge for my delicate, feminine ears, but because they don’t actually fill my ear canal, I now have to actually, like, hear children talking about the nonsense they always do to their parents on the bus. I had to listen to a kid complaining about wanting her hair brushed for TEN ENTIRE MINUTES the other day. Why are you not brushing your kid’s hair, mothers? And why are you letting them audibly complain about it during my morning rush hour commute? AND WHY DID YOU THINK THE WORLD NEEDED YOUR SPAWN IN IT IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Anyway.

Apple earbuds are the very worst, and here are ten much better alternatives I found in five minutes of Googling:

bullets

Jelly Bellys

rubber ducks, which Tracey bought for me, because rubber ducks are of course my favourite animal

I win this one, Jobs.

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The One in Which I Lose the Two Black Friends I Have

plumpdumpling — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 16:00:14 +0000

A salon in Downtown Brooklyn:

So, then, what is white elegance? Is it too racist if I say “spelling things correctly”?

Accidental Racism is Probably Still Racism

plumpdumpling — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 16:00:57 +0000

Sometimes I pass the one black lady with natural hair on our floor at work and think about that sign I put up that one time on the bathroom door about going to stall #4 “if you want to see the longest pube ever” before I knew there was a long history of black people’s hair being compared to pubes, and even though it could’ve totally actually been a pube, it probably was her hair, and she never says hi back when I say hi, and I kind of understand why.

Cover Up That Caesarean Scar, Fatty

plumpdumpling — Thu, 12 May 2011 16:00:09 +0000

I’ve never worn a bikini. I burst forth from my mother’s womb at 145 pounds, already wearing footie pajamas to hide my shame, so my beach attire has always included one-pieces and t-shirts. Well, my friends and I are soon going back to the Hamptons beach house we rented last year, and I’ve been actively searching again for the perfect swimsuit after last year’s tankini disaster at Laguna Beach.

I think I finally did find a suit that I’ll like, but more importantly, I was reminded that everyone else likes the wrong suit. For reference, here is the only person who should be wearing a bikini:

I don’t mean to be anti-feminist here, but seriously, if you don’t look like that, why are you wearing one?

Do you just looooove the way the water feels on your stomach? Hey, guess what; water actually soaks through swimsuits right to your skin!

Were you hoping for some awesome bikini tan lines? TAN LINES ARE NOT SEXY.

I imagine you’re not doing it to show off your love handles or the fact that no amount of padding will give you sideboobs.

And I kind of doubt you want people noticing that your midsection’s shaped less like an hourglass and more like one of those fat pencils we used to use in kindergarten.

You know what hides love handles, weird foam padding, and your giant potbelly that sort of reminds one of a poisonous growth on a treetrunk?

ONE-PIECES! For me, even models look better in them:

I guess I’d just rather see less and imagine perfection than to be assaulted by how imperfect everything is. And don’t try to tell me that imperfections are beautiful, you bikini-wearing sap.

This is Why I’m Not Beloved in the Scrapbooking Community

plumpdumpling — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 16:00:10 +0000

When I was home at the beginning of the month, my best friend, Tracey, showed me her Project Life scrapbook. Designed by Becky Higgins to be used without a bunch of extra supplies, it’s about the most ingenious thing I’ve seen for the lazy cropper. You supply the pictures and the words, and the kit supplies the book, pocketed inserts for holding everything, journaling cards, and embellishments so you end up with effortless little pages like this:

Sorry, person I stole this layout from! I don’t remember who you were!

And it just so happens that the Amber Edition of the kit is covered with the brocade pattern I love so much!

Now, I’d usually write about the kit on our scrapbooking/cardmaking/general pretty things blog, but I have to tell this aside. See, Tracey’s taking a picture a day for hers, which seems like a great way to go for me, since I sometimes forget to document the everyday-to-me but totally-interesting-in-the-greater-scheme-of-things stuff here in NYC.

Well, I got off the bus near Kamran’s apartment the other day, and right in front of me was a little person! And I don’t mean a child, because you know I don’t consider children people, but a tiny adult in a well-appointed miniature trench coat and rain boots. I wanted to take her picture so badly, because there wasn’t a chance I was going to see anything cooler that day, but I realized there’s no quicker way to get yourself called an asshole than to snap a picture of a dwarf behind her back.

I thought, “Maybe I can use my extremely long and graceful normal-sized legs to catch up with her and ask to pose for me!” But then I realized that wouldn’t work either, because you know there’s not a chance I could’ve spoken to her in anything other than a baby voice.

So I played it safe and took a picture of myself instead. The only thing dwarfish about me is my sense of tact.

Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist (and I’m a Lot)

plumpdumpling — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 17:00:52 +0000

One of the great things about my Twitter platform of choice, TweetDeck, is that it has a column that shows what the popular tweeting topics on Twitter as a whole are. TweetDeck supplies the hashtags, and users are supposed to write explanations of why they’re trending.

And while I know that racism hurts people and that all of the African-American females I know are incredibly well-educated, I really got tickled by the poor grammar in this one:

Sorry, black friends! I’m donating to the NAACP to make up for it as we speak.

Not to Suck Up to You or Anything

plumpdumpling — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 16:00:15 +0000

Sometimes I’ll read a very funny blog post and see that it has 0 comments and think, “I am going to comment on this pathetic person’s very funny blog post so she’ll feel encouraged to keep blogging despite the fact that not a single person is reading her.”

And then I’ll click on the individual post, and there’ll actually be 1153 comments, so many that the blog author didn’t think it necessary to advertise them all over the main page. And then I’ll feel like the pathetic one, because my last blog post will have gotten 6 comments.

But then I’ll start to read the comments, and the first one is inevitably

and the two that follow are

and

And suddenly I’ll feel really good about my 6 comments and the fact that they’re always thoughtful and usually more clever than the actual post itself. I say usually so you won’t get a bunch of big heads.

Thanks, guys, for reading and for writing and for being awesome. Especially the being awesome part.

My Doctor Don’t Know CPR, but He Knows How to Treat Me Right (Eventually)

plumpdumpling — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 16:00:33 +0000

I step onto one of the elevators in Kamran’s building on Friday after work, and a guy in blue scrubs comes in after me. To me, his matching cotton uniform means the guy is too lazy to own real clothes, but I understand that the rest of the world assumes he’s some sort of “medical professional”. This woman slips in just as the doors are closing, so they open back up, and the three of us stand there awkward and silent while we wait for them to close again, because it’s super-rare for someone to talk to you in an elevator in NYC, no matter how cheerfully you smile at them as they enter.

She’s about my age. (Maybe a little older, because people my age can’t afford to live in Kamran’s building unless they have really morally-inexcusable jobs on Wall Street, or at least that’s what I tell myself as I return to my Brooklyn hovel.) She’s wearing a navy blue shift dress that looks expensive, she’s covered in chunky jewelry that looks expensive, and all of the bags on her arm are from expensive stores. I see her slyly eying the guy in the scrubs, and I think about how she probably thinks she’s really hot and deserves to date this spiky-haired dental hygienist posing as a doctor.

So we get to her floor first, and she makes this production of tossing her long blonde hair and holding her bags in her krelbows in that way women always do in movies when they’ve just finished a shopping spree with their friends and are now going to brunch at an outdoor cafe to drink mimosas and laugh at things not even they actually think are funny. She bounces off the elevator, the whatever-he-is looks after her, and for a moment, you know the two of them are totally mind-jerking-off about one another. But just before she’s out of sight, she loses her grip on her very long umbrella, and it gets caught on her I-swear-they-were-patchwork heels. She trips and almost falls down but catches herself, and I almost laugh out loud but catch myself.

And usually, this is where I would accidentally do the same thing six floors later, but I didn’t need to be all bumbling in front of this guy, because I had my own doctor waiting for me at home.

Or, well, he came home from work, like, 4 hours later. But I still felt awfully superior sitting alone in his apartment eating homemade frosting.

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Dumpy Butt

plumpdumpling — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 16:30:50 +0000

I don’t mean to jab at anyone’s sense of style, because I live in granny sweaters, but I spent a lot of my time in NYC thinking, “It is so sad that she spent so much time and effort to look like that.”

Most interesting designs, I think, look wonderful in theory and terrible in practice.

But even I surprise myself sometimes with the things I like these days. Like t-straps and saddle shoes, which my mom used to force me into against my will when I was kid.

Even lately, I’ve found myself not totally hating the idea of things like harem pants, which appeared in jumpsuit form in this season of “Project Runway”, looked pretty amazing, and won a challenge to end up on a Time Square billboard:

photo by Modelinia

But last night, on my way to the subway, I walked behind this girl, who proved my “terrible in practice” theory:

But I applaud her for trying.

Thuh

plumpdumpling — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 16:00:24 +0000

One of my office pet peeves is when people call me and end the conversation with, “What did you say your name was again?”

It’s always after I’ve been super-unhelpful and/or snarky with the person, because he’s always a telemarketer. I’ll say, “Oh, we don’t have an IT department in this office,” and he’ll say, “Well, where is it?”, and I’ll say, “At your mom’s house.”

And then he’ll say, “What did you say your name was again?”, and of course I haven’t given my name, so I’ll say, “The. Office. Manager.” And I’ll pronounce the like thuh to make him feel stupid.

He actually probably thinks I’m retarded, but I’m okay with that.

I Was Making Fun of Her Behind Her Back, If That Helps

plumpdumpling — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 16:00:08 +0000

I was making fun of a co-worker this morning for having something from a company called Model in a Bottle Inc. delivered to the office.

And then the mailman showed up with my Frederick’s of Hollywood package.

I still contend that mine is less embarrassing.

The Best Thing About “Eclipse” (and the Most Annoying)

plumpdumpling — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 16:00:07 +0000

I was surprised to learn, upon reading them, that though the writing is as awful as I would’ve imagined, the plot of the Twilight series is actually pretty clever. Unlike, say, “Lost”, all of the loose ends eventually tie up, and the things you never thought would matter suddenly do. There are no red herrings nor MacGuffins in them.

Yet they still totally annoy me simply because their author, Stephenie Meyer, has to thank the band Muse in each of them. In all of the novels’ afterwords, right alongside appreciation of her editor and agent, she’ll say things like, “And thanks also to my favourite band, the very aptly named Muse, for providing a saga’s worth of inspiration.” And then I will claw her eyes out.

It’s not even that I don’t like Muse. I actually really liked them in NINETEEN-NINETY-NINE when I was listening to them. But I just can’t handle some kids’-book-writin’, middle-aged Mormon thinking she’s all cool for liking one pop-alt band. It’s like moviestars thinking anyone cares about their political activism. And you know she’s just doing it in some used-to-be-unpopular girl’s attempt to befriend the band she loves.

I went to see Eclipse last night with my friend Ash, though, and aside from a couple of actually-hilarious moments, what I was surprised by most was the soundtrack. It does not suck. In fact, it includes The Bravery, the amazing Ohio band The Black Keys, and my favourite band right now, Band of Horses. And the music is used really well. The first time you see, Jacob, for instance, the camera moves in on his face as a grinding bluesy song starts, and it’s this total moment. How annoying is that?

I can console myself with the fact that I know it wasn’t Stephenie Meyer choosing the music and how it’s used, but I can still continue to hate her for all of her Muse-suck-upping. Mostly because I know I’d do exactly the same thing if I was in her shoes.

Except with a better band.

This is NEW YORK CITY, people. We have a reputation to uphold.

plumpdumpling — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 16:00:28 +0000

I swear I don’t usually judge people for their clothing choices, but a woman on the bus this morning was pretty clearly wearing a shirt made of fabric showcasing teddy bears in various positions of merrymaking at the beach:

As someone who can’t handle Disney-related clothes on adults and can barely stomach ironic hipster t-shirts covered in nature scenes such as wolves howling at the moon, I’m sort of appalled by this. I wanted to believe it was scrubs, but then I noticed she was wearing really expensive-looking pants with them. Not that having to wear scrubs is an excuse to dress like a baby.

As a side note, the woman in the black dress walking past her shows off way too much leg for an old lady every day when she sits down. Sorry, I needed to get that off my chest.

In Your FACE

plumpdumpling — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 17:00:00 +0000

Last night on 42nd Street, a girl in green velvet pants with patch pockets on the butt rushed by me, her tote bag full of Chinese paper umbrellas slamming into my messenger bag as she passed. I had purposely taken the uncrowded side of the street, so it was especially bothersome that she’d somehow apparently needed to be in the exact spot I was walking in. Two seconds later, she reached into her bag, and her yellow Vitamin Water popped out and rolled across the sidewalk. My gut reaction was to yell, “HAHA!”

Mentally ill?

The Heedless Gape

plumpdumpling — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 20:00:28 +0000

You probably know by now that I hate people who don’t conform to the sorts of etiquette rules that keep society running smoothly, such as waiting for me to leave the train before you enter and giving a friendly wave when I let you turn ahead of me in heavy traffic lest I ram my front end into your brand new BMW.

My big pet peeve as of late are people who walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk. I used to assume, to keep myself sane, that all of the people doing it were from countries where they foolishly drive on the wrong side of the road, but I eventually realized that it’s just a product of living in a city where there way too many people who think they’re too important to follow the crowd and leave space beside them for people to pass.

Kamran thinks I should give couples more leeway when it comes to taking up the entire sidewalk on some of NYC’s teeny streets, but he and I always make a single-file line when we see someone coming so as to not rub it in their face how happy we are holding hands as we walk to the grocery store and how pathetic and meaningless they are as unattached folk. But no. I do not give them more leeway. And I actually hate them more than single people on the wrong side of the sidewalk, because between the two of them, one should have the decency to move aside.

Anyway, I’ve begun implementation of a new method to combat the sidewalk-hogger. I call it The Heedless Gape. When I see someone coming at me on the wrong side of the sidewalk, I simply keep walking at my desired pace and look off into the distance as if I see something so fantastical and all-consuming that other passersby don’t even register with me. Eventually, and usually with an angry huff, the offender will move aside so I can continue on in gawking glee.

I’ve considered what will happen if ever someone refuses to get over, and I’ve decided I’ll just patiently stand my ground until the other person gives up. And you know he’ll give up before I do, because the one advantage to being a very unimportant person in a city full of important people is that I have nowhere to go.

Hey, not to make matters worse, but seriously, keep your hair off my toilet seat in the future.

plumpdumpling — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 18:35:34 +0000

You may remember that fateful day a year ago in which I went to my favourite bathroom stall at work to find

THE LARGEST PUBIC HAIR IN EXISTENCE.

Well, today, I came out of my stall, and as I was washing my hands, a black woman from the office next door walked in, half-acknowledged the hello I gave her, and went straight for the very same stall. I thought to myself about how funny it is that I always see her using that stall and how we must appreciate the same sort of conditions while doing our bizness.

And then it hit me. The largest pubic hair in existence was probably . . . the hair from her head. And if she saw that sign, she was probably offended, maybe even deeply hurt. It likely called to mind all of the years of latent racism she’s endured, all of the rage she felt when Don Imus called those girls “nappy-headed hoes”. She probably went to the back of the bus that night out of shame.

I don’t have to feel bad about it as a privileged white person, but I sort of do.

Based on the Photo, He’s Likely Also from Ohio

plumpdumpling — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 15:34:02 +0000

I received a notice from OkCupid’s QuickMatch function this morning that one of the following nine men gave me a high rating:

I looked through them, considering which is most likely to want to bang me, and decide that really, any of them would make a suitable replacement for Kamran if ever a Kamran replacement was needed.

The first guy is at a sporting event, which turns me off, but at least I know he’s likely not one of those house-bound fatties who needs to be lifted through his roof with a crane every time he needs to leave.

The seventh guy looks a little unwashed, but he’s wearing a shirt that appears to say “Iron Lung”, which means he either likes Radiohead or iron lungs in general, and either of those is fine with me.

The second guy reminds me of Randy Travis in profile, but he’s in a plane, and I appreciate a world traveler. And I’m assuming this guy is a world traveler and not an NYC-to-Ohio-and-back traveler like me.

The fourth guy isn’t even necessarily a guy, and that mask is exceedingly stupid, but it leads me to believe the person is into art, which is great, even if it’s dumb art.

And so on and so on. With all of the daydreaming I was doing about my potential relationships with the relatively normal-looking gentleman, it took me several minutes to actually process this guy:

I love the picture, because it’s one of those that keeps him from having to write a single word about himself in his profile. He has a mullet and a mustache and is CREEPILY PEERING AT YOU FROM BEHIND A BUSH. Or a tree. Whatever. The point is that you know all you need to know about him and his late night lady-watching habits from that photo alone.

Which means he’s obviously the one who chose me.

The Do-It-Yourself Public Restroom in Times Square

plumpdumpling — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 15:55:22 +0000

Last night at 8 p.m., Kamran and I exited a movie theatre in Times Square, accompanied by our friends Jack, Beth, and Nik, Jack’s friend Chris, Jack’s friend Alex from Romania, and Alex’s Romanian girlfriend, Simina. We were walking down 42nd Street, trying to decide which is scarier: the flesh-sucking monsters we’d just seen in Zombieland or NYC tourists. Mid-conversation, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone bent over with liquid spilling all over her legs and the ground. She was out in the street, facing traffic, with her back to the sidewalk we were on, and I just assumed she was vomiting. She had wavy, shoulder-length black hair and a black suit jacket on. Her bottom half was nude-colored, but I just assumed she was wearing peach leggings. I couldn’t imagine a middle-aged woman wearing leggings without a long shirt covering them, but that seemed much more likely than what was actually happening, which was that

THE WOMAN HAD HER PANTS DOWN AND WAS PEEING
IN THE STREET.

In Times Square. Which, if you’ve never seen it, is basically the center of the world. We’re talking thousands of people milling around a few blocks at all hours of the day and night, with enough lights on every building to make it seem as if the sun never sets. And mostly people who don’t live in NYC, which means a woman with her pants down in the street is about the most exciting thing they’ve ever seen. Traffic was stopped right in front of her, so people in cabs had their noses pressed to the glass not two feet away from her bare bits. The lights glared off the urine clinging to her flabby backside. People stopped and pointed her out to each other, and Kamran yelled for me to get my camera out.

But it was too late. She finished, pulled her pants up, and walked into the subway unashamed.

My Lunch is of Less Value Than My Pride

plumpdumpling — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 16:00:59 +0000

Yesterday morning, I decided to bring a bag of frozen broccoli with me to work in an attempt to be a sliver more healthy. Needing a carrying vessel, I asked my boyfriend if I could use a stray Saks bag floating around his apartment and was delighted to find that it was the perfect height and depth for broccoli-toting.

As you may have noticed, I often take the bus across 42nd Street to Grand Central, because I get a thrill from having people drive me around since I barely know anyone with a car here. And also because I’m lazy. But this morning, I was feeling anxious about the end of summer and decided to walk it instead. Swinging my brand new lunch bag, I took in the sights of two businessmen stretching the backs of their suits as they embraced and the new look of the Pfizer building now that the giant photomosaics have been removed from every window. It was a great way to start the day.

But then I got to the east stairwell on the outside of Grand Central, which is very narrow for the amount of people who use it. A stream of passengers was attempting to take up the entire staircase, which just seems impossible to me. Having been raised correctly and not by savages, I just don’t have it in me to use the wrong sides of stairs, so I assume that everyone else realizes when they’re in the wrong, too.

But no, with every step, I found myself having to thwart collisions with businesspeople and babies alike.

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Hatin’ on “More to Love”

plumpdumpling — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 14:31:15 +0000

“More to Love” is my favourite/most hated show on television right now. I was torn between it and “NYC Prep” on the first Tuesday night it aired, but after watching 20 fat women cry nonstop for an hour, I knew I made the right choice, and I’ve been making it every week since.

I’m not a person who believes weight has anything to do with love. I’m not thin, and I’ve loved and been loved in return by all sorts of men, thin and not-thin themselves. (But mostly thin, because fat people are gross. (Kidding.)) These big-boned ladies all truly believe, though, that their one shot at love is this 26-year-old spike-haired real estate developer who likes to eat and doesn’t want a woman who watches her weight.

And they all cry about it throughout every episode. Their skinny friends get hit on at bars. They’ve never had serious boyfriends. They’ve never been on a single date. And there’s a reason for that.

If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you. There, I said it. Don’t blame it on men being superficial. Blame it on you being a crappy date. Unless you live in the middle of smalltown Iowa, in which case I’m a little more sympathetic, but seriously, it’s probably still your fault, especially if you’re one of those assholes who scorns Internet dating. Whenever I hear some fat chick say, “I have no idea why I’m alone!”, I want to go through a laundry list for her, because it’s always so obvious. Even the guys who are willing to look past your weight can’t deal with your jacked-up face, your total lack of humor, your junior high vocabulary, and your skank clothes.

For instance, not a single one of the women in the two episodes of “More to Love” I’ve watched has said something funny. In fact, when Luke asks each of them in turn if they’ll wear the ring that signifies their staying on the show another week, each of them in turn says, “Of course.” I’ve been waiting for even just one of them to say “bitch, please” or fake like they don’t want it only to throw their arms around him and snatch it out of his hands a second later, but they’re all so worried about losing their “one” chance for “true” love that all behave like robots. Whiny, sobbing robots.

My boyfriend called the show depressing, but I really delight in watching these pathetic women mope around. None of them are actually the least bit interested in this guy specifically, as far as I can tell, and are only interested in him being interested in them. And he’s too pleased with the opportunity to grope 20 fatties to care. I mean, MAYBE the producers are hiding the parts where Luke and the ladies have deep, meaningful conversation about politics and religion, but it seems like the most intimate information the group has about Luke is the name of his dog.

I had a long-distance relationship like this once: the guy would want to talk about how interested he was in the sinking of the Titanic every single time he called me–I mean, he really, really loved the Titanic–and I just wanted to talk about how in love we were. But I realized I was using him, whereas these girls are planning their weddings.

And the worst part is that they make absolutely none of this secret to him. They tell him that they’d pursue their music careers if only they had better images. They tell him that they’re virgins. They tell him, “You’re my first second date.” And he uses these confidings as teachable moments where he gets to build their self-confidence by calling them sexy and telling them to believe in themselves. And they cry.

It’s pretty clear that in the end, Luke’s going to pick the thinnest/prettiest girl in the house regardless of her personality, and all the other girls who were using his choosing her as sole proof that there’s hope for fat girls are going to kill themselves.

I finally asked my boyfriend why I’ve been able to find love when these women haven’t, and he said, “Because you’re not psychotic.” Win.

(Also check out Noel’s thoughts on the show.)

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Unapologetically Mundane » good times at everyone else’s expense

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