Monthly Archives: May 2012

Everything I’ve learned, I learned from ‘Dawson’s Creek’

So, “Dawson’s Creek” is now available on Netflix.

To normal people, that statement probably seems pretty benign. But to anyone (re: girls) who grew up in the ’90’s, that statement means that life outside of our couch has now become non-existent. It means we now have 128 episodes, which roughly equals out to about 5,504 minutes, (oh yeah, I did the math) of ridiculous, overly articulate, teenage angst right at our fingertips. Which means working, sleeping, eating and even breathing if it wasn’t involuntary has now taken a backseat to catching up on the lives of all those wacky Capeside kids.

I’m not proud of this. I wish I was stronger. I wish I could disentangle the show from my nostalgia and make fun of it like the rest of the world.

And I really wish I still didn’t think a 16-year-old Pacey Witter was hot.

But I’m not. And I can’t. And he still is.

The good news, however, is that even if loving this melodramatic 90’s teen soap is lame, the fact can’t be denied that pretty much everything you need to know about life is hidden somewhere within those 128 episodes.

Which is why I’d like to present the following, which I like to call the Tao of Dawson:

Oldest friendships are the best friendships. They’re also the friendships that will royally eff up every future romantic relationship you ever have should they involve someone of the opposite sex.

Aspiring filmmakers are SUPER whiny.


Sex is not something to be enjoyed. It is something to be over-analyzed, dissected, elevated to impossible heights and be a never-ending source of despair (both when you have it and when you don’t and even when you kind of have it but not really because something interrupted it).

Most mainstream ’90’s music was SUPER whiny.

Katie Holmes used to be much more humanoid.

Free-spirited blonde chicks do not fair well in life. They end up in rehab, in the looney bin or dead.

Getting drunk, especially when you’re underage, is bad but sometimes you have to do it in order to move the plot along.

It is apparently possible for a teenage boy and a teenage girl, both chockful of raging hormones, to sail around the world for three months alone and not have sex. Also, parents are totally cool with the fact their teenage son has a ladder outside his window that his female teenage best friend uses at all hours for sleepovers.


Even overzealous religious and borderline racist grandmothers can change their stripes.

If your spouse cheats on you, then you divorce them, then decide to get back together, remarry and have another kid after almost two decades after your first kid, you will die a horrible death shortly thereafter.

Being gay in a small town SUCKS.

Being clinically pyscho can be fixed in just a few weeks.

Everything that happens at age 20 is THE MOST IMPORTANT THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED AND/OR WILL EVER HAPPEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In the end, always choose the guy who ends up with his own show on network TV and not the guy who ends up as an Internet meme.

Bikini Overkill

It’s almost summer, people. And I think we all know what that means.

Sneaking out the back window every time you leave the house in order to avoid your neighbors, who are none-too-happy with the knee-high grass that you’re too lazy to mow.

But summer also means family vacation time. And just like millions of other Americans, yours truly is planning on braving overzealous TSA feeler-uppers, overcrowded airplanes where they ration our Diet Coke like you’ve landed in the middle of the desert and it’s the last drop of water in the canteen, and lost luggage you’ll get back sometime in 2014 for a week of “relaxation.”

Yes, I am heading to the gorgeous country of Panama with my family this June.

Now, for about half of the population, going on a tropical vacation brings up feelings of excitement and anticipation and elaborate fantasies of drinking beer at any and all hours of the day with absolutely no judgment.

The other half is women.

See, for women, summer vacation means hot weather and water. Hot weather and water means swimsuits and various other skimpy outfits will be required. And swimsuits and skimpy outfits means people will actually see the neglected, pale and jiggly body you’ve been pretending didn’t exist since October.

And this realization causes us women no shortage of panic attacks and lucid dreams where children run screaming from the beach at the mere sight of our gelatinous form rising out of the ocean.

Luckily, however, I have come up with a great solution to this never-ending yearly cycle of body shame. Since summer sneaks up on us every year and we as a population are world-class procrastinators, I propose that there needs to be an extra month inbetween May and June that women can use to drop those extra five (and/or 30) pounds before summer officially starts.

Sure, it sounds crazy. But just think about it. There is never enough time to lose weight before summer. We may start to think about it in March, but hey, we’re busy and all that leftover Valentine’s Day candy isn’t going to eat itself. By April, we know we really should start exercising and eating healthier, but hey, all that leftover Easter candy isn’t going to eat itself. And by May, well, the first half of the month we can’t even remember thanks to Cinco de Mayo and suddenly BOOM.

It’s summer.

So, this new month will be called Desperatember and these new 31 days will be dedicated solely to getting us back in shape. There will be no holidays during this new month, since holidays almost always lead to eating your own weight in ham. Work will be kept to a minimum, since stress leads to inhaling a Snickers bar through your tears while hiding in a bathroom stall. And all fitness centers will be free for anyone who doesn’t look like they belong in a fitness center commercial.

Now, you may be thinking “But Aprill, if we have an extra month, won’t that just mess up the calendar? And wouldn’t Desperatember still just essentially be June?”

To that, I say “Well, aren’t you just a Mr. Clever Pants” in an extremely snarky voice. Followed by “Shut up. I hate you.”

Because if we can make Pluto a planet and then cruelly rip that distinction back away from it, if we can claim a tomato is a fruit when it so obviously belongs in the “tastes icky by itself” vegetable category, and if we collectively have resisted the urge to assassinate Kim Kardashian thus far, then we as a society can create a new month.

So let’s make this happen, people. Because with the help of Desperatember, women will no longer have to hang out on the beach clinging to their towel, oversized 80’s T-shirt or old Halloween ghost costume like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

And maybe even…GASP…start to enjoy ourselves on vacation.

10 Reasons Why Whatever You Got Your Mom For Mother’s Day Isn’t Good Enough

1. You puked on her. Repeatedly. And I guarantee that at least once, she managed to catch your vomit in her bare hands when you got sick in public.

2. That gerbil/bunny/kitty/puppy/fish/hamster/bird/ferret you just couldn’t LIVE without? She’s the reason it didn’t die within three days.

3. No matter how hard Dad or anybody else tried, they could never make your favorite meal quite like she did (and probably still does every time you come home).

4. She gave up cigarettes, booze and caffeine for nine months (OK, fine, 7 and 1/2 months) for your ass.

5. You were a teenager at one point. ‘Nuff said.

6. She went to every single one of your extracurricular activities. Every. Single. One. Even when you were the third carrot on the right and had no lines.

7. You made trying to take a decent family photo sheer hell. Which is why she had to send out the same photo every Christmas for SEVEN years.

8. On average, you have almost accidentally killed yourself approximately five times a day ever since you first learned to crawl (remember the Great Firework Disaster of ’87?). You’re the reason why people say “your mom used to be so pretty.”

9. When she said “this will hurt me more than it hurts you” in regards to shots, vaccines, and pouring alcohol over boo-boo knees, she was telling the truth.

10. After hours of agonizing pain, she PUSHED you and your giant HEAD out of her vagina.

Now cancel that stupid-ass basket made of fruit shaped to look like flowers and go get her something better.

Something MUCH better.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

Owning a dog has a lot of benefits. For instance, you will always know the precise moment the mail comes. You are always well aware of just how good your human food smells considering it has compelled your dog to crawl, military-style, across the floor until they are steathily hidden underneath the table. And you will always know ahead of time the answer to the question “What’s that smell?”

But perhaps most importantly, owning a dog, at least in my case, has alerted me to the very important fact that I don’t live in a quiet, little neighborhood like I thought. Oh, no. I apparently live in a place teeming with dangerous, unsavory characters. Specifically, characters of the feline variety.

Yes, there is a gang of cats residing on my street, threatening the peace and quiet with all their menacing aloofness. And every single time I take my dog, Buffy, outside, a turf war explodes. For instance, yesterday we were walking to the park when suddenly Buffy turned into a bug-eyed, frothing-at-the-mouth lunatic and the following confrontation took place:

Buffy: “Bark Bark!”

Random cat: “Hissssssss…”

Buffy: “Barkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbark!”

Random cat: “Hisssssssss…”


Random cat: …*saunters off unnecessarily slow*

This exchange, roughly translated, goes something like this:

Buffy: “I see you! Come here! I want to chew on your head.”

Random cat: “You come here, [BAD WORD]. I dare you.”

Buffy: “AH! I hate you! I’m going to eat your face off!”

Random cat: “Good [VERY BAD WORD] luck with that, mouth-breather. P.S. Nice leash, loser.”


Random cat: “Bored now.”

It’s a well-documented fact that dogs and cats don’t get along, no matter how many “puppy and kitten cuddling” Internet memes pop up on Facebook. But what I want to know is, when did this war start? How far back does it go? And what is the main beef these two have with each other?

Did it all start with Noah’s Ark? Did maybe being in such close quarters for so long cause a dog and cat to get to know each other in the “Biblical” sense, thus resulting in an offspring abomination now known as the Chihuahua and the two species have been fighting out of shame and guilt ever since?

Or is it simply idealogical differences? That cats don’t view themselves as pets so much as captives and so they are contiually plotting an insurrection against humans, which the dogs are constantly thwarting because they love being pets and having their main responsibilities be eating, sleeping and pooping?

Or is it perhaps more of a Hatfield-McCoy feud? Some hillbilly dog drunk on moonshine killed some hillbilly cat and then the cat’s relatives retaliated, killing that dog’s uncle brother and so on and so on and the current hostilities stem from that?

Alas, we mere humans will probably never know the answer. That is, unless the cats are finally successful with their revolution and we suddenly find ourselves being forced to wear sparkly collars and make boom-boom in a sandbox.

Dothraki horseloaf with a side of wine. Lots of wine.

Guys. No…seriously. Guys. Stop whatever it is you’re doing right now (except, of course, for reading this blog…keep doing that…but put down your simultaneous game of Angry Birds on your phone and your unlicensed repinning of other people’s work on your iPad).


There is not one, not two, but…oh, wait…OK, no, just two (but still…TWO) “Game of Thrones” cookbooks.

Now, for you non-Song of Ice and Fire fans (or as we hardcore fans refer to you, Total Mega-Asshats), this may not seem a very big deal. But trust me, it is. Those of us who have devoted a good portion of our lives to reading these novels, which are 1,000 plus pages each, have nothing much to do until the sixth book comes out other than watch the HBO series with friends and lord it over their heads that we already know what’s going to happen in the next episode.

And since it takes the author, George R.R. Martin, approximately eleventy-billion years to finish a goddamn book, it doesn’t look like we’ll have anything to look forward to for quite awhile.

That is, until now. Already, the “unofficial” Unofficial Game of Thrones Cookbook has been published by some clever opportunist and this June, the Martin-approved “official” Official Game of Thrones Cookbook will be released.

Now, I don’t know what any of the recipes are but judging from what I remember about the books, you can probably expect things like:

Arya’s Roadkill Pigeon Pie

Khaleesi’s Krazy Kasserole

LittleFinger’s Lady Fingers with Raspberry Sauce

Jon’s SnoCones

Bran’s Handicapable Halibut

Hodor’s Hodor with a side of Hodor

Cersei’s Incestuous Cinnamon Buns

And the best news is, even if these recipes suck, no worries. Because you’ll probably be too wasted from wine and beer (which is featured prominently about every two pages or so) to care.

So, honey, if you’re reading this (and I know you will eventually simply because you’ll get tired of me repeatedly asking “Hey, did you read my latest blog post yet?”) prepare your palette for some delicious Dothraki horseloaf.