In the immortal words of Jean Paul Sartre, 'Au revoir, gopher.'

Translation: Surprisingly, this blog has very little to do with Bill Murray. Which is a little sad, but I’m too confused to go into details, because I just finished watching the movie Vicky Cristina Barcelona. And I just have one thing to say- WHY?

The movie was truly me just waiting and waiting for 93 minutes for something, anything to happen. Aside from Penelope Cruz smoking ANOTHER cigarette while cursing in Spanish or Javier Bardem looking more confused than usual while he finger painted. I like to give anything with Scarlett Johansson a chance because I’ve been told I resemble her by a lot of people (yes, other than just my mother). So it would seem my vanity has once again gotten the better of me. Damn you, narcissism, my lust for myself knows no bounds.

I was told the film was artistic and exotic. Read: nice way of saying long winded, and oh yeah, there’s a split second kiss between two chicks.

So I wonder…am I missing something here? For a movie that was critically acclaimed two years ago…I had to poke myself a record 33 times to stay awake (not to mention I was confused as to whether Vicki Cristina Barcelona was one person before I watched, and now I'm just mad there's no punctuation in the title).

I usually appreciate “artistic” films! I didn’t waste spend a whole semester in my undergrad in film criticism classes for nothing, you see. I know more of montages, apparatus theories, and rack focusing than I particularly care to…because I find I can no longer just watch a movie. I have to dissect every little detail (note the running theme here that I am insanely OCD). Unless of course, the movie is Caddyshack. No analysis necessary- just general badassery.

"Because remember Danny- Two wrongs don't make a right but three rights make a left." And anything will Bill F*cking Murray in it is worth watching at least 36 times in one weekend.

"I always say shopping is cheaper than a psychiatrist."

Translation: retail therapy has made me discover horrible, horrible things about myself.

So ever since my dog passed, I’ve had this overwhelming need to…nurture something. As much as it pains me to admit I have a heart, it should come as no shock to you all I’ve channeled the need to love the hell out of something by increasing the amount of time I spend shoe shopping. I’ve acquired QUITE the boot collection for this winter.

But put all these awesomely hot boots together, they are still nothing to cuddle up with at night. While, yes, the idea of nuzzling my grey Nubuck Rampage’s as I drift off to sleep has crossed my mind a couple of times…I am but a feeble woman, sue me.

Anyhow, since the need for me to be human and “feel things” has been more prevalent than I’d prefer lately, I’ve found an increasing correlation between the direction I’m headed and the nearest Macy’s. Which got me thinking- why the hell do women love shopping so much? Half the time we go, try stuff on, vow to never eat another piece of cake again and run a marathon, only to leave the store feeling gross and frumpy, and inevitably reaching for that last piece of Red Velvet to drown our sorrows in.

So I did some googling research, and it turns out women are likely to shop when either happy, or depressed. If you are a woman, or know a woman (I’m assuming this encompasses everyone reading) you know we pretty much only have two main emotions. And that would be happy, or depressed (occasionally we also experience madness brought on by the opposite gender). So it would seem we waste 98 percent of our free time spending our hard-earned money (or if you’re a lucrative women, some old guy’s dough) on clothes and shoes.

I find this to be a little dismal. But only a minimal amount because there are worse things we could be doing with our time. Like stealing cars or robbing banks. Shoe shopping is not a gateway crime. If it is, I might as well be locked up for life without parole because I own more shoes than I could possibly wear in a year, and I'd kill someone for a pair of Manolo's. I’m a shoe slut. I go weak in the knees for a pair of six inch red stilettos like Scarlett did for Rhett- and if they’re on sale, I have a shoegasm. And frankly my dear, that is something I DO give a damn about.

I often wonder why I can’t direct how pleased shoes make me into other aspects of my life. I’d be a lot happier if I had more money, but that would mean I had less shoes. You see the predicament. I fear if I do not find a constructive means to deal with my ever present desire to love something, I’m going to run out of closet space.

Oh, and there’s no biological clock ticking it’s magic here, I am in no way shape or form looking to have my own kid, I take care of about 200 of them on a weekly basis (and THAT is the best birth control EVER). It’s just that I’ve done such a wonderful job of taking care of myself that I actually find it enjoyable to take care of something or someone else. I’m…domesticated. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go cry over my lost rebelliousness while eating a bowl of ice cream and walking around in my 5” BCBG pumps searching for where I might have misplaced my edginess.

…and don’t be surprised if in my next blog, I come to you to speak about my new goldfish, Fred.

Whoever said that things have to be useful?

Translation: I think we’re overwhelmed with connectivity nowadays. I say this, because my grandparents visited this weekend, and my grandmother wanted a rundown on what exactly facebook, twitter, and blogging were. Which then made me realize they’re all essentially the same thing- an asinine means for you to express yourself and hoard friends, while “staying connected” aka “being too lazy to pick up the phone.”

But have you ever tried to explain twitter to an 80 year old? ...it makes you feel like a real ass.

“Yep Grandma…you post in 140 characters or less a quip or something about your life you think other people will be interested in.” In my head I was thinking ‘wow…my generation is full of egotistical a-holes.’ But since my grandparents are one of the VERY FEW people I ever watch my mouth around, I let that thought pass. Shocking, I know, but it is in fact possible for me to pipe down.

But it still stands- why in God’s name do I care that Kim Kardashian had pancakes for breakfast and they were delicious? That Forever 21 is having multiple shoe sales? That one of my friends has the inability to withhold posting his sexual exploits via Twitter (if the description fits in 140 characters or less, trust me, it is not worthy of the world knowing, Casanova.)? I DON’T. Wait…except for that second one. That’s just good advertising.

As for facebook, it makes a little more sense (except for the ever-addicting facebook games. You’ll all be happy to know I’ve leveled up in Frontierville, so apparently the addiction won). And I won’t knock blogging for obvious reasons. If you post daily about your cat Mister Zazzle’s adorable ability to rip your furniture into shreds in 30 minutes, I recommend you back away from the keyboard and experience reality (as well as getting that feral damn cat declawed)…but that’s just a suggestion.

So now that my G-ma knows what a twitter is…I think in her eyes my generation just got dropped down a few pegs. So advice to you, if any older relative ever asks you what twitter is, do our generation a huge favor and claim twignorance. Or tell them it’s a noise a bird makes. Deny all connectivity whatsoever and maybe, just maybe, you’ll save yourself from looking like a huge douchebag in front of people whose generation existed just fine without cell phones.

If anyone else has ever experienced a similar situation and wasn’t smart enough to claim they don’t have a twitter either, I appreciate your commiseration ahead of time. I should’ve gone the Jon Stewart route and replied to my Grandmother by saying this- “For the uninitiated, here’s how Twitter works – I have no f***ing idea.” But dropping f-bombs in front of her surely would’ve gotten my tweet-happy ass kicked out of the will.

“Why is it drug addicts and computer aficionados are both called users?”

Translation: I got a monkey on my back, and if I don’t get my fix…it’s gonna be ugly.

Sidebar: Well it seems one of the points I mentioned in my previous blog over being left handed is incredibly true. I have been sick for over a week now with insane allergies. Allergies that ruined my long weekend getaway and will more than likely be the death of me. But I’m glad what I am writing to you, indeed has the appearance of being true? However, I type to you today not to discuss the amount of Kleenex’s I have used in the past seven days, but of my ever growing addiction to the Facebook game, Frontierville.

…what a foolish thing to blog about, you say? Well, apparently you’ve never had the desire to tame the Wild West. This is either because as a child, you were one of the very few people who ever beat Oregon Trail, or you live under a rock and have never heard of Facebook.

There are so many FB apps nowadays it is absolutely ridiculous. I used to scoff at (nay, de-friend) the people who would send me relentless requests to water their crops on Farmville, or feed their fishies in Fishville (seriously Zynga, try branching out when you name games. Adding –ville to everything doesn’t automatically make it fun. Lobotomyville? Auditville? Cancerville? I’m not buying it). But seriously, these people are more relentless when it comes to Facebook messaging to better their game level than door-to-door Mormons with a recruitment quota.

…and I’ve become one of them. I’m not sure what it is exactly about Frontierville I like so much. Is it the customizable buildings? The fact that I can shoot cannons to blow up predators? Visit my neighbors to chop down the trees they’re obviously using as décor just to be mean? Probably all of these things. It’s like a sick, twisted addiction. I log on Facebook every few hours to check and see if people have sent me the hammers I requested to build my Jackalope Lodge. If they haven’t, I no longer consider us on “good terms…” I’m building an empire here people; anyone who gets in the way will be crushed.

But when I log into the game and I’ve completed a task on my checklist it’s like sweet relief comes flooding through my veins. I’m amped. Charged up and ready to master the next thing that comes my way.

I used to think, ‘Oh hell, it looks like I’m gonna have to bother even more people in order to fulfill the requirements to finish the next one.’

And now, I could absolutely care less about how insane my demands are, and whether or not I have completely plastered them all over your live feed. SUBMIT TO MY WILL!

…Clearly, I need help. I’ve tried going days without the game but I always come back to it- like Paris Hilton to cocaine, old people to a Walmart, Germans to their sausage. I can’t quit you, Frontierville. I think a heroin addiction might be easier to kick. Do they have support groups for FB game addicts? They should. I think I might try Googling ‘Zynga Rehab for people on the verge of alienating every single Facebook friend they have,’ and see if I yield any results.

But if you don’t hear from me in a couple days, know that I have had no luck, and resumed my quest to virtually manage the Wild West whilst taking no prisoners. It’s a dirty game, but someone’s got to play it. I’m like the John Wayne of Frontierville.

...Except I’m a woman.
...And I’m obviously allergic to the outdoors in real life.
...And I never beat Oregon Trail as a child.
So someone pass me a box of Kleenex, I’ve got foxes to shoot.

The right half of the brain controls the left half of the body. This means that only left handed people are in their right mind.

Translation: Move over righties, this lefty is about to hit you with some knowledge.

First off, a big thanks to Mid 30’s Life for the one lovely blog award, if you haven’t read her…go check it out! Her link is right below the award. Yes, I’d like to draw focus to the award...sue me. Being sarcastic and witty is not as easy as I make it look, people.

Secondly, this is not a girlie post, but the whole reason this came to mind earlier is that I was painting my fingers and toes to get ready to go on vacation this weekend…and you see, much like my Aunt Anne (hello if you’re reading, miss you!), I suffer the curse of being left-handed, which makes virtually every task I do 15-20 times more difficult than it should be.

Did you know that approximately 2500 left-handed people a year die from using right-handed products? I know what you’re thinking, and no, we’re not retarded. But I dare you to try to use a pair of scissors backwards and upside down in order to cut a straight line…it’s no easy task folks.

Here are some things lefties suck at:

-Writing on a dry erase board. At work this is absolutely impossible for me to do without my arm being covered in smelly marker (at least they make fruity scented markers now), kind of giving the left side of my body the resemblance of a toddler whose been playing in mommy’s make up all morning. I decided in my classroom I’m picking a righty and making them do all my transcribing for me. Righties will be the new minions; much like pink is the new black.

-I’ve already covered how hard it is to use right-handed scissors; thank God they make lefty scissors now, too. Before the invention of left-handed scissors, my arts and crafts projects as a child looked like something an angry rhinoceros with a severe inferiority complex crafted (read: frustratingly ugly).

-According to Associated Content, lefties make up only 5-15 percent of the population. We’re unique. But not in the good way like double rainbows or snowflakes…more or less unique like Melvin the hypochondriac giraffe from the Madagascar movies, because we’re more prone to illness, migraines, insomnia, and allergies (we should be raised in bubbles).

-Serial killers are predominantly left-handed. I have no comment on this; I just thought all you righties would like to know pissing us off is a bad idea.

Now on the other side of the coin, things we’re better at than righties (you didn’t think I was going to not find a way to spin this in my favor, did you? If so…remember, I used to be a journalist, readers):

-We use a different side of our brains than righties, and because of that we are much more creative and complex thinkers (Da Vinci, Hendrix, Escher, Cobain- in your face).

-We’re more eloquent (you’re damn right we are...I never said we were less pretentious…ahem).

-We have our own holiday. Left Hander’s Day, August 13…mark it on your calendars, I expect gifts.

-Being a lefty offers you the element of surprise in sports, thereby making lefties better at things like tennis, baseball, and boxing. I also think our aggravation from being a lefty in a right-handed world helps tremendously here.

-Somehow, we manage to overcome the right-handed obstacles to succeed, awesomely. Studies have shown left-handed people have a higher average income than right-handers. So while you can use sharpie markers, a computer mouse, and live longer than we do…we’re too busy rolling our money like Scrooge McDuck to notice, so we have righties do that stuff for us anyway.

So in conclusion, being a lefty has its perks. While I’ve grown used to being called a South Paw or a weirdo (that probably has nothing to do with what hand I predominantly use), I like being left-handed. There are so few of us it’s kind of like belonging to a really exclusive club…like the chess club or AV department. You know, the kind no one really wants to admit belonging to, but in the event it pops up…it’s a damn good thing we’re loaded.

Because we're better than you, and we know it!

Translation: After google searching, I found this to be the mantra of hipsters. How someone who still lives in his mother's basement, listening to the same Taking Back Sunday album for the 8th million time while reading anything by Chuck Klosterman (because they're certain he's God) thinks he's better than other people...well it's absolutely beyond me.


I am bothered by the growing trend of men wearing women's jeans and wife beaters in public, whilst sporting long and shaggy unwashed hair. This trend is called being a "hipster" ...although for the life of me I cannot figure out what is so hip about looking like a homeless person. Call me crazy?

Anyhow, I was at the mall doing what I do best (window shopping...much to my chagrin, my credit card keeps me from ever being able to make a commitment), and a group of what appeared to be 15 year old girls were walking in front of me. I say "what appeared to be" because it was my professional opinion as a woman it could've been trendy, really skinny 15 year old girls with cute bob hair cuts from behind. Sadly, I was wrong. And the only thing I find more annoying than admitting I am wrong, is seeing a hipster in a public place.

Once I passed these girls and realized they were in fact boys, I was highly upset that a man obviously had on not only the same black pair of Charlotte Russe skinny jeans as me...but a SMALLER SIZE of black Charlotte Russe skinny jeans. I'm a size 4 and this kid had to be in a 0. Instead of tearing out my hair and ultimately deciding to wear sweats everywhere I go (noooow I get it, Michigan) I attempted to go about my business.

Until I heard the kid say it..."Hey, lookie there lady we have on the same jeans!"

I asked what a 15 year old was:

A. Doing out of school at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday
B. Doing stealing his younger sister's jeans
And C. Informed him I was glad those jeans were so tight they probably would render him impotent.

So it turns out he was actually 21. I think my laughter resonated throughout the entire mall. Do I feel bad about mocking a grown man in woman's jeans? Of course not. If those jeans weren't so tight, I'm pretty sure he would've had the room to exit the mall with his tail between his legs.

“Basically, I hate conformity.”

Translation: Why I just say NOprah.

I am one of five people on the face of this planet who absolutely abhors Oprah Winfrey. She’s never given me a free car, she’s accountable for the career of Dr. Phil (note the term doctor is used loosely here, as in- he isn’t one), and I’m pretty sure she’s responsible for Global Warming. Those last two items are things that are ruining our planet. Someone has to stop her before she causes the apocalypse.

I know what you’re thinking reader, “Miss Von Devious- you can’t openly bash Oprah in a public forum…she has…‘connections.’”

And to you I say- I used to be scared to hate on the Big O in public, for fear she has snipers on every roof top, or the meteorological capability to cause a tidal wave to crash down on me regardless of whether I’m near a beach, in a Walmart, or hiding her book club recommendations at Borders.

So what’s changed? Well my friends, Oprah’s reign of terror is finally coming to an end this season. No more couch jumping lunatics, advice from a woman who’s so rich she probably doesn’t even know how to operate a toaster, or use of the word ‘va-jayjay.’ How old are you again, Winfrey?

Inadvertently, I still picture her series finale coinciding with the end of the world. And it will go something like this:

“Everyone, look under your seats for you FREE PLUUUTONIUUUUUUMMM!!!!”
…and fade to black/massive explosions heard in background.

Yes, Oprah made a name for herself out of practically nothing and that is impressive, but all she ever seems to talk about is either being fat, or losing weight and remembering what it was like when she was fat. One more jerk on this yo-yo and you think the general population would be up to her tricks. But no, she cleverly circumvents this by giving her audience free trips to Australia (that turn out to be not so free after all) and other pretty sparkly things to distract them. Apparently her audience has the IQ of a greedy kitten.

Even her TV channel, the Oprah Winfrey Network, or OWN (how fortuitous), is pompous. Since she’s such a philanthropist and started her own leadership academy schools, I believe it’d be more fitting if it was called the International Oprah Winfrey Network for Youth Organizations United, or I OWN YOU. Juuuust a thought.

But I am so happy to report I am not alone in this hate- a google search of “I hate Oprah” pulled up pages upon pages of yahoo support groups, facebook clubs, and other sites that gradually helped to restore my faith in humanity.

We can unite, people! No longer do we have to let this mogul tell us what to read, who to elect for president, or what’s hot this season (the woman does not dress herself- wear white whenever the hell you want to, but avoid purple pleather pants..that’s a given).

And while I enjoy using the "Oprah voice" for excitingly gaudy conversations, I am now a proud member of about 36 different anti-Oprah clubs. Wendy Williams is where it’s at, anyhow…that woman can DRESS. And I’ve learned really essential things from her, like beef jerky tastes better when heated up with a bic, and that when I say “how YOU doin’” as a tiny white girl, people will not take me seriously.

…………………………………………………………………………………

So eventually there will come a time when Oprah will be but a distant memory. And aside from you and me, loyal reader…I feel the real victims in all of this are Gayle and Steadman.