Crab my ass!!

Does anyone really like california rolls? I mean really... can anyone truly eat a whole order of seafood salad from the deli counter at stop and shop without pucking??
Who invented fake crab and why must I find it constantly showing up in places that it shouldn't.
And why do they bother dying it that vibrant pink/orangy color. Do people actually believe it is crab? Seriously....

Transition Lenses

Apologies if I am offending anyone, but transition lenses are perhaps the trashiest thing you could ever put on your face. The convenience of always having sunglasses on hand isn't enough to justify wearing this god-awful eye wear.




The first pair of commercial transition lenses were introduced to the public in 1991. Seventeen years ago! These were cool seventeen years ago.

If you are still wearing general purpose transition lenses - news flash - you probably either look like a pedophile or a butch, slightly overweight house wife.

I only tell you these things because I love you. Transition lenses are trashy.

Power to the people.

Apparently, I've turned into a frat boy in the recent past because there are few things in this world I love more than a power hour with friends. What is a power hour? The rules are simple. One hour passes. Drink a shot of beer each minute. Try to stand up afterwards. Dance.

I was recently alerted to the existence of the most amazing website in recent memory: These Are Powerful Hours.

My mind was blown. These people are not fucking around and nor should they because a power hour is serious fucking business. This site features the best power hour mixes of all time. Ever. Seriously, a Neptunes power hour mix? Amazing. R. Kelly? Prince?! I will willingly become a frat boy because after two years of solid power hours with awkward mix CD's filched from Wendy's roommate, I am ready for something that is as serious as I am. That's what this brilliance is.

Getting naked.

This is brief.

How trashy is it to get butt-ass naked whenever you see your friends? I'm not sure if this is trashy or awesome but I think I need someone to weigh in on this.

We're not that trashy, my friends and I. We have our moments of pure and total trash, when we're sitting on the couch eating spaghetti out of a shared Tupperware and watching "The Holiday" but what group of friends doesn't? However, we welcomed in 2008 by getting naked and dancing for three hours while wearing party hats.

I'll let you be the judge.

Trashy Food Part One: Hot Pockets

Welcome to the Trashy or Not: Trashy Food Cycle 2007. In this series, I plan on fully exploring the world of microwaveable entrées and bastard foods. Today, we’ll start with Hot Pockets.

Hot Pockets brand stuffed sandwiches were introduced to stores in 1983 and purchased by Nestle 19 years later. There are currently five different Hot Pocket brand stuffed sandwiches and countless “flavors” in production. Being an Italian American, I’m most offended by the “Subs” and “Calzone” categories. (I assume these taste like a sub and/or calzone being thrown up into your mouth…like a pre-chewed sandwich.) Anyhow, the five sub brands are listed below:

>> Hot Pockets
>> Lean Pockets
>> Croissant Pockets
>> Subs
>> Calzones

Have you ever smelled a Hot Pocket while it is cooking in the microwave? It smells like plastic. I know this because my older brother is an avid Hot Pocket consumer. Not only are these people eating sketchy frozen meat nuggets…but they are also green-lighting their decision AFTER they smell the thing cooking. My mind is blown.

I’m going to assume that most people start eating Hot Pockets because they are “quick” and “easy.” Well, so is a grilled cheese made on the stove…with real bread and real cheese. Pasta is also easy. BOIL SOME WATER (it comes out of the tap hot, you’re half way there before you even turn on the burner). Pull yourselves together, people! Being a lazy slob is unattractive and trashy. I know that you don’t have many cooking supplies in your parents basement. But come on, be an adult and start eating big people food.

For further investigation, I urge you to read about a real life Hot Pocket dissection.

Bubbly

I don't know why it is, but most things associated with bubbles are kind of trashy. This is something I just realized as I was reading a draft of a post I had crafted about hot tubs. There's so much in this world that's "bubbly" and that I consider trashy as well. See the following.



1. Champagne. I really don't think there is a classy incident, save weddings and some celebrations where champagne can be considered classy. I associate champagne with headaches, constant burping and a freewheeling, loopy drunk that makes me want to make out with everyone and chain-smoke while swigging out of the bottle and burping with gusto.



2. Bubble baths. Just gross, guys. I don't know. Some find bubble baths to be relaxing moments, taking time out of the stressful everyday to relax in a peaceful oasis of softly sented bubbles and candles and whatever. Fuck that. Bubble baths remind me of vaseline-smeared photos of women with frosted lipstick and bad eyeshadow batting lashes at the camera. Has anyone ever really enjoyed a bubble bath? They are good for about 2 minutes and then the water gets lukewarm and you realize you're sitting in a tepid pool of dead skin. Then you get pruney and the bubbles fade. You're left with nothing but shame.



3. Hot tubs. This is where the line is fuzzy, because hot tubs are awesome in a sleazy 70's-Marin-key-party-swinger kind of way. I love a good hot tub, maybe under the stars with someone fun to make out with and a nice joint. That's good right there. That's living. Hot tubs reveal their trashy underbelly when they are located at motels. I once spent an awkward 15 minutes in a hot tub at a Holiday Inn Express in Ukiah, located right off the freeway. There was a girl who made small talk with us while chain-smoking Kools. After she left, we stared at the space over each other's heads for about 5 more minutes, then walked silently back to our room, silently acknowledging the trashiness that had just occurred.

The beauty in the trashiness inherent in bubbly things is their irrefutable power when employed simultaneously. Separately, these things are mildly trashy, but together they form a Triumvirate of Trash. If you're sitting in a hot tub drinking champagne out of the bottle whilst Calgon takes you away, we might as well bag your ass up and put you on the curb for the garbage man because you are officially TRASH.

My lip gloss is cool.

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Kitty kat.

Please direct your attention to the following site. This was brought to my attention by a delightful friend who suggested this go on le blog. Never did I think I would be discussing perfume that smells like a ripe vag, but stranger things have happened.

It goes without saying that this is unspeakably, horrifically trashy. This is perhaps the zenith of trash, along with frosted lipstick and styling mousse. There are people in this world who decided it would be okay to BOTTLE THE SCENT OF A WOMAN'S VAGINA. People. Seriously. I don't care if you're a neckbearded virgin with a RealDoll at home in your parent's basement or some gigolo pimp-master brohan who bags Marina bitches every weekend with a calculated recipe of crantinis and an excessive amount of Acqua di Gio. This product is marketed at each and every one of you. As a MASTURBATORY AID. If you are so fucking creepy that you need manufactured scent of vagina to bring yourself to pitiful, gasping orgasm, I sincerely hope that you never get laid again.

Hair of the dog.

You rallied last night, got your ass off the couch and went out to the bar with the kids. Maybe you didn't eat dinner. Maybe you had two huge drinks, smoked some pot and then ate a burrito. Maybe also you threw up last night and briefly considered making a bed for yourself on the floor of the bathroom with the throw rug draped ceremoniously over you like a stole. Now you're awake, you've got a headache and every time you stand up you bob and weave like a homeless. This is not ideal. It's Sunday. There's shit that needs to get done. Laundry. Return things to the library. Take a shower. Fix your bangs, which are insane right now. Maybe eat those chips your roommate bought last night while you contemplate doing a face mask and watching Season 4 of Sex and the City. You kind of wish you could get stoned and watch nature shows on the Discovery Channel but lack cable, pot and the drive to find either. Looks like someone's hung over!

Hangovers look like this. Hangovers are the feeling when you wake up dressed only in your underwear and a sweatshirt, wondering why you failed to put on pants or remove the sweatshirt. Sometimes you wake up and there's a bag of Milanos, a Nalgene filled with water and a pair of scissors in your bed next to you. There's no reasonable explanation for this.
Let's all try to handle hangovers with decorum, grace and dignity. Wash your face. Put on some pants. Brush your teeth, even if the sensation of the toothbrush in your mouth is enough to make you vomit again. Throw on your eating pants and get your ass to brunch. You're going to eat a trough full of hash-browns, hollandaise and bacon. It's going to be delicious.

Get a job.

A change has come over me recently. A sudden, nauseating but also oddly liberating change. A change that was a long time coming, maybe, but was also one for the better, even though I didn't believe that at first and had to be told this over drinks and photobooth pictures one balmy Wednesday in early September. I've shuffled off the mortal coil of Bravo! Marketing. I've become unemployed. Redundant, as the British call it. Done.

This recent development leads to an entirely new realm of trashiness previously undiscovered and never written about on this blog. Daytime trashiness. Middle of the week, still at home in your pajamas because you woke up at 7:30 thinking you still had a job for a brief moment trashiness. Watching the Today Show past 9 am. Forcing yourself to leave the house and going to Walgreens to buy tampons and a blowdryer. Walking around throngs of the possibly-homeless pushing carts in the A/V section of the library and coming home with awkward documentaries and a copy of "Say Anything" because you haven't seen it yet, but you heard it was good. Yesterday, I watched a documentary about children at a musical theatre camp in the Catskills and somehow felt ok about myself after it was over. This is monumental.

There's something vaguely unclean about being home during the day on a weekday. For a while, you feel like you're just at home, on a sick day, and it's fun. No one's around! I can eat ice cream! Look, I'm watching the View! Then, around 12:30, it hits. You've been up for a really long time. You thought you had a job when you woke up this morning and in fact, you do not. People have already started their day and are at lunch, eating compact plates of falafel and chatting with their co-workers. You've maybe had a handful of cookies and stared at the fridge with the door open for a while. You peck for a little while at craigslist and send out some cover letters. It all feels rusty, like you've done this before and it sucked and now you have to do it again. There's an air of desperation, even though it's sunny and perfect outside. You know you're going to get through this, regardless of what happens. It will all be ok.