Good Friday: A Man I'd Like To Know Biblically

It has been a very big week for Tom Hiddleston. A very big, very luscious, lip-biting, totally ravishing week. First, the new Jaguar 2014 commercial that's scheduled to air during the Super Bowl drops. In it, we see Tom sipping tea out of a cup trimmed with what I can only imagine is gold he procured from a mineshaft simply by eyeing it salaciously. (For the video, click here). Then, Elle UK released their upcoming article on Tom for the March 2014 issue, in which he details his first kiss when he was 10. My first kiss was also when I was 10. It was with my lifeguard, whom I assaulted by climbing onto his back and planting my thin, Caucasian lips that are comparable to a deflated balloon near his mouth area. Not everything is romance, I guess.

All of this I could handle, and even then, I was just barely making it through the day without taking screen shots of every picture of him and sending it to all of my friends. But now, as if we weren’t all suffering enough, the team of sadomasochists in great lip colors at Elle released an exclusive video of Tom Hiddleston doing parkour through the streets of London. Here he is, taking a quick detour from his cute marathon run to ascend a wall.

Besides the obvious physical properties that would cause me to ask “how?” my biggest question, Tom, is why? Why would you scale a wall? What do you need? Are you robbing a bank? Is this a diamond heist? Are you now an illicit member of an underground criminal ring like Oceans 11? Whatever it is you want, I will give it to you. No, I don’t think you heard me correctly- I will give it to you.

He’s running stairs. Why are you doing that? Don’t you know physical exertion is for people that hate themselves? Stop it. You just got signed to do a third film in the Thor franchise. You’re the star of a timeless theater production that’s now being broadcasted worldwide. Your ass looks like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream. Stop punishing yourself.

So, my dear Tom, that's been my week. Absolutely tormenting. Would love to lay down as man and wife. Let me know what you think about that.

xoxo

Valentine's For People Who Don't Like To Share Their Food

It's 3 weeks out until Valentine's. Truly don't have much more to say on the matter, except I am very excited for the Russel Stover's heart shaped marshmallows to go on sale at exactly 12:01AM on February the 15th. For those of you who don't have a significant other or a nearby zoo to get drunk in and mistake every alpaca for Gene Wilder, fret not. I will compose a list each week of alternative activities, that can be performed alone or with a partner. I prefer alone, because I will not give you a bite of this rice crispy shaped like a XO. Stop asking.

WEEK ONE: "I don't believe in the commercialization of a fabricated holiday but I will buy these Dove chocolates, on principal of them being delicious"

• Illegally download 6,000 different versions of Michael Franti’s “Say Hey (I Love You)” and go to prison on pirating charges. You will make lots of new friends, and even more potential valentines.

• Buy all of the chocolate in Walgreen's so that those sad saps that waited until 11:45 on Thursday the 13th to buy candy for their girlfriends will be shit out of luck. Place it all in your bathtub. Breathe sulfur fire on it. Warm to 101.2 degrees Fahrenheit. Bathe.

• Buy a python. Name it Watermelon. Fashion a top hat to his head and set him free in either a Kay Jewelers or Frederick’s of Hollywood dressing room.

• Buy envelops. Print out wallet size glossy photos of Maury Povich. Sign you are the father on the back in classic western calligraphy. Deliver them to your neighbors with no return address.

• Make cupcakes. Decorate them in pastels and icing to look like candy hearts. Write NO on every one. Eat them.

• Recreate George W. Bush’s self-reflective shower portrait. Paint yourself into the mirror on the wall. Have meaningful eye contact for the rest of your life. 

See? Life is grand. Tune in next week for more fun activities that don't involve Netflix and self-loathing.

Tom Hiddleston looking luscious in a helicopter on his way to destroy the European Union

Happy Tuesday everyone. The new Jaguar commercial featuring British villains has arrived. I’m not interested in talking about Bald #1 or Bald #2. They are both interchangeable for Vin Diesel and make me want to stare at my own reflection on their volleyball heads. No, today we gather to discuss Tom Hiddleston, drinking tea like a smug a-hole on his way to steal your girl.

I have often asked myself, what is it about this man that makes me simultaneously hear “I Believe in Miracles” and Snoop Dog’s “Sweat.” Is it the cheekbones so stiff and defined that they look like a rock formation in the Alps? The lean, tight body of someone who watches their intake of refined carbs and GMOs? The cheeky British accent that makes “stiff upper lip” sound erotic? Yes. All of that. Tom Hiddleston is the physical embodiment of a cartoon sun wearing sunglasses. Too hot, too cool, and the blood vessels in my eyes have ruptured from staring at this video for too long.

Watch. Enjoy. Join me in my agony as we reconcile that the only chance of a relationship with tight pants Tom is via The Sims.

 

well played. 

Men Are Experts At Women's Fashion, But We Can Help Too!

We’ve all seen those nefarious “Women’s Fashion” articles. You know the one’s I’m talking about. “Top 10 Trends Men Hate,” “Styles Women Love That Men Don’t,” “Why You Can’t Keep A Man, Starring Your Peplum Blouse.” Personally, I think the reason I “can’t keep a man” is because I don’t fucking want one right now, but sure, the peplum is a great scapegoat. I think it makes my waist-to-ass ration look fantastic, and honestly I’d rather have a body that looks like the letter S than worry about what anyone thinks. But hey, maybe that’s just me.

But I feel so sorry for men! They’ve been left out of all this fun. We women get to enjoy unsolicited advice about our appearance from the random strangers in Time Square that Seventeen Magazine stops to ask why we're so hideous. And yet men don’t get to reap the same benefits. Where would we be without Johnnie from Hoboken telling us that our high waisted shorts give us unattractive FUPA pockets and weird underbutt? I say its time we pay attention to these poor, neglected, ill-advised men about their fashion. So here it is, you morbid, frumpy, flatulence infested men- a list of all the fashion trends you love that we really, really hate.

1. Snap Backs

What is it about these hats that are always disproportionately larger than your head that you find so appealing? The only logical reason I can think of for wearing a soup bowl on your head at all times is in case someone happens to have a bag of Chex mix and you’d like a vehicle for serving the snacks. Perhaps you think that by wearing a OBEY hat that could hold a regulation-sized basketball you’ve somehow tricked us into thinking your head is bigger, and thereby your brain is as well. We aren’t fooled. You’re wearing a Lakers snapback and you’ve never been to California. You look like every other guy who would go to Lids and shell out 40 dollars for a grotesque polyblend head bucket. In other words, dumb.

2. Chubbies Shorts

The name alone should have served as a detriment and advised you to leave Vineyard Vines, but somehow you prevailed. And now you own these ugly as sin shorts that skim above your knees and rest uncomfortably in that fleshy, upper-thigh section of hair meat. To be fair, its mostly frat boys who have damned themselves by walking around in what can only be described as the standard outfit for medical weight-loss before pictures. You don’t think high waisted shorts are flattering? I’ve got news for you- THESE ARE WORSE. What is it about that flaccid section of atrophied leg that you’d want to draw attention to? And the colors. So pastel. So wrong. You look like the ungodly combination of female golfers in their bemudas and a Paaz dipped egg.

3. Frat Tanks

These are not for the Sisterhood of the PBRs exclusively. I’ve seen them on guys of every make and model, and they are as ugly on Mark of the Divine Ya Ya’s as they are on Bill from accounting who has Dilbert comics taped to his monitor. I thought maybe you were tying to get in on the side-boob trend. The only man I’ve seen who pulled that off seamlessly was Chris Hemsworth as Thor. In other words, not a mortal. Definitely not you. You are not leaving the impression that you are at the gym. You are not subtly hinting to me that you work out. You are telling me that your delicate collarbones are too sensitive for full fabric shirts and your nipples probably chafe easily. 

4. Anything that would be appropriate at an EDM festival

If you’re at a festival, that’s okay. I don’t care. Pop molly. Crochet a belt. Memorize exactly one Henry David Thoreau quote and then tell people you're a transcendentalist. The minute your vulgar sandal toes leave the sodden, shit-stained tent fest of post-grads “finding themselves,” it’s unacceptable. Maybe you think you look like a DJ. Maybe one time you and your buddy accidentally played a YouTube video while your Dave Matthews Pandora station was still on and thought it made a “cool mashup,” but I’ve got a tip. We don’t want to speak to DJ's. Ever. When you show up at a bar looking like you’ve just made a cameo in an Ashton Kutcher film, I want to pay for your GED classes. You look like your rock band failed and now you work at a Subway. 

Well guys, I hope this was an enlightening experience for you. I’d like to thank you for all the times I’ve been told my striped pants looked like “Beetlejuice” or that I shouldn’t cut my hair because guys like it long. It was great advice. I’ll hand you my thank you letter the minute you perfect the manipulation of the human genome and can alter your entire self to look like Ryan Gosling. Thanks!

Dear Future Husband

HAHA, sorry about all this. I know at first glance, you probably thought I was an off-brand Kardashian, and my dowry was just two tickets to the matinee showing of Avenue Q. What a steal!

Bad news- I've been to the future. And it in, I morph into Sally Fields post Boniva contract. It could be worse, I guess, since I currently look like the sadistic, witch-spell-gone-wrong combination of Joe Jonas and a bean bag chair. Last week, one of my ballet students told me I looked 37. I'm 23. Expect big things.

I hope you have a good job, because the height of my career was appearing in a Visit NC tourism commercial, in which my bony wrists graze a plate of chicken cutlets. I sincerely hope my gollum knuckles did not give you the wrong impression. The rest of me grows exponentially until my rings get stuck on my fingers and I become engorged like a body you dredge from the bottom of the ocean. Were you not aware of my heritage? I'm the child of an immigrant. I was bred to plow fields and herd cattle. Bright side: I'm great at yard work and my low center of gravity makes it easy to lift cars or topple buildings. But I am egg-shaped and probably have sleep apnea.

I will, unfortunately, have a beard. I'm Serbian. It's just science. I will also most likely have hoof feet and be immune to bee stings or puncture wounds. This is due to the fact that my entire body will become calloused like a burlap sack from years of pulling pans out of the oven without mitts and compulsively checking the temperature of my curling iron. I will be chronically bloated. I hope you enjoy a rotund woman who looks as though she swallowed a jack-o-lantern. You will probably be making frequent trips to CVS to purchase Rollos and saline enemas. I will buy my own tampons though, because I refuse to feel embarrassed for being a healthy, vital woman capable of bringing life into this world, and it infuriates me how women have been consistently sexualized and reduced to just body parts because our culture doesn't want to acknowledge us as people who have body functions. I also watch a lot of Frasier.

Thank you for opening a Swiss offshore account for me to store all my gold coins in. Thank you for filling it with gold coins that are actually just chocolates in disguise. There is no greater gift.

Love,
T. Byers.

Sexy New Year: Resolutions based on your astrological element

Are you sick and tired of being sick and tired? Are you fed up with being fed too much? Shut up, stop complaining. I've laid out the most fool-proof way to get the shape you want (circle, rhombus, whatever floats your boat) based on your very profound, unmistakably accurate element astrology.

Fire Signs (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius) 

Start collecting jade Buddha’s.  Take up yoga, and switch out all pronouns for “the divine light.” Instead of, ‘I feel like taking a nap,’ say ‘the divine light encourages somnolence.’ Bow your sinewy neck to everyone in false humility, and say ‘I recognize the divine light in you.’ It doesn’t matter if you actually do. Everyone will flee in terror, leaving you plenty of quiet time to actually nap. Fart as you please. Namaste. 

Water Signs (Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces)

Have you seen the Wolf of Wall Street? Yes? Become the wolf of whatever street you live on. Grow out your fingernails and stop shaving your legs. Take up the paleo diet. Join a Crossfit gym. Make sure you go every day, and bring an indentured servant to take instagram pictures of you throwing a shoelace or lifting the tire of a Barbie car. Police everyone on how they eat. Say things like, ‘kale is so 2013,’ and ‘I make my own nut butters.’ Each night before you go to bed, bay at the moon three times. (Wolf of Wall Street isn’t about Lycanthropy? Oh? Well that’s why I didn’t see it.) 

Earth Signs (Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn) 

Juicing is so in. Juicing is so now. Not like last year’s juice fasts, which were ridden with toxic things like “beet root” or “carrot shards.” This year, its all about natural elements, found in the factories that alkaline our water. You drink your water from the tap? Are you making a cameo in a UNICEF commercial? You must get water that has been squeezed and saturated to fit your exact blood type. Otherwise, your arteries will tie themselves in knots and your intestines will give you the middle finger, colloquially known as “IBS”. Prepare your juice by spending 86 simoleans on blood type AB water. Ask your incredibly friendly Whole Foods staff where to find your blood-water. They LOVE to help. Next, sprinkle the ash of a freshly scorched phoenix into the pitcher. Must be no riper than 3 hours since combustion. Collect tears expelled during the final airport scene in “Love Actually,” and submerge in mixture. Combine all ingredients by shaking vigorously for six days, then drink within eight seconds. Congrats! You’re sexy!

Air Signs (Gemini, Libra, Aquarius) 

You’ve heard of prancercising, right? Well that’s stupid. Don’t do that. Instead, do the opposite. Lie completely still. Refuse to move at all, except for finger signals. One finger in the air means, “I’m watching my sodium intake,” two means “Do you know how many additives are in that diet drink?” and three means, “Please rub castor oil over my joints and chant a bija mantra.” After six weeks of vigorous inactivity, your body will have withered away greatly. You may no longer have enough muscle mass to lift your ET arms, but those collar bones look so chic! Invite everyone over to stare at your new, svelte frame. You’ll look like a pool noodle with a balloon head, but that’s living the dream. 

Best of luck to getting the best butt of your life in the new year, and cheers to all that valentines candy they've already stocked at Walgreen's. May God be with you. 

I come with good news

Great news ladies. Even though we are like cockroaches who refuse to die, our brains will wither away long before our husbands do. Probably because we are forced to use them so much. Though to be fair, I still don't know what back taxes are I can't spell "received" correctly despite an English degree, so maybe my brain will have a longer shelf life.

Researchers from unnamed institutions in, count them, FOUR countries have said that our brains are basically f*cked. What a waste of suffragettes who were trampled by horses to fight for our right to vote, get an education, and be considered people. At least when our brains go we can still watch/understand Real Housewives of Gated Communities and Keeping Up With The Thick Eyebrows.

As it turns out, one of the factors stressing us out is that our husband(s) won't do the laundry. According to unnamed researchers, who are probably all named Dale and Kevin, only 10% percent of husbands do laundry. So our brains die. 

California psychologist/zen-master Elizabeth Waterman suggests we try new activities, like breathing. Sounds good, I like it. I am not a psychologist but I am also from California and have eaten grilled pinapple wedges, so I feel qualified to offer my advice as well. 

• Tell your husband to do the laundry. Have we all seen those swiffer commercials where Morty naps while his wife dangles from step ladders like a craisin in slacks to dust some antique oak bureau? No Morty's allowed. If you manufacture so much dirt, as he gleefully admits he does, please help me wipe the people dust from this shelve, or at least help me fold your cargo pants. 
• If he won't help with chores, insist he buy a robot who will. Dress the robot in wigs and colorful beaded jewelry. Recline in your silk kimono. Drink a bottle of wine.
• If a robot is too expensive, look in to purchasing Keanu Reeves. He is about to turn 50 and still looks 11. These researchers also confirm he is 80% immortal, so its the same thing as a robot. Hand him the Tide. Drink another glass of wine.   
•  If none of the above work, move to California. Take up tandem surfing with Dr. Liz. Wear puka shell necklaces and nothing else. No more laundry! Long live the brain! 

That's just my two cents though. I am not a researcher from an institute in a country. I am merely a girl/woman who refuses to buy new running shoes, so my toenails take turns falling off. Maybe my brain is already in brain heaven, sprouting wings and tap dancing on the graves of laundry baskets. Ta ta!
 

Welcome: A Year in Review

2013. The year I blossomed from a college grad living with my parents, to a post grad living with my best friend's parents. Ah, growth. I published my first article, became a three-quarters full-time writer and weekend ballet teacher. Here's a fun thing I learned- doing the things you love leaves you poor. Having a lucrative writing career is, well, bonkers hard. Unless you are a white guy writing about American History or Churchill. Then you're pretty much set. Yay! In the past twelve months, I moved out of state, bought roller skates, put a piece of calamari in my mouth, got drunk in a zoo, was rejected from a reality tv show, and had a colonoscopy. All in all, a pretty good year.

Here are the highlights...


 


















...discovered I was elegant

poise.

 

Grew fully formed Slavic eyebrows 

that are so powerful and influential, 

my eyelids crushed under their authority 

and gave up. No more eyes.

Got in touch with nature. 














Wore bowling shoes and wasn't 
immediately sent to hell.
















Recycled. 























Remembered my childhood. 

Was so full.  









 














Reenacted scenes from City Slickers.  

Found new hope for our political future. 


And that's a wrap. Here's to another year of exclamations like "cheers!" "hey!" "what's your name again?" and "are you on your period?". Thank you. Amen.