The Season of Self-Loathing

So, January.  It’s cliché, I know, to talk about New Year’s resolutions.  But I don’t have much else to discuss (and I must discuss something, as “posting on the blog once a week” is one of my NYRs), and it beats all the other topics my friends are discussing these days: the doomsday scenario of the Republicans taking over the House, the doomsday scenario of the Michigan coaching situation, etc.

My problem with NYRs is that I already feel the pressure, almost every day, to be perfect in all aspects of life.  I touched on this idea in my last post—the struggle of trying to be a successful student while maintaining a rigorous workout schedule.  Do I really need another push, telling me I have to better myself in some way?  A nagging voice telling me I must make up for my positively slovenly behavior of the past few months?  (I made Christmas cookies, yes.  And I ate quite a few…GUILTY!)

The other problem with NYRs is that they’re often contradictory.  Last year at this time, I embarked on a Paleo Challenge, where I ate nothing but whole, real foods for six weeks.  No sugar, wheat, dairy, beans, legumes, or processed anything.  I felt great, I looked pretty good (if I do say so myself), and I felt pretty darn virtuous.  The problem was, it was really difficult to maintain, not least of all because it was expensive.  And that’s where the contradiction comes in: I want to eat well, but I also want to spend less money.  I need to spend less money.  I currently make negative money.

"I Liked You Better When I Thought You Were Gay"

...and other things I think but don't say.


Upon viewing a woman repeatedly sneezing into her hand on the subway:
"Oh, no, gross! You're not going to...yep, you did. You grabbed the pole with the hand you just sneezed in. Now let me say, on behalf of all passengers who will unwittingly touch that pole after you: you're an asshole."

Upon once again receiving no response after greeting an acquaintance:
"Okay, I get it, we don't really know each other outside of the break room, but is it so hard to return a hello? Instead you avoid looking at me like I have snakes growing out of my head. I see you use a [prominent investment bank] mug; is that where you used to work? Do you think that makes you better than the rest of us? You work here now, so obviously not. Also, your hair looks like a bad toupee."

Upon witnessing a woman using a dozen--yes, I counted--paper towels to dry her hands in the ladies' room:
"So, do you have OCD? Or do you just really really hate the environment? I mean, your method of crumpling four paper towels in your hands--three of them aren't even making contact with your skin!--throwing them away, then repeating this process two more times is the most wasteful act I have ever witnessed.  I would like to go to your apartment, wash my hands, then dry them on every single hand towel you own and throw them on the floor."

A Snip by Any Other Name

The title of this blog, Snippets, was chosen because of the nature of its contents (little bits of everything) and because my long-time nickname is Snip.  When hearing the nickname, people always want to know where it came from. "Why Snip?" as if there's some easy explanation.

There are really only two kinds of nicknames, the obvious ones (Al, for Alison, or Scottie, for our Scottish receptionist at work) and the ones that came about in a bizarre way, after a bender in Vegas, or have evolved over the years.  Snip is one of those kinds of nicknames, minus the Vegas part. It came about in a bizarre way, almost 12 years ago, and evolved from its original form. And now that I'm an adult, retelling a story that happened when I was (ahem) 14 years old just doesn't seem appropriate.  Recently, I've been tempted to make things up.

Why do they call you Snip?
My teacher thought I had a snippy personality.

Why do they call you Snip?
I loved Rice Krispies so much--remember Snap, Crackle, and Pop?--that my parents joked I was the fourth Krispie elf, Snip.

Why do they call you Snip?
I work part time as a moile.

Are any of these the real story? No. Am I going to tell you the real story...

My Imaginary Comedy Routine

Sometimes I think that if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out, I should try standup comedy.  No, really.

I’ve thought about it a lot actually.  What would be my angle?  My opener?  I’ve decided I would definitely be one of those self-deprecating* comics. Most of my act would involve making fun of myself: my gangly-ness, my klutziness, my knack for getting myself into extremely awkward situations.  Like the time I thought it would be awesome to take up power lifting.  (More on that later.)  Or the time I thought it was a great idea to take in the stray cat I’d found that had cajones the size of tennis balls.  Or the time I helped a visually- and hearing-impaired man complete a marathon—while he took a smoke break every two miles.

So that would be my angle.  And I’d have to make fun of my appearance too, of course.  Every great comedian has done that: Farley, Belushi, Candy.  But since I don’t exactly have the “funny fat guy” thing going for me, I would probably riff on my tiny golf ball head or my bony knees. But I think my main shtick would be, "Attractive, but not attractive enough."  Here's how it works. I'd get on stage and say:

“I'm attractive enough that guys hit on me in bars, but not attractive enough that the losers still think they have a shot. Like, someone will buy me a drink—yeah!—but he's got a leering expression and he’s a little cross-eyed.  And he’s creepy enough that I have excuse myself to the restroom just to pour out the drink—because I'm 90% sure there's roofies in it.”

Are you rolling on the floor yet?  No?  Well, then I’d have a hilarious (true!) story to back this up:

“This one time, I was out with some girlfriends in Chicago. And I hadn't seen one of the girls in years, so I was really excited to catch up with her. But this random guy—I don't remember what he looked like, probably pretty average in every way—kept trying to talk to me. And I was blowing him off, because I was more interested in talking with my friend. So eventually he gets the hint, looks me up and down, and goes, ‘You're not that good looking.’”

Zing!  Get it?  Like, I was attractive enough for him to hit on, but ugly enough that I should have been grateful for his attention…I swear, if I told it on stage it would sound funny and not totally pathetic and sad.

Okay, the material’s a little rough, but there’s something there!  Either way, I think I’ll stick to the writing thing, at least for now.

*I’ve also thought of a comedy bit about a self-deprecating rapper.  This joke hasn’t gotten past the idea stage, but I think there’s a lot to be mined here: someone who raps about having no money, aluminum fillings, scuffed sneakers from Payless, and how he can only hook up with girls with bony asses.  Hilarious.

Queen of Hearts

What I'm about to confess may seem shocking, even enviable, but I'm here to argue that it's actually a burden. Here goes: I've never been dumped.

Okay, this is not entirely true. I was dumped by my very first boyfriend, Pat M—, in ninth grade. That courtship lasted approximately 11 days, during which time we saw one movie (his sister drove us), talked on the phone a few times, and never even kissed. I remember being sad for a few days afterwards. His reason for dumping me? He wanted to date my friend Jessica S— instead. I can't really blame him. While she and I shared similar attributes: we were both in Advanced Math, were thin and had brown hair—Jessica was endowed with the more ample chest. And while she and I shared the same circle of friends, she had the edge when it came to popularity. She had her pick of guys, which is probably why she and Pat never went out. Good thing too, or my misery may have extended a whole week.

I Heart Hipsters

So I’m headed to Williamsburg, Brooklyn Thursday night for a concert. For those of you who live in NYC, you know what this means. For those of you who don’t, I will sum it up in one word for you: hipsters.

No, this isn’t going to be a screed against hipsters. In fact, I can’t understand why people hate them so much. They are so fun to observe, especially in their natural habitats. Also, I feel I have a lot in common with hipsters. They drink beer; I drink beer. We listen to a lot of the same music. Sometimes I think the only reason I’m not a hipster it just seems like too much work, too much keeping up of appearances. Also, I think it’s cool to like things.

But I guess the main reason I like hipsters is I love it when a certain group consistently lives up to its stereotype. (Which is probably the reason I love Jersey Shore so much.) The last time I went to a concert in W’burg, you could have pooled a random group of attendees and found that each person was wearing either a) a flannel shirt, b) skinny jeans, c) plastic frame glasses, d) a beard, or e) some combination of the above. It was funny, and also comforting. Because I knew I could hold my own if any sort of fight broke out.

Sorry, couldn’t help myself. Hipsters, you know I love you.