Pale And Proud Of It

Like it always does, Summer is coming again. Every year, about this time, flowers are in bloom, the trees are filled in, and the weather is finally not soul-crushingly depressing. Then there's this one major problem: The sun.

Don't get me wrong, I love it when it's sunny and warm out. I wake up happier in the morning and get home when it's still light out, both very good things.

But I'm pale. Really pale. Not albino, blinding pale, but still. I burn when it's cloudy if I stay outside too long. So when we hit this level of sunshine, I'm immediately on guard. I check for any potential SPF in any product I use. Nail polishes to hair products (I have to protect the part in my hair, because of the ease in which the sun will fry me). Every day I debate regular moisturizer or extra special SPF moisturizer, the latter of which causing an overall smattering of blemishes to appear. I search my lip products for a mere mention of sun protection, and hope that my regular lotion won't have be replaced with baby sunblock. The thing is, I kind of like being pale. My risk of sun-induced skin cancer is reduced, I never get sunburnt, and I get to be Snow White every year for Halloween.

150 years ago paleness denoted status: those who didn't have to work outside. Later, being tanned denoted status: those who could afford tropical vacations and also afford them often enough to keep their color. Now, with the popularity of self-tanners and tanning beds it's too easy to "tan". Anyone who has the will to pull together the cash can easily buy the fake stuff, or get a membership to a "Salon". I use the quotes ironically, because I can't figure out what font denotes sarcastic derision.

The look ends up being ghastly, leathery and wrinkled, or orange and totally unnatural. Of the two, I feel less strongly about tanning beds. At least it's honest about being a concentrated box of all that stuff that gives you a tan. And cancer, of course. The fake tans, on the other hand, are so obviously a lie. Bright freaking orange and streaky most of the time. It's alarmingly false, like they've been exposed to radiation and may grow an extra appendage at any moment.

I know I could get a tan if I really tried. Go tanning for a minute a day, then two, then three, and so on. Or buy the boxed stuff and feel like some overgrown Oompa-Loompa. But I'd rather look like the book-reading, video game-playing, knitter that I really am.

Dear CNN,

Can I be your new headline writer? These are good but I think mine would be better.

For example, you post:
R. Kelly acquitted of all child porn counts

I, personally would have gone with something more like:
"R. Kelly Aquitted, Little Man/Digital Mole Defense Successful"
with the subheadline of:
"R. Kelly thanks Dave Chapelle for the digital piss sketch that inspired the defense."
Because he should thank Dave Chapelle, that mole was DIGITAL!

Also, there's this one:
NASA identifies shiny object trailing shuttle


My version:
"NASA Distracted by Shiny Thing, Realizes It Was The Sun"

Call me, CNN. I've got more, and some are actually funny!

Lazy Post

This made me think of two of my friends. Mostly because I can see it happening, and may have seen it happen at the last bbq.
Brian and Brad enjoy some delicious ham.

"Sex in the City"? It Should Be Called "Old Bitches Never Shut The Fuck Up"

I'll admit, I like the show. It's cute and fanciful and you get to see boobs more often than not (thanks Samantha!). Don't get me wrong, it has problems. It's unrealistic, materialistic, shallow, self-absorbed, and represents a subway-less, almost-all-rich-white-people view of the city. Not to mention the puns, the laziest, most irritating form of comedy ever. All in all, taken with a massive grain of salt, it's mostly enjoyable.

But I will not be paying to see the movie.

As far as I'm concerned, the show had its run. The movie should be a love letter to their die-hard fans (gay guys and their fag hags from what I saw at the Boylston Lowe's on Friday), of which I am not included. Paying for this shit would just encourage them to do it more. More "i wonders" and hyper analyzing every single fucking thing that a guy ever does ever. Does she ever wonder that maybe her problem is that she's really self absorbed and can't stop overthinking everything? I've had enough. And I really can't stand another 6 months of fucking pink sparkley marketing containing more and more puns.

I saw this today, and I'm going to steal it but still give credit to the source, it just summed up how I feel so nicely.

"Manolo Blahniks
come in eight different shades of
I don't give a sh*t"

Thanks, Gallery of the Absurd!
(and totally read the review, it mentions Mothra!)

P.S. Why does Carrie get it on with her bra on? Or should we just be thankful SJP isn't showing her boobs?