Bad Blogging Tips

Say you want to boost your blog stats, inject your site with a bit of razzle-dazzle, wow every visitor with your gorgeous graphics and perfectly crafted posts… Well, there’s an abundance of blogging advice and tips out there for you to reach for those blogging stars. So hit up Google and say hi to all the cat memes you’ll inevitably meet for me.

But say you want your blog to be rubbish? Not just rubbish, the biggest pile of reconstituted horse faecal matter this side of the Seine. Well friends, as the author of a blog that is so spectacularly disorganised that it makes a person on an episode of Hoarders look like Sheldon Cooper, I feel it would be prudent to dispense the bad blogging tips. Because it’s boring being perfect all the time.

So here it is guys, my top tips to achieve blogging mediocrity:

1. Have no schedule, whatsoever

Sure, you could have a blogging routine and schedule posts for say, once or twice a week…or you could just post whenever you damn well please. *picture me slugging beer and smoking cigars…and coughing because cigars are awful.*
Seriously, why make blogging a chore? Just write whenever the mood (or owl meme) strikes. It’s what I do and we all know I’ve made a huge success of my life. *awkward silence*

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2. Get lazy and just post pictures of hungover owls

People like owls.

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See?

3. Don’t bother editing your posts

Peple wil stll kno wht u meen.

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4. Forget what you were talking about halfway through a post so just post a picture of a cat…

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5. Post while highly intoxicated*

LET’S GO STREEEEEEAKING!!

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6. Have absolutely no blog niche

Honestly, I still have no idea what category my blog fits into. I haven’t made a concerted effort to attain a defined niche. Instead, I post whatever my brain decides is a good idea. You may have noticed my brain likes owls, cats, weirdness, awkwardness, memes and my boyfriend.

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Do you have any bad blogging tips?

*I’m not intoxicated right now. It’s a school night and my cat needs a responsible role model.

So I Think I Can’t Dance

There is a lot of things that I can’t do: I can’t eat just one Pringle, I can’t say the name of the bird ‘blue tit’ without giggling and I can’t speak Mandarin Chinese (I can only read it*).

There one thing though that I really really can’t do….

…and that my dear readers is dance.

I can’t dance. I mean, I dance all the time. Constantly. I’m even dancing right now (sunshine…moonlight…good times…boogie).

But when I do dance, it’s carnage. Not literally…except for that one time I tried waltzing but…whatever. I just have zero coordination. It was a conversation with Cheryl over at Tropical Affair that reminded my of the time my mother took me to dance lessons to try and cure my multiple left feet. It did not go well.

There were two teachers, a man and a woman. Apparently they were former dance champions or something. When I found out they didn’t actually have championship belts like wrestlers do I lost interest pretty quickly.

Anyway, I assumed it would be pretty easy. I’d carry a watermelon, the male teacher would take a shine to me and we’d end up closing the season at Kellerman’s. Then, in week two, I’d learn to moonwalk. Yes, I had big plans.

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I would have the time of my life…

Unfortunately, my plans didn’t exactly come to fruition. We were supposed to learn not one, not two, but three dances: salsa, jive and ballroom. Piece of cake, right?

The first week, we just had to learn basic steps. Pfft, I thought as I glided into the room, easy peasy. I did my stretches and readjusted my leg warmers (I’d watched Flashdance to get me pumped). I even rang my good friend Kevin Bacon** for some advice. He said something like “yadda yadda…footloose…blah blah…” (Kevin rambles a little). I was ready. I had this.

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“Okay, we’re going to do very basic steps today,” the lady said, smiling. “So we’ll start with a very basic turn, two three, kick one two, twirl, toe, heel, spin, three four five and click. Got it? Good?”

Needless to say, this was my face:

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All I’d heard was “something something twirl” so I twirled. And promptly fell over. Flat on my ass.

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Like this, except I wasn’t ice skating. If I had been, I probably would’ve killed someone.

My teacher tutted.

“Erm, you there! Are you having difficulty?”

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Noooo, what makes you say that?

“Eh, I’m good. I’m good. Just might have went into ‘the twirl’ a little…enthusiastically.”

She looked at me with at sympathy. She knew it then. She knew I was one of the few people on this planet who are just beyond help. She just didn’t have the heart to tell me.

“Erm, perhaps you should just stick to doing three steps left and three steps right?”

That’s correct readers; she asked me to do a “dance” a monkey could learn. Frustrated with my lack of progress (I had fully expected to be leading the steps to Thriller by this stage), I agreed. I stared to take three steps left.

“Erm, no…that’s not quite it…” She was now looking confused.

“Really?” Wasn’t I just supposed to walk three steps left and three steps right?

I should point out at this stage that my mother had accompanied me to these classes and was now waltzing around the floor like Ginger Feckin’ Rogers.

“Why don’t you go have a drink of water?” The dance teacher pointed towards the drinking fountain.

Seriously, this is what I began to feel like:

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The following week, I was just as hopeless. I just about managed to stay vertical, but when people were going left, I was going right. When people were dipping, I was hopping on one foot. When people were clicking their heels, I was clicking my fingers.

By the next class, I had come to the attention of everyone in the room; including the male teacher. While we were warming up, he approached me.

“Um, listen Jane. I think I might partner up with you for this class…just because, well…you know.” He gave me one of those agonisingly sympathetic looks. I nodded. I fully expected that a world class dance instructor would no doubt be able to help me.

“Okay, we’ll start with a very simple three step dance. It’s a piece of cake.”

I didn’t get it.

“Ok, we’ll try two steps.”

I stood on his feet.

I’d like to mention at this stage, his hair was unkempt, his tie was askew and he was covered in sweat. He was trying to stay patient.

“Oookaaaaay. How about just rocking from side to side on your feet?”

No readers, he was not kidding.

What happened? Well, I tripped. I kicked one foot with the other and fell down like a sack of potatoes. At this point, I imagine his brain to have done something like this:

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He put his hands on my shoulders and calmly said:

“Listen, Jane. I can’t teach you. Baryshnikov couldn’t teach you. I’m sorry; I would be wasting your money. Why don’t you learn to paint instead? Or act? Or…crochet?”

“I really can’t dance?”

“Jane, you fell over while standing still.”

“That’s true.”

So reader, my experience with dance lessons didn’t quite go to plan. That doesn’t mean I don’t do an amazing Macarena when I’ve had a glass*** of wine.

Is there anything you can’t do?

*I can read it…with Google translate
** No relation to the actor Kevin Bacon
*** Six glasses. Six glasses of wine, okay?

A present for you guys

So I wrote a rap to name check some of my favourite bloggers as a massive thank you to you all. I have provided you with a SICK beat to listen to so that you can actually rap along with this. Please, ignore the name of the song, I do not want to see your genitals.

So go on, press play, and proceed:

There once was a girl, we’ll call her Jane
She set up a blog, and its content’s insane
But she met some people who’ve made it so easy
So she wrote this rap to rival Jay-Z

She wants these guys to know one thing
That she once had a weird crush on sting
And also, she loves you all
Ok…that’s two things

First there’s Ben, who’s been here since the start
His blog is bitter
But he has a heart

Then there’s Trent, who’s so talented
And I can’t think of a word
To rhyme with talented
So I’ll just say that Trent is…really talented

Everyone say hi to Julie
I’mgonnagiveheranewnicknameforthepuposesofthisrhyme and call her “luley”
She’s one of the best
And her blog kicks more ass than chuck Norris’* (if he has a blog. He probably doesn’t…)

Then there’s Rob, who has a great name for rhyme (take note, Julie)
His blog is wonderful, all the time
Between weight loss tips and recipes
He showed me how to get guys drunk with ease (neat whiskey, I believe)

Lisa is one of my favourite chicks
I know you think the obvious word to use next would be d—
But get your mind outta the gutter
And check out this superstar of a blogger

Say hi to Z she’s one cool lady
She’s a teenage blogger with talent so crazy
She’s also as sweet as a bee
I’m actually allergic, but not to Z

Robin reminds me of my mom
Except she’s cooler than my mom
Now I feel bad for my mom
I’m going to stop rapping about my mom
Robin has the sweetest blog and it makes me smile
It’s a place I spend a while
Yes, that totally does make sense
Because it’s a rap, that’s the difference

Hacker, ninja, hooker, spy
This blogger is ill, she’s so fly!
You don’t need to go out foreign
To see a chick as hot as Aussa Loren(s). Ahem. (And in my case I do, because I live in Ireland.)

Helen likes wine and tea
But not together, is that just me?
She’s funny, she’s cute, she has blond hair
Her blog is great so head over there (but then come back because I’m not finished)

I can’t forget Sean cause he cracks me up
He’s reminds me of my guy friends that used to feel me up
His blog is great and he’s also cool
I can never read his stuff when I’m in school

There’s also Shit Show
Who speaks her mind
She is hilarious
Her blog is quite a find!
You’ll be hooked to her naughty anecdotes
And I really want to go drinking with her, like, TOTES!

The ‘S’ word also is a great blogger
Why don’t more words rhyme with blogger?
Anyway, she’s funny and talented in equal measure
Go check her out at your leisure (but really, do it now, she has good boobs. Apparently.)

Cheryl is a multitasker
What’s your favourite shark?
Mines a basker
Oh, is basking?
Well that just sucks
Because this rhyme now doesn’t work
Anyway, I love Cheryl to pieces
Not literally, cause that’s weird…Jesus

Minnie is as adorable as she is kind
Her blog really is one of a kind
Did I just rhyme kind with kind?
It’s my rap,so I’ll do what I want, kind

Running Betty likes to run
She also likes to blog, and it’s fun
I think that she’s one kick ass chick
And again, I’m not going to use the word d…

An upturned soul is classy and smart
So I hope she doesn’t mind being in my rap
I’ve also made a tenuous rhyme right there
But I wanted her to know that I care

Pouring my art out has the coolest name
And his blogging skills are so insane
He’s funny, he can draw and he looks like Jeffrey Lebowski
Oh crap, I’m never going to get a word to rhyme with Lebowski

The Hook sounds like a movie villain
But he’s actually really nice
He has a cool job where he meets some weirdos but I’m also weird and wait, I’ve always wanted to use the word kudos in a rap and it totally would have fitted in there…crap.
The Hook writes so hilariously
And I love his blog so *mumbles*

Mikey B runs a movie blog
It’s funny and clever and what rhymes with blog?
He’s an all round cool guy
and on a completely unrelated note,
Why can’t hens fly?

Melanie can rhyme a lot better than me
Check out her page and you will see
Her poems are amongst the best I’ve read
You won’t get her words out of your head
(Kind of like Vanilla Ice lyrics. But good.)

Speaking of poets, there’s too full to write
David Ellis, he’s the shite
Just to say, that’s a total compliment
And he deserves it, he’s a total talent

Ispontein is spontaneous
There’s a little inside all of us
His blog is clever and fun to read
Check him out and you’ll agree

I also cannot forget Whitney
She’s totally awkward, just like me
She makes me laugh with her awkward tales
Tales not tails cause what the hell?!

Finally, there’s Cats at the bar
Whose cats are adorable, they really are
I think he has about 18 cute cats
And cause he’s not a single lady
It’s not creepy

If I’ve left someone out
I’m awfully sorry
You can come over here
and scissor kick me

*for the purposes of the rap, just pronounce is nor-is-aaazzz. Go on. DO IT.

What do you do when you feel crap?

Today, everyone at work had to stay back for three (unpaid) hours after we’d already had quite the hectic day. I’m exhausted, sick (Jack cooked and maintains that the minced beef was probably cooked through) and we’ve no heating in the house so it feels like we’re suffering through a mini ice age. (We have had fun reenacting scenes from the end of Titanic though.)
When I feel sorry for myself like this, I grab my laptop, put on a feel good film (or one of my favourites), climb into bed and try to forget the day’s troubles.
What do you do?

11 insults to use in your next argument

When Jack and I argue, I often run out of constructive things to say because, well, he’s doing a PhD and I write blog entries about farting. So I often resort to ill-thought out insults that are, frankly, terrible… or brilliant, depending on your sense of humour. Okay, just terrible. We love each other, but sometimes he can be a real:

1. Dangle-berry

AKA the things that apparently get stuck to your butt-hair sometimes. Apparently.

2. Fanny-head

American friends, I have to tell you something very important here. In your lovely nation, the term ‘fanny’ refers to the posterior. Over here, it actually refers to the frankly far more offensive female genitalia (come on, you could say ‘I kicked butt’ in polite company but not ‘I kicked…ahem CU Next Tuesday’…) so just be careful if in Ireland/the UK. Or maybe I shouldn’t have said anything and have people look at you like this

3. Vagina Beard

Jack’s face often looks so like a vagina that perhaps I should be questioning my sexuality.

4. Kim Jong Il

He also looks a little like the former North Korean dictator. Seriously, what am I attracted to?!

5. Linda Ronstadt

I don’t know either.

6. Dork-boy

Because I’m jealous of his superior intellect. There, I said it.

7. Turd

For those of you feeling bad for Jack, this is what he calls me. Sometimes he adds a bit of sophistication to it and it becomes ‘turdeson’. Ah, love.

8. Hairy gimp

This is reserved for when I am really, really angry with him, as you might have guessed.

9. Gee-bag

This is basically Irish slang meaning erm, ‘lady-part bag’ or ‘douchebag’ if you will. Classy.

10. Rick Astley

We’re no strangers to love. You know the rules, and so do I.

I just totally Rick-rolled you.

11. McSlurry

Instead of McFlurry. You know, slurry…McSlurry…OH FORGET IT!

So, there it is. My repertoire of insults. And if you think I’m mean, Jack called me a ‘half-wit douchetube’ a while ago. So how about you feel bad FOR ME?

9 Reasons why I suck at being a girlfriend

Every single person has quirks. Things like having to sleep on the right side of the bed, putting the milk in their tea first or reciting Oscar acceptance speeches in the shower. A lot of three quirks are cute. Some aren’t. When you’re in a relationship, ‘cute quirks’ can quickly become irksome. Or, in some cases, deal-breakers.
I was going to write a list of Jack’s annoying habits but that really didn’t seem fair. He’s not here to defend himself. And even if he did see this, he’d probably be so embarrassed he wouldn’t say anything. They’re that bad. So instead, for your reading pleasure, I’ve decided to humiliate myself. I am incredibly annoying. I can admit that. But I take some comfort from the fact that Jack is still with me (or very meticulously plotting my death, whichever). So, here’s my shame list.

1. I sing all the time

I can’t help it. I really think I lived in a perpetual musical in a past life. I honestly just made myself a coffee and sang ‘I’m all out of milk’ to the tune of ‘I’m all out of love’. Jack has to cope with my most annoying type of singing: car singing. I recently found a three year old iPod. Here’s a snippet of a conversation in our car:

Me: So then I told her that she should just…OHMYGOD, I LOVE THIS SONG…to the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left… So anyway, I told her that she should just… OOH, CHORUS… You must not know bout me, you must not know bout meeee.’

Annoying, right? Not to mention that my singing voice sounds like I’m a cat being put through a trap out of one of those Saw movies.

2. I have a GIGANTIC phobia of spiders

I can’t even. I just can’t. Even saying the word ‘spider’ is difficult. In the beginning, Jack thought it was cute and relished his role as protector from all things eight-legged (despite the fact that I know he secretly craps his pants when he sees a spider too). After a few years of ‘OH MY GOD JACK THERE’S A FREAKIN SPIDER THE SIZE OF A TARANTULA IN THE LIVING ROOM. JACK, GETITOUT, GETITOOOOOOOUUUUTTTT!’ it starts to wear a little thin. Now, the routine is: I run out of the house as silently as possible. I phone Jack from a safe distance with a calm ‘there is a spider in the living room. I would be eternally grateful if you could remove said spider so that I can resume my sofa day-dreaming.’ He then removes the arachnid. I just realised that he probably goes nowhere near the living room and instead has a beer. So I’m probably sitting near some spider colony who is plotting some violent revenge on behalf of their fallen comrades. Oh dear god.

3. I am a serial dieter

Jack has to contend with my constant dieting. Some weeks, I’m on a crazy health buzz. So he gets a lot of ‘ok, I’m having fruit smoothies for breakfast and then dry crackers for lunch. And for dinner, as a special treat, spinach. Then I’m going to go on a four-mile run. I don’t know how I ever ate chocolate.’ Then, a week later. ‘I need a cheeseburger. I need cheese. I’m gonna melt chocolate and have eight crepes. I NEED CARBS!’ And then the inevitable ‘I can’t believe I fell off my diet wagon. I’m so fat.’ So if he tells me that I’ll regret eating a cheeseburger he gets this ‘YOU THINK I’M FAT?’ but then when I eat said cheeseburger, I have the eater’s remorse, which makes me just as irritating. He can’t win.

4. My emotions

I have all the emotions. I cry at adverts/films/my failure to win the lottery on a weekly basis. I can be a little sensitive too. I once ran over a rabbit (accidentally I’d like to add incase anyone from the rabbit mafia is reading this) and I was inconsolable. Jack had to contend with me sobbing ‘but what about when she doesn’t go back to her burrow? What will her husband think? What about her little rabbit babies? WHO’S GONNA FEED HER BABIES??!!’ He tells me I over-think things. He could be right.

5. I am obsessed with animals

When Jack and I moved into our first house, I begged him for a dog. After about five days, I wore him down. We got the most beautiful Border Collie puppy and called her Molly. Jack loved her instantly but he still had his reservations: will she have enough space? Will she need to be walked a lot? What if we’re not here for her during the day? To me, it was like having a baby and I dedicated my days to her.
Less than a year later, my mother bought us a another puppy. This time, a male West-Highland called Oscar. I can’t explain how much we both love our dogs.
A few years later, I decided to expand our brood. I bought a guinea pig. I called her Dolly. After a few days, she seemed lonely and sad. I did some research and realised she needed a cage mate, so that’s when I got Emmy-Lou. Still with me? There’s more. I didn’t know it at the time, but Dolly was pregnant when I bought her. So she had four pig babies: Coco, Stevie, Ronnie and Roxy. Ronnie and Roxy have since died unfortunately. But at this stage we had six guinea pigs and two dogs. More was to follow. A week later, while driving home, I spotted a very distressed kitten at the side of the (very dangerous) road. I managed to catch her. She was spitting and hissing at us for days. Eventually, she came around and now her and Jack are inseparable. We had planned to give her away but we became so attached that we just couldn’t. Her name is Billie.
So we now have seven pets. Although Jack loves our fur babies very much, he often alludes to our lack of freedom and the responsibilities that come with good pet ownership. I like to gently remind him that having a baby will be this times a hundred. So, I’m doing him a favour really. So selfless.

6. I make fun of him

I’m not mean. It’s just that sometimes a brilliant ‘burn’ opportunity comes up and I can’t resist. But before you judge me, he’s just as bad. It’s what we do. Here’s an example of a recent conversation:

Jack walked into the room wearing a very questionable shirt that made him look like Dolly Parton.

Jack: Will this do?
Me: Sure. Everyone at the hoedown will love it.

7. I have a very short attention span

Sometimes I just zone out. I just can’t help it. I just…HEY LOOK, A CLOUD. What was I saying? Oh yeah, add some salt and water and the swelling should subside. You’re welcome.

8. I forget to recycle

This mightn’t seem like such a big deal but it drives Jack INSANE. He’s Captain Planet and I’m like one of those cartoon villains you’d see on a school film to raise awareness for the environment like ‘Captain Destroyer’ or ‘Thoughtless Thomasina.’ It’s not that I don’t care about the planet, it’s that I just plain forget. Recycling is relatively new in Ireland. I didn’t grow up in a household that recycled. It was considered a new-fangled hippy idea that was practically witchcraft for crying out loud. Every week when Jack is putting out the bins for the truck, he spots that the recycling bin weighs significantly less than the rubbish bin. He always comes back with a resigned look on his face
‘You’re still not recycling.’
‘I am. I recycled a coke can three days ago.’ I’ll be winning Nobel Prizes next.

9. I’m a terrible morning person

I love night time. I cook a lovely meal, I have a bath. I play with my pets. I snuggle Jack on the sofa. I do some school work. Mornings, on the other hand, are another story. No matter how many times I’ve had to get up early, it just never gets any easier.
The minute the alarm goes off, I feel homicidal. Don’t worry, my murderous thoughts are usually reserved for the inventor of the alarm. I feel a mess. Jack is mercilessly cheerful. And awake.
‘Morning’, he chirps.
‘Bleurgh’, I reply. For some reason, I’m hoarse. I’m also so uncoordinated that I once tore a ligament in my knee JUST GETTING OUT OF BED. It takes several cups of coffee and a long shower to wake me up. But for those first thirty minutes or so I’m as touchy as a pre-menstrual bear.

So there you have it. I do hope that you don’t want to punch me in the face too much. For all these bad traits, I have some redeeming qualities. Like, erm, am…. Look over there *runs away*

The Ten Worst Fictional Boyfriends

Think your boyfriend’s pretty crappy? Well, these craptacular boyfriends will make your guy look like a puppy in a sweater-vest.

1. Tony Soprano, The Sopranos

The Sopranos is probably my favourite TV show of all time (besides The Simpsons). Now you know me a little better, lets hold hands. I came on too strong didn’t I? Aaaaanyway, Tony and Carmela’s marriage was one of the most intriguing aspects of the show. I really disliked the vacuous and opportunistic Carmela but that still doesn’t take away from the fact that Tony was a liar and a cheat. Tony’s treatment of the majority of his mistresses was so terrible that one even committed suicide. All this aside, their marriage was more dysfunctional than a Kardashian family barbeque. They finally form a silent understanding that Tony will continue to provide for Carmela but that means he should also be allowed to play away. And that he does. Honestly, they made my parents look like the Waltons on Prozac. Also, RIP James Gandolfini, you had me at the ducks.

2. Jimmy McNulty, The Wire

Oh dear. Where to begin? He cheats on his wife with a work colleague. He uses said colleague for sex. He has inebriated, sweaty intercourse with random diner girl. He meets a genuinely lovely lady and also fails to stay faithful to her. He also drinks too much. But because he’s Dominic West we kind of forgive him. Damn it, McNulty.

3. Ross Gellar, Friends

Ross seems to be most people’s least favourite Friends character. I genuinely don’t understand this. Not only has he uttered some of the best lines of the entire series (MY SANDWICH??!!) but he also has the perfect mix of funny, nerdy and sweet going on. The problem is is that he makes a pretty terrible boyfriend. Don’t believe me? Lets look at the evidence. First girlfriend after his marriage breakup is Julie, the Chinese palaeontologist. Lets just take a second to appreciate the fact that I spelled that correctly. Ok, moment over. He cheats on Julie with Rachel even though we all totally wanted them to get together. He then cheats on Rachel. You may choose to defend him by yelling ‘they were on a break!’ but you can’t deny that what he did was pretty awful. And also, keep your voice down. My cat’s trying to sleep. Anyway, his escapades don’t stop there. He also treats Mona (no matter how annoying she was) pretty abominably. I know, I know, it’s a comedy. And I probably would have skipped my own wedding (not that I’m married…time to go cry into my cat’s fur) to watch Ross and Rachel finally get together in the final, but there’s no denying he can be a pretty bad boyfriend.

4. Hamlet, Hamlet

Since I teach English (I’d like to take this opportunity to state that the multiple typos are a result of a combination of laziness and stubby fingers, curse you bad genes. And Dad), I felt I’d better insert some old school references in here. As Shakespearean boyfriends go, Hamlet is a bit of a jerk or as I have often opined ‘a whiny indecisive man-baby’. We actually had a debate on whether Ophelia deserved his disdain for agreeing to betray his trust in class with lots of students pointing out that she’s a goody goody who needs to (wo)man up to her father. But when she goes genuinely mad and dies, you can’t help but feel sorry for her. And you also can’t help but blame Hamlet. I mean if someone yelled ‘get thee to a nunnery at me’ I don’t think I’d ever get over it.
Honourable mention has to go to Macbeth also. The weasel.

5. Carlo Rizzi, The Godfather

Remember Connie’s husband? He beats her, he cheats on her and he also contributes to her brother’s death. Somehow I don’t think he’ll be winning ‘Husband Of The Year’ any time soon. I think I’m going to go watch Sonny beat the crap out of him for the hundredth time. Be right back.

6. Cal Hockley, Titanic

Cal is like a panto villain; that is, so evil I don’t know how anyone like him could exist in real life. Selfish, greedy, materialistic and just downright mean (“why Dawson, you could almost pass for a gentleman.” I mean, talk about BURN!). Ok, so there are plenty like him, but they’re usually blond and called Tiffany. His treatment of Rose is so bad that she would rather risk a life of destitution than be his wife. The wig probably doesn’t help either.

7. Edward Cullen, Twilight

I’m not going to waste time dissecting his character because it might give credence to any belief that this character has any semblance of depth. But the guy is a possessive, whiny buzz-kill. He needs a herbal tea and a warm bath.

8. Christian Grey, Fifty Shades Of Grey

Basically, see above. Also, spare a thought for concept of feminism. It was nice while it lasted.

9. Nate, The Devil Wears Prada

This guy. One of my biggest pet peeves is when you’re watching a TV show/film and a character basically acts like a selfish douche and NOBODY seems to see it. In fact, he actually makes Anne Hathaway’s character (Andy) feel as if she is in fact the titular devil in Prada.
Ok, so Andy has her faults. She also comes very close to cheating on Nate with guy with questionable scarf taste/sexual orientation. It’s not just her fault that their relationship starts to suffer, it’s also his lack of understanding about the pressures of her job. She’s in a really really tough job. Cut the girl some slack. She’s under so much pressure that we fear she might just explode. Or suffer some kind of medical emergency. But that wouldn’t have been very glamourous. There’s two events in this movie that drive me crazy. Crazy because we’re suppose to believe that Andy is the villain in both instances when really the people around her are not being very considerate. One is when her friends and boyfriend start throwing her phone around the table when her crazy boss is calling her. Sometimes my friends can be kind of mean to me, and I once glued my friend’s face to a table, but hers come across quite petty in this scene. She’s just given them free stuff. Free DESIGNER stuff. She’s stressed. Her boss rings and they take her phone from her, adding to her stress. The worst part is is that we the viewer are supposed to believe her reaction is over the top, when really she only half-heartedly calls them ‘assholes.’ Which they kinda were.
The next incident shows how her boyfriend obviously has ovaries because he gets a case of PMS so bad, I want to hand him a hot water bottle and a blanket. Andy has a huge work thing and can’t attend his birthday. Don’t get me wrong, birthdays are special and all. But unless you’re seven years old and call your father ‘daddy’, you have to understand that sometimes not everyone will be able to drop all their plans on your birthday. Andy makes a really big effort to get home to Nate on time. She even turns down a chance to meet an influential editor and leaves the event. She brings home a cute cupcake. What does Nate do? He pulls the trick your parents pull on you when they want you to feel really bad. He’s not mad, just disappointed. Ugh. Now why am I taking such issue with a fairly mediocre and frankly forgettable film? Because it basically suggests that career women are very very selfish and can no way manage a career *and* a boyfriend. Our purpose in life as women is clearly to bake birthday cakes for our boyfriends and wait at home for them to call in case there’s a social occasion we’re needed at. *Stares wistfully at phone.*

10. Wickham/Willoughby, Pride and Prejudice/Sense and Sensibility

I have always found these Jane Austen characters to be very similar. Wickham is probably the worst of the two but because Marianne Dashwood’s heart ends up in a million pieces when Willoughby abruptly leaves her, he also deserves a mention. Both men are handsome and charming. Both men are also deceptive and secretive about their shady pasts. The only people who know their true intentions are their respective love rivals, Mr. Darcy and Colonel Brandon. Both men end up married to someone else, the cads. Wickham’s punishment is that he marries Lydia Bennett, aka the most detestable female character ever. Willoughby’s punishment is that he has to see the woman he did truly love marry someone far more deserving of her. Neither of these are exactly ‘please wife me’ material.

So there you go. Now go hug your boyfriend. I’ll lurk in the bushes.