Pretty solid advice from “New Girl.”
"I know you want to eat but it’s not time to eat.”
"Oh, sweet pea. You’re really bad at geometry."
"You want to burrow under the blankets? You love burrowing!"
"You gain weight really weirdly, bud."
I want to talk a little bit today about my favorite thing on TV: IHOP’s ad campaign.
In case you haven’t caught these ads, they’re filled with impossibly hip, cheerful youths (just like me and my friends!!!) who say hip, young people words about how yummeriffic these bangin’ pancakes are at wickety-wack IHOP.
Check out that backwards cap on that dude! He looks rad and I bet he shreds on his BMX. Do you think he and his bro called each other that morning to coordinate the peach and green tones of their shirts? Ka-blam! Totes radical, friendoz!
"IHOP nailed it!" This guy said. Nailed what? Who cares? HashtagSweetEarringAndVestCombo, amirite?
"OMG this pile of starch is so good (and my giant glasses make me relatable, right, youths?)"
This guy mumbles a little bit, but after playing it like 15 times I’m pretty sure he honest-to-god says, “As the young people say, this has swag.” (It’s definitely worth it to see for yourself; he appears around 0:18.)
I’m pretty sure the mumbling was because this poor man couldn’t bring himself to say the words written, undoubtedly, by three middle-aged white men in a high rise in Boise. (“Tell the kiddos to stop wearing their pants so low and make them drive slower on the freeway!”)
Though the hip kid lingo is gorgeous, everyone’s cartoonish enthusiasm is the best part of these ads. Nobody in the history of the world has ever made Glasses Girl’s face at an IHOP—at least not from pleasure. And if you interview a typical IHOP diner, they’re not going to enthusiastically shovel their pancake into their face while exclaiming, “I can’t get enough of this!" They also won’t say, "This is beyond delicious. I don’t think ‘delicious’ is the right word for it." The most you’ll get out of a typical IHOP diner is a shrug and nod, like, "yeah, it’s OK." You also might get, "Get out of my face. I’m driving cross country and I haven’t slept in 37 hours."
In conclusion, I love these ads because they make me feel like I’m just hangin’ with my peer demographic of 25-to-35-year-olds, chowin’ on some totes awesome ‘cakes while jammin’ to sweet tunes. Come on, other peer demographic members! Hop on your skateboard or car and let’s flash some fat stax at IHOP! Hashtag pancakes! Hashtag self-loathing!
Discover whether you are guilty of maleficium and/or would have been accused of practicing witchcraft according to the laws and evidence used during the 1692 Salem Witch Trials.
I started to post this on my friend’s Facebook wall, then I thought of about a dozen other witchy friends, and then I realized I only ever associate with witches, so may as well make this shit public.
File this next to “whalebone corsets” under “THANK GOD WE’VE (slightly) PROGRESSED.”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be putting on pants, piloting a horseless carriage, and talking to men to whom I am not married, BRAZENLY and WITHOUT SHAME.
I was in line at the bank behind a mom and her ten-year-old son. He had the spooked-horse look of early adolescence and tried to look cool, as if his mom just “happened” to be standing with him but definitely did not under any circumstances drive him there, would not drive him home, and most certainly would not be buying him ice cream with sprinkles later.
The kid was wearing gym shorts, sandals, one blue sock and one green one, and—the pièce de résistance—a tshirt that read, "Often imitated. Never duplicated."
A montage of every stupid t-shirt I had at his age flashed in front of my eyes. I wanted to clutch this child to my bosom and rock him back and forth while singing “Kumbaya” until he stopped resisting. (Either from the peace in his heart or from the oxygen deprivation.) “Shhh, sweet prince,” I would yell over his screams. “It will all be okay. IT. WILL. ALL. BE. OKAY.”
"Let us rejoice in this fertile season! The sweet water goddess has visited us twice in seven moons!"
"Our prayers have been answered!"
"We should mark it: July 31-August 6 will be a feast celebration. We must not ever forget this abundance. Its memory will hold us through the lean times."
"Sacrificing Leon was completely worth it."
"Carl, we decided never to speak of that."
"I miss Leon."
"I mean it, Carl."
…Unless those thoughts are the funny kind of mean, in which case, grow away and then give them to me in a bouquet.
This Tiny Buddy is Elliot.
When we go on walks, it’s very, very important to him that he pee on stuff. These walks tend to get boring for me. So I’ve started thinking about it like a turf war, where I’m helping Elliot stake his claim on land (mailboxes, plants, curbs) that is rightfully his. It’s all a little colonialist for my taste, but I guess don’t hate the player, hate the game.
Because he is the size of a loaf of Wonderbread on stilts, I consider this very serious business. He’s a little dude and he doesn’t get a lot of “wins” in life, so defending his territory against other animals is very important to him.
Today we conquered the courtyard of a nearby shopping center and a path behind a hotel. Go, tiny buddy, go.
I’ve been afraid to write from any dark places for fear that it would feel too navel-gazey and bore everyone. I’ve also been afraid to admit those dark places, because then the public might find out that I don’t have the answers. But spoiler: I really don’t. Because another spoiler: answers don’t exist. Also, Santa Claus was your dad and your dog didn’t really go live on a farm upstate.
New “Psychology Today” post, where I realize that waiting around until PEARLS OF WISDOM FLOW FROM MY FINGERS is really just a waste of time, ‘cause sometimes I’m too sick for that shit. Also, it’ll make you think a lot about spiders.