Gogo In Flight makes me Gogo Crazy

Wi-Fi in planes. It’s a “new” thing (relatively speaking, compared to the overall evolution of man). But when I say Wi-Fi, don’t jump to conclusions….I don’t mean actual internet access. I mean that you, the passenger, get to pay for the privilege of trying to connect to a spotty network for the duration of your flight. Sounds fun, right?

Here’s why it is the worst thing ever:

1. Hate paying for something that MIGHT work. Might not. Totally depends on the flight, weather, and a billion other variables out of your control.

2. Once you’re IN the game of trying to get it to work, you can’t let go. I mean, you payed for the goddamn thing. IT’S GONNA WORK IF IT KILLS YOU.

3. Wasted flight. An entire wasted flight.

4. We miss the days where you had an excuse to IGNORE the world on a flight. You’re in the sky? Need to reach me? Go f*ck yourself! Well, now. That ain’t true.

Wi-Fi may a recent addition to the skies, but it is already so five minutes ago. What next? Wi-Fi lining the ocean floor, so you can connect while scuba diving?

TLL and PADS

I’d like to spend a blog post shouting out syndromes that used to afflict me in my early twenties. Syndromes that probably cripple many twenty-somethings out there, as they once did me. Let’s raise some awareness for TLL and PADS.
TLL….Too Lazy to Leave. When you’re somewhere (namely work) and you want to go home but the dread of the commute feels all-encompassing. Packing up one’s stuff seems like climbing a tall, tall mountain. So you stay put. Sounds ridiculous but it TOTALLY HAPPENS. ALL THE TIME. Until you get yo’ ass outta that chair and hit the road, jack.

PADS….Post-Alcohol Depression Syndrome. First introduced to me on Gay Pride, this is the terrifying post-bender funk that one finds themselves in. Sometimes it even strikes before the bender has ended…creeping in slowly until you can’t even enjoy yourself anymore. It’s sort of like being on a perpetual last day of vacation before heading back to work. Like, one in four Americans is afflicted by PADS every Sunday. Crazy stats.

Now, both of these seem so five minutes ago to me….I’m actually not drinking right now because PADS SUCKS. I learned that one too many times. But for all you fresh-faced recent college grads out there….go ahead. You’ll be crippled by TLL and PADS soon enough, I guarantee it.

Hangover

PDA is PD-Over

Hey friends. So PDA. You all know it. You’ve all seen it. Hell, maybe you’ve even DONE it. But moving forward, let’s all get on the same page.

PDA is gross. No one wants to see folks swap spit when they’re trying to get from A to B. I didn’t sign up to watch people who clearly aren’t meant for the big screen attempt to act out the culmination of their favorite romance movie. Arm around shoulder = acceptable. Hand holding = occasionally acceptable. Anything more? So five minutes ago.

Now I’m not saying this is Downton Abbey where a long glance is the equivalent of getting to first base. We’re not in the Victorian era of public restraint. But there are some places where the person to person contact should be kept at bay. For New Yorkers, the subway is the penultimate cathedral of gross PDA. You’re in close proximity, trapped in a small car with no way out until the next stop. It’s like watching a bad movie you can’t stop.

And now, I’m gonna go all real on the situation. There’s two instances where PDA is marginally okay. If it’s two hot people exercising some public PDA, then it’s just a nice viewing party for passers-by. Beautiful people engaged in endearment is like watching a live romantic comedy, after the couple gets together. Awghhh, adorbs. The second instance? Old people — and we’re talking basic PDA here, no deep cuts. Old people embracing is the equivalent of getting When Harry Met Sally performed live. Love lives on!! Cute.

But most people? Most people are NOT a cute old person or half of a beautiful couple. So keep the passion private please. It’s gross for the rest of us.

Now the other PDA…public displays of arguing. That’s a whole separate diatribe.

Instagram is the New Food Porn

So a couple years ago EVERYONE became a foodie (Seriously, who the hell isn’t a foodie these days? Loving food is almost getting to be like the poor man’s choice of hobby. I throw it in the same category as saying you love to “travel” and answering that you’re a “people person” when asked for your strengths in an interview). With so many goddamn foodies out there, everyone also seemed to buy cameras and start food blogs and take lots and lots and lots of close-up shots of food. Since we’re a nation of fat people (statistically speaking of course…NO judgement laden in that statement, wink wink) we said hey – forget about real porn, this food photography is pretty damn drool-worthy. Let’s ogle that at less risk of malware infecting our computers.

Then sophisticated food porn spun out of control and generated the Hustler of food blogs, like “This Is Why You’re Fat.”

Then Michelle Obama told us that being fat was nothing to be proud of, and hey – we gotta fix that. So bye-bye “This Is Why You’re Fat.”

But don’t despair, food porn addicts. With the advent of Instagram, we now can turn ANYTHING into drool-worthy photography (for better or for worse – some think worse). I love spamming my own camera with hundreds of photos of the same damn thing. Visiting a cool forest? Don’t just take one photo. TAKE PHOTOS OF EVERYTHING. Bam -  leaf porn (especially stunning in the fall). You can BINGE on picture-taking because Instagram offers a billion different lenses to make each picture look more drool-worthy than the next. You could even be photographing jars. Now you have hipster porn. You have vintage looking cool jars, not just goddamn dirty jars. See? So easy. Plain photography is the new retro. But hey, isn’t retro getting to be so five minutes ago?

Summer in NYC is Bipolar

Why on earth is it that in July and August in NYC it’s either boiling hot (outside) or frigid (inside). Can some happy medium exist that doesn’t shock our body into thinking we’re either at the North Pole or in Sub-Saharan Africa?
Outside it’s a hot steamy mess or humid traffic, people, and swelter…..and inside office buildings it’s an Arctic Zone where sleeveless tops make one want to find the nearest fleece blanket within a one-block radius.
We’re living in a world with the iPhone -  can’t we establish a normal temperature for goodness sakes? Too cold or too hot? That’s so five minutes ago (or so fifty years ago, rather).

Swag, Yang, and the New Lang

Aside from the occasional Urban Dictionary browse, I’ve learned that I’m horrible passé when it comes to street lingo. My lame lingo is more than so five minutes ago. After spending a day at a school in Queens painting it bright colors (booyah key lime walls!) I walked away with a newfound appreciation for the verbiage of today’s inner city youth. They gots SWAG, yo.

My lil buddies, Adele and Zsa Zsa (yes, like the actress) schooled me in what’s in and what’s out when it comes to lingo. Some words were like hearing a new language. “Jawn” means fine — as in, “That boy sure is jawn.” Of course, I googled this immediately upon returning to an internet connection, and found this very fascinating article on the etymology of “jawn” as a slang local Philadelphia term. But I digress.

Some terms were more intuitive — to “cut on” someone is to make fun of them. “Cuffed” is when you’re in a relationship, a la handcuffs.  When they told me “jacking” something was stealing it, I was like — and that’s actually part of the real English language. Please see “carjack.”

Either way, below I’ve shared a mini-dictionary of my learnings. I intend to use each of them at least once a day, to fully incorporate them into my vocabulary. Side note: I got a 45 minute separate lesson on the meaning of “swag” — an ambiguous but ever important label that is as complimentary as it is divisive (As in “Nicki Minaj USUALLY has swag but dayum, did you see her at the VMAs? She was a hot MESS.”)

flea = fresh; fly

tight = mad

dub = mistake; faux-pas

shake = fight

skeeve; griz; hit; lit = ugly

haan = expression of approval (mostly used in the context of egging on someone who is “cutting on” someone else)

get off my yang = get off my case

you went to DR = something you say to someone who is over the top

Restorative Yoga AKA Paying for a Nap

Restorative yoga is a guilty pleasure. Sure, the health and body-conscious part of me begrudgingly sends me off into a vinyasa class, knowing that I should get my sweat on. And given that I’m not really religious, maybe some semblance of spirituality on the side.

But restorative yoga….now THAT’S the stuff. It’s the best part of yoga, shavasana (or lying on the floor at the end of class), for an ENTIRE CLASS. Ok, sure — there are some “poses” like lying to the left, lying to the right, lying on your stomach. But in essence, you’re lying there.
BRILLIANT! And people pay for this. To lie in an incense-smelling, candle-lit room with other strangers, cozily wrapped in yoga blankets. The teacher’s soothing voice…New Age-ey music…occasional light massage-ey, reiki-ish touch of the teacher….theoretically this primes you for some deep muscular healing. Or for me, it puts me to sleep. Like, not light sleep. Out cold.

Sleep. Nothin’ more restorative than that. Being awake = so five minutes ago.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 52 other followers

%d bloggers like this: