From the monthly archives:

November 2009

Holidaze

by Scarlett on November 27, 2009 · Comments

I hope you all had a magically delicious Thanksgiving! Mine was stuff’d with fun, food and frivolity as always – although this year it was punctuated by my step-dad’s insistence that I watch an episode of Stripperella, which he kept manipulating on the DVR amidst chuckles of glee. “Look, honey – she’s has a pole between her legs!” (See, prudes and naysayers? The dirty mind and “punny” sense of humor runs in the family, honestly!)

I haven’t yet decided if Stripperella is a stroke of cheesy, dirty brilliance or just plain awful, and you kind of have to take a pause for thought on this one, since Stan Lee is the creator. But if you’d like a glimpse of how ridiculous this show is, not only was Pamela Anderson providing the voice of Stripperella, but in this particular episode, Pamela Anderson shows up as a character, and the two proceed to have a conversation. I’m pretty sure I lost a few brain cells somewhere between that exchange and the introduction of the evil Queen Clitoris who lives on a pussy-shaped, “crab” infested island. I know, I know! On one hand, I’m jealous that I’m not the one who conceptualized this hot mess, and on the other hand, I feel so dirty and violated that I kind of want to take a mile long swim in a pool filled with hand sanitizer. It sure did make for an interesting Thanksgiving though!

And today we have the phenomenon known as Black Friday, which marks the frantic countdown to the gift-giving holiday season, and every retail worker’s ultimate nightmare. I vividly remember my first, last, and only Black Friday experience ten years ago, working at The Earth Shop in the local mall. What the hell is an Earth Shop, you ask? Well … Mix the “New Age” book section from Borders with the headache-inducing smellables from Yankee Candles; add in the weird gift items from Spencer’s and Hot Topic (minus the bawdy sense of humor and the emo/goth vibe); toss around some racks of nondescript jewelry and clothing items, and the most irritatingly noisy wind chimes in existence; don’t forget the perpetually leaking water fountains and the bins of polished rocks for the rugrats to steal (because it’s soooooo bad-ass to palm a piece of amethyst). But look beyond the vaguely metaphysical tchotchkes, and you’d discover that it was all a ruse – a flim-flam operation with the sole intention of hiding our owner’s true source of income … A practice so vile, so loathsome, it caused me to break out in a fever any time a customer deigned to utter those five ugly words:

“Got any new Beanie Babies?!”

Yes, I aided and abetted in the evil that was the Beanie Baby craze of the ’90s. *Hangs head in shame* I needed a job, man! I was paying my own way through college, and I had no car at the time so my only option was the shopping mall because it was within walking distance of my house, and all the other jobs were taken, and … and …

Well, it was better than whoring mah body for extra ducats. Just barely.

Other than dealing with the rabid soccer moms who literally clung to the metal security fences in fevered anticipation of the latest arrivals, it made for an interesting choice of employment. I looked forward to daily sexual harassment from the guys at the Verizon booth (seriously, is it on the job description that you simply must be a douche to hawk cell phones?) and I had regular exchanges with customers about the quality of my aura, the flow of my chi, and whether or not I had recently cleared my chakras. (For once, those are not sexual innuendos!)

But then Black Friday came around, and it was like a perfect storm. Imagine sale-starved, Beanie-ravenous mothers with the grizzle of 10 hours of Thanksgiving prep still clinging to their fingernails. Aging hippies swathed in tie-dye and hemp, hovered protectively around the Nag Champa. An endless succession of frightened looking men purchasing chimes and fountains for their mothers-in-law. You couldn’t eat or pee for your entire shift – you were rooted to the spot, ringing up everything from CDs with titles like “Christmas with Cannibals!” to woven tapestries featuring menacing wolves and stoned polar bears. Rawr!

I think that’s the day that I vowed to avoid holiday shopping at all costs, relying instead on the internet – which has been both a boon and the bane of my existence, as it’s far too easy to let your fingers do the walkin’ and your credit cards do the talkin’. This year I’m tapped out to the max, which is pretty saddening since I’ve always enjoyed gift-giving with friends and loved ones. I’ve also noticed that the older you get, the less magic and excitement the holiday season seems to offer. This has been a downward trend since my childhood though. I remember an exchange I had in the car with my father at 8 years old:

“Dad, Santa is a LIE!” My eyes snapped with anger and my chest was puffed out in passionate frustration.

“Santa is real,” Dad replied, his eyes shifting to look at my 4 year old brother in the rear-view mirror. I took a deep breath to mount my debate.

“Then why does he have your handwriting? And why does he only like yucky oatmeal raisin cookies?” My excitement rose as I readied myself for my final piece of incriminating evidence. “And WHY doesn’t he bring me my COMPUTER so I can play OREGON TRAIL?!?!”

Dad signed wearily. “Santa’s real, okay? I promise.”

I huffed with indignation at the unsatisfactory reply. “I’m going to write this day down in my diary, and when I find out Santa’s a lie, I’m totally going to show it to you and then you’ll be sorry!”

… Which I never actually did – and I never did get my Apple IIe. Stupid, bearded, North Pole dwelling master of FAIL!

But I digress. And if I may get all melty and sentimental for a moment, the last few days have been a really sweet reminder that even if your wallet is empty, your life can still be full and rich with awesome people. So to everyone on the TSE forums, my friends on Facebook and Twitter, and those of you who’ve been kind enough to read my rambles here, I ♥ you n’ stuff!

Relax – I meant in a non-sexual way. Mostly.

{ 19 comments }

Nude Moon

by Scarlett on November 22, 2009 · Comments

in Scarlett on Films

Obvious joke is obvious!

New Moon … Oh dear god. It was brutal in it’s sheer atrociousness. Other than the gratuitously half-naked underaged boys, this film had absolutely no substance – and yet, it’s shattering box office records faster than a sparkly bloodsucker with a whore-wolf on its tail. Sadly, this only serves to confirm that Stephenie Meyer’s laughable “vampires” are sucking the fragile brain cells from the minds of girls and women everywhere who have been seduced by its pathetic tragedy. But why?

Do they relate to the emo desperation of Bella, who is both maddeningly needy and ruthlessly manipulative? She reminds me so much of the girls I went to school with in the 90’s – the ones who slunked in the corners of the cafeteria, hiding their bony bodies under epic layers of grungy flannel, listening to Pearl Jam on their discmans while they secretly cut themselves with plastic knives. Now there’s a role model! Or is it Edward, the enigmatic, mysterious, “impossibly gorgeous” vampire who quotes Shakespeare with a constipated grimace because he’s so deep? Sounds appealing on the surface, but let’s look a bit deeper. Not only is he physically abusive, but he abandons Bella in the woods, when he knows she’ll fruitlessly chase after him, likely getting herself lost. He’s perpetually PMS’ing for one reason or another, and he claims to have no soul … Or a damned soul … Or something. Oh, and his penis is so lethal that if he sticks in it you, you’re dead – which means he’s essentially a walking STD. Say it with me, kids: “I’d hit that!”

And then there’s Jacob, an ambiguously Native American kid who’s the epitome of the “nice guy who finishes last” – until he finally mans up and becomes a werewolf. And yet, despite having spontaneously grown a pair of pecs that look like honey baked hams, he still doesn’t get the girl. Best line of the movie, as quoth by Bella to a (perpetually shirtless) Jacob, as he’s begging her to stay: “Don’t make me choose …” (Looks back at Edward) “Because it will be him.”

CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNT! I hope Jacob develops a sexual fixation with your rapidly aging daughter someday.

… Oh wait, that actually happens later in the series. Have I mentioned that Stephenie Meyer is seriously fucked up?

The abs that launched a thousand tween-gasms.

I really don’t know what else to say, except that there’s virtually nothing redemptive in this film – and unless endless scenes of Taylor Lautner’s steroided upper-body sounds appealing, you’ll be frantically grasping for something to huff so you can be put out of your misery. There’s unintentional humor, sure – but is it worth your $10? 2012 would definitely be a better choice if you want to be amused and moderately entertained. And don’t forget having to put up with the legions of Twitards, who are as loathsome as you might expect. Actually, that reminds me – my favorite part of this whole experience was after the movie, when some dude drove past a gaggle of swooning New Moon attendees, rolled down his window, hurled his soda cup at one of their heads, and drove off. EPIC!

So that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. This movie blows, and there are at least TWO more to suffer through. Curses! Next time, remind me to bring a vibrating touch. At least I’ll get something productive done with my time. ;-)

{ 20 comments }

Good Vibrations

by Scarlett on November 17, 2009 · Comments

in Talk Sex with Scarlett

I have a confession to make. I have a serious fondness for late night infomercials. This is something that was spawned in my youth when my brother and I used to sneak out of our beds to watch Beavis & Butthead or a racy dating show called STUDS. (Hey, it was the early ’90s – and without Skinemax or the Internet to fall back on, you had to find other ways to corrupt your mind at a tender age!)

Long after my brother had passed out beside me, I’d be sitting there rapt with awe at the enticing offers being hypnotized into my brain by charismatic hosts who claimed that for just “three easy payments”, I could own the latest and greatest in kitchen and household inventions. Seriously, these charlatans were good at plying their wares. Imagine a wide eyed, 12 year-old Scarlett nodding enthusiastically at her television as Ron Popeil deboned his trout with an ultra sharp (yet flexible!) Ginsu knife. “Gosh, Ron! That would be so incredibly handy for all those fresh fish I’m constantly filleting!” That man could have sold me a lakefront villa on Mars. Had I been in possession of a credit card, let me tell you. I’d still be sitting on mountains of debt, but I’d have the most bitching set of kitchen appliances EVER. Rotisserie ham and homemade beef jerky the likes of which you ain’t never seen, baby!

But alas, infomercials have really dulled in the last decade or so, with the same ones playing over and over ad nauseum. Flipping channels at 2am, you’re likely to find 18 stations all pimping the same erectile dysfunction drug, hawked by some random porn industry reject who’s all too eager to tell you how much “size matters”. Lame! But the good news is that a new breed of guilty late night pleasures have cropped up – albeit in bite sized pieces. My favorite is the Trojan Vibrating Touch, which is exactly what it sounds like. Spoony and I used to have to endure this commercial 6x an hour when I made him watch Talk Sex With Sue. (Epically hilarious series with an 80 year old woman giving explicit sex advice to call-in viewers. I am SO going to be that woman someday.) But as you can see, I’ve truly come full circle in my appreciation for “as seen on TV” products. First it was things that go “buzz” in the kitchen, now I prefer things that go “buzz” in the bedroom. Awwwwww yeah.