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Lady Smarts: How to Decorate your Bedroom

Meredith Russo — Fri, 17 May 2013 14:20:11 +0000

I’m not going to beat around the artificial-potted-bush here: home décor is hard.

To all you bachelors out there – you may not care. You may think your lack of care is cool. Manly, even. And to some extent, you may be right. What you don’t realize, of course, is that certain decorating choices could be giving lady guests the wrong impression.

Let’s take an average night. You’ve managed to snag that demure (drunk) gal at the bar who shares your taste in books (90s pop) and lured her back to your place with the promise of first edition Proust (a Spin Doctors cassette). Either way, she’s there.

This belongs in the trash, not over your bed.

Now, lighting a candle is nice – you’re a sensitive guy, after all – but too many suggests you’re either holding regular séances or simply trying way too hard. Same goes for music. Maybe things are going well; Proust (Spin Doctors) is a hit! But wait. Your clap-on make out mix shows you’ve either done this a few too many times, or spent a lot of lonely nights programming that clapper.

Perhaps the biggest potential for disaster, however, lies on your walls. Hold off on hanging that aggressive modern piece someone at Art Basel told you was THE hot artist to buy, especially if it needs to be plugged in. Global warming, people. And for those who insist on hanging movie posters, please keep in mind: just because it is critically acclaimed doesn’t mean you should hang it over your bed.

The following is a list of movies that, while truly great, never belong in your apartment – especially not in the bedroom.

Rust And Bone
Great Expectations
As Good As It Gets
Boys Don’t Cry
There Will Be Blood
The Thin Red Line
Unfaithful
Fist of Fury
Cool Hand Luke
The Thing
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
Raging Bull
Easy Rider
Annie Get Your Gun
Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

Stay tuned for the next installment, in which I’ll cover what to avoid in the bathroom, including such catastrophes as Hustle & Flow, Gone with the Wind, and Slumdog Millionaire.

Tragedy Brings Social Media’s Highlights and Pitfalls to the Forefront

Meredith Russo — Thu, 02 May 2013 17:00:47 +0000

A strange thing happened at dinner with friends a few weeks ago. When each of us reached for our cell phones at the table, it was not to check-in on Foursquare, nor to take photos of our food. It was to check the news – on Twitter.

Photo by David Saunders via Flickr/Plymouth Devon

It was the week of the Boston Marathon bombings, and Boston was on lockdown in pursuit of the second suspect. One friend had been twenty minutes late, citing her office’s being glued to the television as an excuse. The news stalled. Twitter buzzed.

Recent events like the Boston Marathon bombing, the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting, and even Hurricane Sandy have given new value to social media outlets that may otherwise feel tedious and shallow. In each of these crises, younger generations have adapted what they are perhaps best trained in – the art of connecting – to fit the situation, at times so seamlessly that we do not even realize the leap.

During Hurricane Sandy, when cellular networks in New York City were flooded with traffic – and water – and battery life was scarce, Facebook and Twitter offered instant and efficient ways of sharing one’s “status” broadly, without wasting precious time updating individuals. For those who found themselves in Boston this past week, the same status updates offered a simple way of saying, if nothing else, “I’m okay.”

Perhaps the most jarring realization this past week, however, was with regard to the change in where we look for, or encounter, the news. When accounts of the Boston Marathon bombing first broke, I was on Facebook – a moment of boredom ignited into twenty minutes of indiscriminately viewing photos, articles, and status updates – until I saw the first post.

Within the span of one refresh, my newsfeed was flooded with comments – outrage, sympathy and inquiries to friends and family. Within seconds, Facebook had been seized as a vehicle for crisis, and unrelated posts seemed to halt, either out of respect or fear.

I checked the news. No major news outlets had much to report yet, some citing the same initial tweets as their only source. Thanks to Twitter, we had been alerted but could not be informed. If one considers that at any given moment in any given place, there is likely someone sharing something, it is not surprising that when tragedy strikes, we know. Immediately. However, what follows is less certain. We then live in a state of informed suspense.

It can take minutes, hours, even days for news outlets to uncover the entire story, and events they once might have had hours to report on must now literally be covered immediately to keep up. However, is that coverage then any more elevated than the average tweet?

In the case of the Boston Marathon bombings, firsthand tweets made the news. Whether verified or not, they became part of the event itself and were reported as such.

We are used to being shocked by the news, but as the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting and most recently the Boston Marathon bombings have pointed out, there is a different sort of shock that comes from the instant coverage social media provides. While the news is often presented as a muted, filtered version of reality, social media coverage shows a sort of hyper-reality. Blood on sidewalks, firsthand impressions – it has the makings of something so shockingly real that it feels false, surreal.

If eyewitnesses have trouble processing what they see in tragedy, it is for the same reason we as viewers are struck by social media coverage by them. We are not trained to process unfiltered news. Does it dehumanize victims to have the destruction posted alongside someone’s food photos and status updates? Or are those very posts the key to spreading news, solving crimes, and promoting safety in a time of crisis? And more importantly, does that photo remain the next day, when the user resumes posting their food photos and cat memes?

We must of course consider the implications of the news being relayed in a public forum, and how that might make us vulnerable. The potential for manipulation goes without saying. And if criminals can monitor the conversation, to what end? When our world has become so interconnected that the news must play catch-up, where do the checkpoints come in? And without them, what sort of media terrorism could arise?

Fabricated photos of fake events could easily go viral, especially if coordinated at a large scale. This would not take a great deal of planning, nor skill in execution. How would we as a nation react? How long would it take to realize the falsity, and how might our impulses change the next time around? Would we turn to traditional news outlets with renewed faith, or instead see their own filter more clearly and balk at that as well?

These are all questions that will undoubtedly go unanswered and perhaps soon become irrelevant as the social media landscape continues to change, but I do hope the trend continues to be one of seamless innovation, rather than its unchecked implications.

Lady Smarts: Hunting for Bunnyman

Meredith Russo — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 21:13:14 +0000

What’s a grown up city kid to do to replace pastoral Easter egg scavenges?

By Meredith Russo

I’ve never spent an Easter in the city, but the thought of it makes the kid in me sad. It’s no wonder they (not I, but they) say kids here grow up to be jaded. The Easter Bunny visits all their country bumpkin cousins, more often than not wearing a snazzy vest, while the only furry creatures here are either scurrying across apartment floors or creeping amongst the waste in subway stations.

The truth is, it’s hard to hide delightfully decorated eggs when you’re scurrying. And no one should be fetching eggs precariously balanced atop subway tracks anyway. Growing up in New York City has its advantages, so instead of feeling sorry for ourselves simply because the Easter Bunny will likely avoid the city and all its perils – taxis, dogs, stilettos – I say we find some uniquely New York ways to celebrate Easter.

It’s no secret that the thrill of most Easter egg hunts relies on exploiting nature’s nooks and crannies. Eggs perched in the elbow crack between two branches, delicately placed within a blooming flower, or tucked away inside a hollowed moss-covered stump, even the smallest backyard is transformed by the promise of hidden pastel-colored treasures on Easter. I know because up until a few years ago I still participated with my younger cousins, and while I’d like to say it was “so cute to watch them” I got pretty involved myself. And it was certainly not cute.

Not only can age (and agility) be an obstacle in the traditional Easter egg hunt, but city ordinances don’t help either. Why fight the city’s littering laws, or attract rodents, by attempting to make an egg hunt work in the city? Why not make the city work for the hunt instead? Or something like that.

I’ve listed a few ideas below to get you started, but I think you’ll find that once you get going the trash – I mean ideas, will be popping up all over the place.

Colorful Condom Hunt: See who can pick up the most used condoms off the sidewalk! The variety in color, texture, and size makes this not-so-hidden treasure just as fun to hunt as Easter eggs. Just be sure to remind kids that there are absolutely no “surprises” to be found inside. Also similar to Easter eggs, said condoms must be handled with the utmost care, and disinfectant.
Note: Should you doubt that your charming neighborhood will have an ample supply of used condoms on its fair sidewalks, rest assured. It will. Should you worry that the chilly weather will keep condom usage off the sidewalks this year. It won’t. Even in the midst of winter, my dog manages to rustle up at least a condom or two on Sunday morning. Quite impressive, really.

This brings me to our next hunt – latex gloves! Besides your own potential (and recommended) use for the aforementioned hunt, this city is a goldmine for used latex gloves on every corner. Why? I don’t even want to know. But have fun with that one!

I like to think of this final option as an Easter piñata of sorts. And this piñata just exploded, showering the city with trash – I mean treats. There’s bound to be something for everyone here, even your dog can join in! From chicken bones to McDonald’s bags to rain soaked tampons, you simply grab whatever you can fit in your city garbage receptacle, aka Easter basket. Just remember, NO PERSONAL TRASH in there or it’s a $100 fine.

Yes, there are rumors from the country that some parents – I mean bunnies – put money in their Easter eggs. If you do insist on attempting a traditional egg hunt, at least fill the plastic eggs with useful city treasures, like some hand sanitizer. Especially if you plan to try any of the alternative hunts above.

Lady Smarts: A Spoonful of Summer

Meredith Russo — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 17:21:37 +0000

The grass is always greener. Unless it’s still frozen. And brown.

Now, we’re all ready for winter to be over. Lately, however, as the wind stings my face when I take my dog around the block at 3 a.m. – begging her to go, if only to feel the warmth inside the doggie bag defrost my numb fingers – I try to remember that moment in June when I’ll be equally miserable in a much different way.

I even made up a song about it, and it goes a little something like this:

“Lady Poppins’ (Least) Favorite Things”

Ice on the sidewalks and flu in our bodies,
Winds from the river that chill our Hot Toddies,
Taxis that splatter and swerve right on by,
Winter’s not over, I say with a sigh.

Mittens gone missing, snot dribbling from noses,
Snow dusting everything, even the roses,
All the bottoms of my pants with white residue,
Five dollar coat checks that used to be two.

When the snow melts, and there’s dog poop
Under every last pile.
I try to remember that summery hell,
And then I feel warm and smile.

Smells from hot garbage and heat from the sewers,
ACs that drip as you yell at the movers,
Everything’s harder to do when you’re hot,
Did you think that’s a complement – sorry it’s not.

When the wind whips, when your hat lands,
In a puddle of sludge,
I try to remember June’s sweaty disgust,
When layers can’t hide my pudge.

Sweat on my shoulders and under my hair,
Sweat dripping down my back, way down to there,
Tugging on shorts as they ride up my thigh,
Summer I hate you so much I could cry.

When the snow melts, and there’s dog poop
Under every last pile.
I simply remember that summery hell,
And then I feel warm and smile.

Lady Smarts: A Valentine’s Day Tale

Meredith Russo — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 21:23:58 +0000

Two apartments, both alike in furniture from Ikea…

We all come to Valentine’s Day with baggage—and not just the red, heart-shaped kind that’s full of chocolates. In honor of the holiday of lurve, I thought I would tell my favorite modern love story.

Our story begins with two unlikely lovers, pushed together by fate—and one very crowded subway car. From the moment they met, when Juliet found her face pressed into Dan Romeo’s sweaty armpit on the jolting F-Train, they behaved like two pups that had just tasted meat for the first time. They were insufferable—no!—inseparable.

Then one night Romeo and his friend Ben Volio went to meet Juliet at their favorite spot, Bar Verona, where she waited with her cousin Ty Balt—on her mother’s side—who had just moved to New York. However, when Romeo and Ben Volio arrived, a drunk dude tripped good ol’ Ben V. and Romeo, ever the good friend, stepped in to defend him. Well, one thing led to another, for you know how things go, and soon Dan Romeo could show his face at Bar Verona no mo’.

As fate would have it, the drunk gentleman in the fight was none other than Juliet’s cousin Ty. Hearing of Ty’s black eye, before his big corporate interview the next morning no less, Juliet’s family ordered her never to see that Dan Romeo again.

Given that the next day was Valentine’s, Juliet’s mother arranged a date with her friend’s son, Jeremy Paris Jr., instead. Desperate and dreading that fateful arrangement, Juliet sat in her room weeping, hoping Dan Romeo would show up, text or at the very least drunk-dial. When he did not, she imagined the worst.

She pictured him out with that two-bit ho’ Rosaline, who used to text him “Where 4 art thou Romeo?” late at night. In a fit of despair, Juliet picked up her phone and dialed 1-800-COOKIES.
When the cookies arrived, warm and gooey in their pizza box, she climbed back into her quilted tomb where she wept and ate. She took a long slow sip of milk and let the mustache sit atop her quivering upper lip.

Within minutes, she was fast asleep underneath the pizza box of cookies. A sweet escape, she felt no more pain.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Drunk Romeo! He knocked once, twice, three times to no avail. Could it be, was Juliet out on a date with that jerk Jeremy Paris Jr.? He remembered the spare key in the stairwell and opened her door, poised to await her return and take on JP Jr.

But what was this, Juliet asleep in her bed? What innocence! And yet why was her stomach so full? What frothy white mustache? The hard cookie rinds left in the box. Ah, woe! Let me join you in that sweet saving sleep!

With that, Romeo finished the rest of the cookies, licked the last of Juliet’s milk mustache, and collapsed beside her with one final “mmm.”

Just then Juliet’s phone made a buzz. Ah ha! She awoke. My Romeo?! But alas, it was JP Jr. confirming the details of the next night. Ah woe, woe to have such—what is this?! There she saw Romeo, asleep to her side. My love!

She hugged him close, but his stomach made a sound. That telltale churning. She smelled the peanut butter on his breath. Oh Romeo, to have joined her food coma a moment too soon!

She reached her hand across his chest and felt something hard. A box of Valentine’s chocolates—oh, what saving grace! With one final kiss, she ate the chocolates, every last one, and atop him she lay, stomach aching and full.

And so, I shall say, think wisely before you eat your Valentine’s Day troubles away. For never was a story of more indigestion and regret, as that of Dan Romeo and his true love, Juliet.

Lady Smarts: How to Layer Like a Pro

Meredith Russo — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 22:15:22 +0000

Let’s all take a collective sigh – or warm breath into our numb hands – and stop complaining already. It’s freezing and windy and damp. So what? Tis the season for layering, so enjoy it! You’ll be sorry when summer rolls around and you remember what your arms look like. Now layer until it’s hard to tell where your body ends and the layers begin. Don’t stop until your padded self can barely fit into your largest layer, and when bending over would rip at least five.

It happens. Better to have layered and lost, than never to have layered at all.

How to layer like a pro:

To start, color code your closet.
Organize your colors by tone – warm, cool, bitchy, condescending, etc.
When you’re ready to get dressed, spin around 10 times while chanting “Roy G. Biv” and pick a few pieces. Not to worry if you end up with all tops! Just be sure to wear some thick tights underneath.
Keep your weirdest pieces layered way down deep, like your personality traits. They should only peak out enough to intrigue, without alarming anyone.
Wear things differently than you might normally. Think of layering like putting your hair in a ponytail, or wearing clip on bangs. You’re trying something new!
Roll up the ankles on your jeans, tuck in your shirt, or put your legs through the armholes of that sweater vest and wear it like an oversized, high-waisted diaper. Fashion, not function.
Don’t worry if you notice some of these tips are not particularly flattering. Nobody thought harem pants were flattering, and look at them now!
Always add “a pop of color.” Who knows what that really means, but I think you’re supposed to say it when discussing layering. I’d assume a “burst” of color is also acceptable.
Add a denim shirt or two. A true renaissance man, the denim shirt can be layered with anything and everything, even another denim shirt.
When in doubt, belt it.
If you run out of belts, get crafty. Use a tie. The arms of a long-sleeved shirt – or your boyfriend. He had nothing to do today anyway.
For all you Indecisive Ingrids out there, today is your lucky day! Can’t decide what sweater to wear? Wear them both! Torn over whether a skirt or pants would be more appropriate? Why stop at one! Debating heels or boots? With a hand saw and some super glue – well, you get the idea.
As for jewelry, less is less. Pile it on! Add statement necklaces until you can hardly stand up straight. Then add some more, but wear them backwards for balance.
Unsure of which earrings go best with all eleven shirts you’re wearing? Haven’t you listened to ANYTHING I’ve said?
Don’t worry if you only have one hole per ear – with an ice cube and a safety pin, you can be layering up your ear like a pro. And if you’re already running late to work, let the cold winter air anesthetize on your way.
For the truly fashion-forward, try fitting two earrings into the same hole! Don’t worry, this will get easier with time. Soon you may even be able to layer some necklaces through there!
Add a collar – any collar. Peter Pan, polo, high, low, turtle or faux. If it folds and hangs out around your neck, it’s fair game.
In general, the stiffer and starchier the collar, the cooler the collared one. You should be able to file your nails on that thing.
A Peter Pan collar says, I’m playful! I like to have fun. Vintage fun! To wing my eyeliner! And Goddard!
A Peter Pan collar was once the four-leaf clover of collars, found only in fields of vintage and possessing the magical power of making its wearer look instantly and effortlessly prettier. Now they sell them at H&M, so there’s really no excuse not to be wearing at least five at all times.
All’s fair in love and layering, but if you discover you’re dealing with a clip-on collar wearer, drop and run. Spill something on yourself. Set your sleeve on fire. Just get outta there. No time for phonies, you’ve got a LOT OF IRONING to do.
Of course, if you happen to be wearing a clip-on as well, you may fall into each other’s detachable embraces and have all kinds of babies with clip-on limbs and smiles and stuff.
Actually, those sound like more fun than regular babies and I would be happy to sit for you sometime. I’ve never layered a baby before!

Lady Smarts: How to Pick a Dog Breed

Meredith Russo — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 04:16:30 +0000

Photo via Flickr / Outlier Dogs

Now that you know how to prepare for a puppy in the city – your fingers should be frozen but strong and your squats impressively stable – it’s time to talk dog breeds. Choosing the right breed can take years of research and careful contemplation, but I’m here to save you the trouble with one simple tip.

Adopt. Now, I’m sorry if you were expecting some sort of dog breed personality matcher with a fun infographic and questions like “Your ideal Sunday afternoon is spent: a) sleeping b) going to the park or c) chewing on things.” Definitely c, by the way. While I know it sounds preachy, I promise that I encourage you to adopt for PURELY SELFISH REASONS.

Now do I have your attention? Good.

So, puppies are cute. Of course they are. Everybody loves a puppy, like a wide-eyed, fluffy-tailed freshman girl at her first college party. But, also like the freshman girl, they can’t handle what they drink and just don’t have much to contribute yet. Sure, sometimes they look really sleepy and fall over cutely, but I’ll take a mellow, grey bearded dog that would give its right front paw for me any day. Just like an older, grey bearded lady – eh, let’s leave that metaphor for now.

Puppies are vapid. They’re fuzzy arm candy. If you want fuzzy arm candy, go buy one of those feather pens from the 90s, or a furry purse or something. They will not shit on your carpet or keep you up all night. Even your future dog will look back on its puppy years with embarrassment. “Ugh, I did what to that Collie?!” “I peed where?! How humiliating.” Adopting an older dog is like skipping directly to the main course when all the appetizers involve labor-intensive truffle-scented foams that only leave you hungrier. Skip the fluff, and the puppy fuzz.

Rescues are also grateful. That entitled purebred bitch knows you paid top dollar for her, and she will never forget it. Moreover, as far as I’m concerned “purebred” means “inbred,” and just like most plates of “raw, mushy beef” would be left untouched while those of “steak tartare” are polished clean, most people would not proudly state that they “only buy inbred dogs.” Again, moral and ick issues aside – we do not inbreed for selfish reasons: it produces fucked up offspring. And medical bills add up fast.

Your dog may look like the one you have dreamt of since childhood – he has been bred to, after all – but what you don’t see are the impending stomach, heart, and allergy problems. You won’t find those problems in the scrappy survivors at the shelter. Obviously you’re not going to let a high maintenance puppy die a Darwinian death, so when you make the initial decision regarding the dog you bring home, choose a survivor. You want the dog that has survived months on the streets eating garbage, not the one who needs boiled chicken and pureed pumpkin with half a Zyrtec served in a stainless steel bowl.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, when someone at the dog run asks what kind of dog yours is, don’t you want to be able to say with a smug smile: “Oh! Darwin? We don’t know, he’s a rescue.” Game. Set. Match.

Resolutions for the City

Meredith Russo — Wed, 09 Jan 2013 18:50:35 +0000

Don’t worry about the fact that you’ve already ditched your resolutions, and focus on helping New York City’s neighborhoods keep theirs.

Chinatown: Stop letting the other ’hoods use me. If they don’t want to meet for dim sum during the day, then they can take their club beats elsewhere at night. And tell Nolita to quit invading my space.Photo by Christopher Schoenbohm

Look at you, New York! I hardly recognize this group of non-smoking, exercising, healthy-eating and organized individuals. What happened? You used to be fun. Interesting, at least.

The truth is, if everyone in New York sticks to their resolutions, it could throw off the balance of this entire city, country and world at large. Grocery stores will sell out of fresh produce, and SeamlessWeb will go under faster than it can send a confirmation email. Gyms will become so overcrowded that citywide riots will break out in a moment of elliptical desperation. Cigarette companies will—er, bad example.

Countless livelihoods depend on your laziness, unhealthy habits and destructive behaviors. Think of the artisan baker who relies on your sweet tooth to pay the bills. Don’t you believe in supporting small businesses? Don’t you want to stimulate the economy? Or how about the bartender who depends on your liquored-up generosity to support his true passion? Thanks to your selfish resolution to drink less, you may be robbing the world of his future Oscar-winning documentary exposing the slaughter of bonobos in the Congo. Maybe that film would have started a worldwide movement to save the bonobos from extinction. Perhaps even inspired an end to the Congo’s years of devastating warfare in the process. Don’t you want to end violence in the Congo? Don’t you think bonobos are cute?

So go ahead and smoke your first cigarette of 2013. Bite that hangnail. Fall so hard off the donut wagon that you might have broken something if not for their—and your—pillowy softness to cushion the landing. It’s the least you can do.

Our neighborhoods, however, are another story. They could use a few resolutions, and from the look of things, they have their work cut out for them in 2013:

Meatpacking: Drink lesssss [hiccup]. And learn Italian.

Chelsea: Stop making fun of MiMa. He didn’t make it up.

West Village: Start growing vegetables on the roofs of my restaurants. Oh wait, that was last year’s.

Midtown: Separate my work from my social life. Leave my Blackberry at—sorry, gotta take this … What? Now? I’m just finishing a scorpion bowl with my boys at BroJim’s. I’ll be at the office in 10.

East Village: Keep my beard clean.

Tribeca: Stop letting myself be defined by my friends. Tell De Niro I need some space. Again.

Nolita: Stop giving all the other neighborhoods adorably personalized gifts from my shops. When did anyone ever give me a necklace made of gilded flower petals in the shape of my name?

Little Italy: Go gluten-free.

Murray Hill (hers): Stop wearing my Kappa Delta Phi butt pants to unlimited champagne brunch.

Murray Hill (his): Stop hitting on girls wearing Kappa Delta Phi butt pants at unlimited champagne brunch.

Times Square: Meditate more. Like, all the time.

Lady Smarts: How to Plan for a Puppy

Meredith Russo — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 17:18:51 +0000

Photo via Flickr/chotda

As the temperature drops, the thought of spending all your time indoors with a warm, cuddly puppy might sound like an inspired idea.

Sure, that sweet puppy breath will defrost your face when you come in from the cold. And how good will that fuzzy tummy feel sleeping atop your tired, frozen feet? What you don’t realize is that most of your time will actually be spent outdoors willing said puppy to go to the bathroom. At times, begging. Eventually crying such that the tears freeze to your numb, desperate face.

Your new furry friend and his adorably oversized paws will essentially bring the sidewalk into your apartment and – let’s be honest, you big softie – your bed. If that doesn’t get your immune system going, the blustery 3 a.m. walks will. The good news is, with a bit of preparation and some humbling expectations, you too can be ready for a dog in the city.

How to plan for a puppy in the city:

Start preparing your immune system now.
Drop a Skittle on the sidewalk. Eat it. Repeat.
Now try using a gummy bear. Lick it first. Step on it. Peel it off the sole of your shoe and then eat it.
Repeat until you can, without hesitation, eat a piece of gum from the gutter.
Oh, come on! You think letting a puppy that sniffs every puddle and pile lick your face is any better?
Just wait until you’re prying a grimy chicken wing from that locked jaw full of tiny shark-puppy teeth. By the way, in every neighborhood there is someone eating chicken wings by the bucket and tossing the bones to the ground. Beware. Maybe it’s the same person; a lot of ground to cover, but they’ve got a lotta chicken wings to walk off.
Begin talking to yourself as you stroll down the sidewalk.
Use a giddy, high-pitched voice and smile a lot. Toss your head back in delight.
You will inevitably talk to your dog – first clandestinely when you think the sidewalk is clear, then blatantly carrying on full conversations – so at least if you start now, it will seem like a significant improvement once the dog comes.
Start doing finger lifts, pumps, and presses. You will end up holding the leash by your pinky finger as you juggle bags, a cell phone, and coffee, so it will need to be strong and agile.
Start doing squats. You want to be immovable when you bend over to poop-scoop. It only takes one skateboarder grinding by for your excitable and surprisingly strong puppy to send you flying face first into that pile of “shit!”
Of course, always remove scarves, hats, and bags before bending over to scoop. If they can, they will find a way to fall directly into that steaming pile.
Start distancing yourself from material possessions. Not only is this a good exercise in general, but the chances of your puppy destroying something is directly proportional to your attachment to that item.
The sooner you have nothing to lose the better.
Try plunging your bare hands into an ice bath, and then practice handling poop bags to pick up things. This will prepare you for those frosty late night walks, and it’s not a bad way to clean your kitchen.
Now it’s time to start preparing financially.
Practice burning money, one bill at a time.
Don’t go crazy here, you’ll need most of that once the dog comes, but you should get used to the feeling.
Set aside $500 in cash for an emergency fund. You know, in case the dog has an emergency medical bill, or chews up the neighbor’s vintage Samsonite. Or cat. Or cat named Samsonite.
Now, carefully light that wad of bills on fire and throw it into a pile of your most valuable possessions.
You really thought $500 was going to cover emergency medical bills for this little germ sucker?
Giardia is about to become such a big part of your life that you’ll start seeing it everywhere – watching Giardia de Laurentiis make her own fettuccine, catching a flight from La Giardia, you get the idea.
What’s giardia, you say? HA. Oh, just you wait.
Now, wash your hands. That shit (pun intended) is contagious, you’re out $500, and in case you’ve forgotten since your last pinkeye scare – your own healthcare plan suuuucks.
Lastly, prepare yourself for crippling amounts of LOVE. The kind that comes in spurts of unbridled, embarrassing “shmoopy doopy doo”s and lets you forgive them for ruining your life, running your life, and defrosting even your cold, cold heart.

Lady Smarts: 2013, The Year of the Megging

Meredith Russo — Thu, 27 Dec 2012 22:07:06 +0000

By Meredith Russo

What the hell, 2012. No really, who do you think you are? I guess that Zombie Bath Salt Apocalypse went to your head. And “Call Me Maybe.” Maybe. That happened. But meggings? You’re leaving 2013 with meggings?

What are meggings? Oh, you know, what a casual dude might buy at LululeMAN if he’s feeling too bloated for his skinny jeans. And if you think I’m joking, think again. I never joke about spandex. This is happening.

The implications of meggings stretch far beyond bunched boxer-lines and junk in the front. Meggings could disrupt the very foundation of gender dynamics as we know and love (meh?) them.

Now don’t get me wrong here. I LOVE men. I have binders full of men. But there used to be certain things that we had and they didn’t. Sure, this may be the same argument men had against women for things like college, equal pay and voting rights. But if we don’t draw the line somewhere, will it ever end? They’ve already taken no-polish pedicures. What’s next, sweater dresses?!

There’s nothing wrong with cross-gender fashion. Will I sample from the men’s department now and again? Sure. Do I like the way a billowy men’s shirt makes me feel so small and yet so strong? You bet. Have I been known to wear men’s cologne just to smell that sweet musk while I watch Tim Riggins drink beers in bed? Who hasn’t. And yet when given the opportunity to do the same with the bounty that womenswear has to offer, men have chosen to try the leggings? The bastard child of pants and tights? That which is capable of making even the most toned of thighs beg for a longer sweater to hide from the traitorous sheen of spandex?

You know what, go ahead, boys. It’s 2013. Run with them—you’ll find them to be quite comfortable for that. You’ve been doing pretty well with skinny jeans, so maybe it’ll work out for you. Who knows!

I’m reminded of a storybook I had as a child. Maybe you know it.

If You Give a Man Some Meggings…

They won’t have pockets, so he’ll need something to put his wallet in.

He won’t be used to carrying a bag, so it should have a nice, long strap.

He won’t want to call attention to the bag, so it should be small and sleek. Like a purse. Someone will call it a murse, even if he asks them not to.

It would be silly to carry a murse for just a wallet, so he’ll need other things to fill it with, like a hairbrush and some lip balm. Perhaps some hand lotion. Mascara. A nail file. Tampons.

Wearing meggings will make him notice things he never has, like how his left calf is slightly bigger than his right, but his meggings will be so comfortable that he’ll still want to wear them and only them.

He’ll love that he can eat as much as he wants in his meggings, so he’ll probably start to gain a few pounds here and there.

One day he’ll have to wash his meggings, and he’ll notice that none of his other pants fit.

He’ll feel insulted when his girlfriend says it’s not the meggings that make him look fat, and his girlfriend won’t understand what she did wrong. Or how she ended up dating this dude who wears meggings.

He will start to eye the men’s shirts and oversized blazers in his girlfriend’s closet. He’ll probably even try on a pair of her boyfriend jeans.

2013, folks! Meggings, murses and the deterioration—or reaffirmation—of traditional American gender roles.

(If you or a loved one has been affected by meggings, don’t wait. Call 1-800-TOO-TITE today.)

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