"Booty Pop"

New inventions are happening everyday. This is something I benefited from until I woke up old one day. Now, every new invention feels like another thing to learn, another thing to spend money on and another thing that’s just a few years too late. Once you graduate from the limelight of the 18- to 24-year-old demographic and you’re no longer the apple of every retailer’s eye, you fall into the grey, ambivalent area of 25- to 34-year-olds and new products don’t really appeal to anything other than your bitterness. So when I came across Booty Pop, I assumed my reaction was like many other 25- to 34-year-olds: Seriously? WTF!



According to the commercial, Booty Pop will give you a “sexier, more desirable booty instantly,” and it’s just like a “padded bra for your butt!” Every claim made my heart sink deeper into my protruding gut. As a curvy female who is proud to have something to shake, even if it is her upper arm, I feel conflicted. Is this a sign that society has finally become accepting of women with curves, with imitation (or simulation) being the most sincere form of flattery? Or is this just another way for skinny girls to get ahead, by perpetuating an unrealistic body type? I settled on the latter because in a society where Kim Kardashian can be famous for more than 15 minutes because she has an ass big enough to have its own zip code, Booty Pop is anything butt a step in the right direction for women and body image.

As the commercial says, “Booty Pop turns a droopy derriere into a youthful looking, head turning, bootylicious booty,” it cuts to scenes of men checking out women’s asses in inappropriate settings because, how else would you know you look hot? No one seems to care about how all these newly bootyfied women are going to be wearing dirty underwear all the time, because, you know, cleanliness is a virtue second only to hotness.

At this point in my life, I see a commercial for something like Booty Pop and the 18- to 24-year-old inside of me giggles while the 25- to 34-year-old inside of me rolls her eyes, swallows a regurgitation of feminist theory, and bitterly reflects on the past. I have spent the last decade overeating in hopes of one day having an ass like JLo, so you can imagine my disappointment when – after nine years of hard work, dedication and a strict diet of doughnuts, McDonald’s, beer and cheese cubes – someone decides to go and invent padded underwear.

So, you know what Booty Pop? You owe me 20 pounds of cellulite.

(And I don't think it's a coincidence that "Booty Pop" is one dangerous typo away from being "Booty Poop.")

Without Resolution

New Year’s resolutions remind me of tired Clinton/Lewinsky jokes that aren’t good enough to leave a stain (see what I did there?).

I used to make resolutions every year until I realized it’s all a part of society’s maniacal plan to turn us into productive, focused and disciplined individuals. By maintaining a steady routine, I’m able to break and reinstate every New Year’s resolution multiple times throughout the year, which means my resolutions are green because I recycle them year after year (Al Gore says it’s good for the environment). These recycled resolutions are:

1. Quit smoking (Or only smoke when I drink. Cocktail anyone?)
2. Lose ____ pounds (This year we are in the double double digits.)
3. Stop complaining so much (But it’s so hard!)
4. Eat healthier (These cookies are organic.)
5. Write more (Why not? No one reads this crap anyway.)

Usually I start the New Year off by attacking these resolutions with gusto for at least two days before I get bored and forget about them until March, but something about 2009 left a bad taste in my mouth and I’m not ready to face another year of the same resolutions. When I thought about changing my resolutions I was put off by the thought of anything coming before these five main goals, which I’ve become attached to over the years. Still, it’s like I keep hitting the snooze button on 2010. At this point, February is looking like a much better time to start working towards having Jenny McCarthy’s body by bathing suit season. But then I thought, “I can’t start on my New Year’s resolutions while people still have their Christmas lights up!” and because I live in Kansas City, this means I won’t get started on my resolutions until mid-March, maybe April (people really like their Christmas decorations here). But if I manage to accomplish one of those five goals this year, does it really matter when I start trying? Besides, January is the coldest, most depressing, uneventful month of the year and it’s hilarious to think I’m going to accomplish anything while I wait out this misery from the comfort of my couch.

For me, resolutions are like empty boxes wrapped in beautiful paper artfully adorned with ribbons and bows—meaningless, but nice as decoration. I won't be fooled into self-improvement this year just to set unreasonable expectations for myself and wallow in the disappointment of inevitable failure. So, to media targeting my guilt and feelings of inadequacy at the start of the New Year: Stop bombarding me with your resolution suggestions, top tens, anecdotes, advice and try reporting on something relevant, like how to shovel a driveway with a fork when everyone is sold out of snow shovels.

Maybe I’ll jump on the resolution bandwagon in June when everyone has given up hope and canceled their gym memberships, but for now I plan to focus on not bettering myself until I’m ready. So goodbye to 2009, I’m off like an intern’s blue dress and onto 2010.

Notice of Eviction

Dear Mice Living in My House,

I wanted to write you this letter to see if we might be able to reach an agreement regarding your stay in my house.

We have never met, but I’m almost certain I do not like you. Based on the few occasions in which you’ve been spotted, it has come to my attention that you exhibit none of the qualities I require for mouse tenants. For example, none of you are anything like the mice in Cinderella—you don’t sing, dance, make dresses, act as my confidant or turn into ponies to pull my pumpkin carriage. Additionally, you are not cute, cuddly or brave, and, again, you cannot sing, which tells me you’re nothing like Fievel, my second favorite mouse character (the mice in Cinderella being number one). You also do not have big round ears that I want to wear as a hat or cute, high-pitched voices, and you don’t have awesome friends like Donald Duck and Goofy, which means you’ve completely failed to be anything like Mickey and Mini Mouse.

Based on the top tier of my requirements, you are all complete disappointments; however, this is not to say you wouldn’t be welcomed in my home because few people, I mean, few mice meet all of the top requirements. Let us move on to the second, far more attainable, tier and see how you measure up. We will begin by acknowledging the fact that you’re not rats. This is a positive, but your lack of secrets and someone named Mrs. Frisby is not, meaning you’re nothing like your brethren in The Secret Rats of NIMH. To further support that point, you’re all cowards, constantly scattering from sight so that I’m left tormented by your sounds and questioning my sanity. Since I’m fairly certain most of you have set up shop under the refrigerator where you are living fat, happy lives, I assume none of you are anything like the brave mice in “The Rescuers,” my next favorite group of mice characters. Lastly, I do not have a cat, I have a slow-brained dog with A.D.D., which means you can’t be like Jerry, who is cute, adorable, funny and smart.

Now that we’ve established your failure to meet the criteria in the second tier as set forth in my requirements for mouse tenants, we can move on to evaluating your performance in the third tier. Your performance in the third tier matters very little as I’ve pretty much already decided I want to kill you, so this part is really just a formality. I've already noted that you're not rats and since I'm very aware of your presence, you obviously don’t have any ninja skills, meaning you have nothing in common with Master Splinter, which tells me you would be terrible at protecting me from danger. Next, I don’t see capes, or any other superhero gear hiding in the closet and none of you can fly, so you’re clearly nothing like Mighty Mouse. And finally, judging from your blatant, taunting strolls from behind the television and into the vents, I do not believe that any of you have the "shy, pleasant manner of a mouse" such as one Stuart Little.

Since you have failed to meet all of the requirements in my three tiers of acceptable qualities found in mice tenants, it is only natural for me to assume that you also have nothing in common with the Dormouse from Alice in Wonderland, Despereaux from The Tale of Despereaux, or Chuck E. Cheese.

Based on this thorough evaluation, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that you are no longer welcome in my home, yes, that’s right, not even in the basement. Your eviction will take place immediately and you will be given one week from today, that is seven days, to evacuate. Failure to evict within the allotted time will result in your forceful removal from the premises, which may or may not be fatal. It is not the wishes of the establishment to inflict harm on you or your belongings; however, we did go to Home Depot, and, well, we’re just saying, you’re totally screwed if you don’t leave on your own because some of us didn’t see the point in providing you with a proper eviction notice before, you know, “taking care of you” (you’re lucky I believe in fair housing and equal opportunity, even for disgusting rodents).

I urge you to comply with this invitation to leave peacefully. I would also encourage you to appeal this eviction notice, but lacking all of the important anthropomorphic features noted above, I doubt it is even option. Should you have any questions, I suggest you learn to talk.

Best wishes for a bright future!

Sincerely,
The Human You’re Really Pissing Off