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I Love Being A Woman!!

23 Feb

Menstruating once per month is the worst–except for when you’re irregular and you menstruate twice per month, because THAT is actually the worst. This whole period thing is the only reason I would ever want to be a man because it would mean the end of my period. Otherwise, I rather enjoy being a woman. I like being able to have long hair that touches just below my shoulders and not being mistaken for a surfer bro. I also enjoy that I was born with thick, frizzy and wavy hair and having to spend several hundreds of dollars each year to have professionals handle the mess on my head because I try and fail quite persistently. But I love being a woman.

If I’m feeling short, I can just pop on a pair of pumps! I don’t have to settle for just one single height either–one inch, two inch, five inch! The list goes on and on! I can go from a solid 5’5 to a towering 6 foot in a matter of seconds! And to think all I would have to go through is a series of blisters, a bit of blood, a handful of bandages and several rounds of icing just to scare away men because I appear too tall, thus making them feel inferior. But I love being a woman!

I love being able to take my face that doesn’t get much sun in the winter and painting it up to look like I just vacationed for a week in the Caribbean–it’s so, so great! Men get weird looks if they apply makeup while I get whistles from sanitation workers and day laborers when I do! Man, I LOVE being a woman!

And dresses?! Don’t even get me started! There is nothing more freeing than not having to stick my legs or arms into individual tunnels of fabric each and every day. I can just slip a uniform piece of textile over my head and walk right out there door! I can even wear a pair of tummy-controlling-shorts to help disguise that Taco Bell I ate last night and to prevent the chaffing of my inner thighs also from frequent visits to the Taco Bell. Te amo being la mujer.

Salads–man, let me tell you about how much I love salads! I love being able to go to a restaurant and, as a woman, not even having to browse the menu because I just know it’s proper to get a salad! My favorite part? Watching my male colleagues have to deal with that pesky burger grease dripping down their hands and arms and into their sleeves. Such a mess! I mean, I don’t even have sleeves because I am constantly wearing a dress! Seriously, what’s better than a bowl of lettuce with more raw materials tossed within that leafy goodness? Certainly not any kind of delicious meat!

All of these wonderful traits are just some of the reasons it is totally okay to have to deal with blood stains and blood soaked pads and tampons and cramps and mood swings and swelling and exhaustion and discomfort and the constant checking of every single surface I sit on over the course of that 3-5 day period where I’m pretty sure I exert more blood than that of a gun wound. I get to wear heels!

Besides, I guess I can just wait until I’m in my 50s for menopause to settle in. Until then, I will chew my lettuce proudly knowing there’s a cotton tube shoved up my vagina.

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Walmart-ing

14 Sep

Walmart is a wonderful mecca of deals, steals (sometimes literally) and wonder, but also a hellhole. Going there on a Sunday afternoon is probably the worst decision you could ever make, because come 12pm, it turns into the official local church after-party no matter where you live. Seriously, sometimes I think that if a Walmart threw an I-Hop inside of one of its locations instead of a Subway sandwich franchise, there would literally never need to be anything else open on a Sunday–Joel Osteen would probably invest. Better yet, a church should probably just open a Walmart in the back, because move over, Taco Bell/Pizza Hut/KFC combo, a new mega trio is coming your way and it’s called The Walmart I-Hop Mega Church Center.

Anyway, Walmart. Yes, Walmart–the place once infamously confused as a store that sells walls by Paris Hilton, doesn’t actually sell walls, but they do sell legitimately everything else. This is why when it came time for me to re-organize my sneaker closet, the Walmart website was my first stop because let’s be honest–the safest way to shop at Walmart is by not physically being at Walmart. So how did I end up at Walmart then? Good question. I wanted to save the $7 shipping cost on the shoe cubby I ordered, so I opted for the in-store pickup option. A week later, I strolled through the doors of my local Walmart and wandered through aisles of camouflage hats, camouflage televisions and camouflage children until I finally found the online order center nested neatly by the Subway sandwich franchise. I worked my way around the line at the registers that seemed like it was Black Friday in the middle of September and wondered if I was missing out on something, but instead I just got in line behind several people in the online order area.

The area was small, and for some reason had its own Sunny Delight display tower, just in case you felt the need to hydrate with some sugar-water while waiting to pick up your microwave. There were 4 registers and about 10 employees, but only 2 registers were actually open. After waiting for 5 minutes and realizing the line hadn’t moved at all, I asked a sales associate if people were also in this line for general purchases, not just order pickups–“no, it’s also layaway.” Ah–layaway. Alright, no big deal. I stood there, waiting, eavesdropping on conversations about pregnancies and refrigerators, wondering if I would ever get to pick up my shoe cubby. I took a moment to take in my surroundings–there were still several associates standing behind the counter, but still only 2 stations were open. There were two Walmart employees sitting on a bench in the area, one of them was eating chicken–I am hoping she was on her break. It didn’t smell like chicken at first, but then it did…and as my hunger grew in correlation with my impatience, the smell was more apparent to me and I just wanted to know where I could get that chicken but I couldn’t get out of the line because then the vicious cycle would begin once more and I HAD SOMEWHERE TO BE, DAMMIT. And that place was a diner, because I was hungry.

FINALLY, after several texts from my mother and what seemed like the longest 20 minutes of my life, it was my turn. Once I got up to the register, it was quick and painless, but of course the box for my product was bent and damaged. I just wanted to get out of there, though, before the spell of chicken came over me and forced me to wait in yet another line. Also, I had seen a camouflage Mets hat that was quietly calling my name, so I legit had to bounce before I dropped anymore money there that day.

When I got home, after the diner, I assembled my shoe cubby, noticed one of the metal poles was damaged, took a moment to think of what a hassle it would be to try and return or exchange the item, and decided to just take the chance of it collapsing because somehow that would be more convenient to me than having to go to Walmart again.

Poetic Fist Fight

3 Dec

A few friends and I often partake in bar trivia at an establishment in Manhattan on Tuesday nights. Trivia begins at 8:30, so we usually try and arrive around 8pm to make sure we get ample seating/table space for our writing materials, beers and sometimes food. On this particular night I arrived at 7:30 because I grossly overestimated how long it would take me to get to the bar from my new office. When I arrived, there was another event going on. I walked in and saw a middle-aged woman standing up at a microphone reading some ridiculous poetry with zero passion in her voice. As a matter of fact, she sounded like a teacher reading a story about ponies to her first graders just before nap time, except her poem was about the birth of her son…it was interesting, but you can only make a cesarian section sound so poetic before it sounds like a scene straight out of a Wes Craven film.

It was clear that I had stumbled into some kind of older, open mic poetry night. Dammit. So, to kill time, I went to 7-11 for a hot chocolate. They didn’t have those mini marshmallows, though, so I left less than satisfied with a still-tasty hot chocolate in hand. I drank that in record time on my way back to the bar. During this time, I had only managed to kill 15 minutes, but that meant 15 minutes less of that poetry I’d have to hear. Well, to everyone’s dismay, including the employees at the bar and the trivia master, the poetry night ran over by 15 minutes to allow for the “Godfather” to say a few words and recite a story and poem and then sing a song…a man next to me mouthed the words along with the “Godfather” and clapped and whistled upon completion. He was super into it, I was super annoyed.

When poetry night was finally over, most of the older folks started to clear out for the turnover to trivia night which consists predominately of guys and gals ages 21-35 from what I can tell. I, along with a friend, waited for tables to clear that fit four people as we were expecting two more in our party. I scouted a table where the women who previously occupied it were preparing to leave. My friend and I hovered, patiently, as other tables opened up and were immediately occupied by trivia-goers. After about 10 minutes of continuous hovering, I decided to place my belongings down on one of the benches at a table where cesarian section woman was sitting. Her and a colleague were chatting but sitting far enough from each other that they managed to take up three tables in the process. I waited patiently, again. Finally, after the woman was now there by herself, nursing a 96% empty glass of water, she put her feet up essentially on my belongings, so I just went and took a seat next to her feet. Then, the dialogue began:

Woman: So are you taking over my table?
Me: Yeah, our trivia is about to begin and you appeared to be leaving.
Woman: Well, I wasn’t.
Me: I’m sorry, I really thought you were leaving. Your friends all got up so I thought you were too.
Woman: I wasn’t leaving. (At this point she FINALLY takes her feet off of the bench she had them resting upon) You could have asked.
Me: As I said, I am sorry, it looked like you were leaving. I can move…
Woman: You could have asked.
Me: I said I’m sorry. There’s no reason to have an attitude…
Woman: It’s not an attitude, I’m just saying you could have asked. Get some manners.
Me: (Appalled at this point) I said I am sorry and I will move.
Woman: Get some manners. (Storms off)

It was too bad she stormed off like that, I didn’t have enough time to tell her how much I resonated with her poem being a cesarian child myself. Darn. So much for that missed opportunity. Never fear, though, because I made sure multiple employees heard about it afterwards. They found it wildly entertaining…I have a feeling they’re not the biggest fans of that poetry night either.

Moral of the story? Just because you wear a purple sweater and read three sub-par poems at a monthly open mic night for middle-aged folk does not entitle you to put your feet up at a bar once your event has gone over and thus prohibited a WEEKLY event from starting on time. Talk about manners.

To The Guy Who Sold Me Fake Blink 182 Tickets…

12 Sep
Who I didn't get to see last night...

Who I didn’t get to see last night…

I met you in Union Square where you sold me what I now know are fake Blink 182 tickets. I don’t know why you do what you do, I don’t know why you did what you did but I just cannot understand it. Does it make you feel good, taking people’s money like that? Of course it does. It mustOtherwise, why would you keep doing it. I doubt anyone has a gun to your head, but if they do–duck and run!

I should have known the tickets were fake. I got a burning feeling in the pit of my stomach immediately after I bought them from you that they were. They didn’t feel quite right. They were on the thick side and somewhat glossy. The ink looked a little too bold and prevalent on the backdrop of the ticket. They were fake, but it was too late so I just told myself I was being paranoid. You had already disappeared into the crowd of street performers, coffee-drinkers and commuters. I was stuck with those tickets.

You said you were a fan. You said you wish you could go but work got in the way. I believed you because I didn’t have any reason not to.

So I showed up to the venue in Brooklyn. Nervous, but incredibly excited. My favorite band was playing and I couldn’t wait to see them go on. I passed through security and waited in a small line. The girls in front of me got turned away because their tickets wouldn’t scan. Their tickets were fake. At that moment it felt like my entire body was on fire. The burning sensation had spread and I couldn’t handle it. For at that moment my fears became a reality and I learned that people like you actually exist. Finally, it was my turn–my tickets didn’t scan. The tickets you sold to my friend and I were fake. But you knew that. You knew I would travel all the way to Brooklyn by way of the L train which I had made it my life mission never to take, but for Blink 182 it was worth it. But this would end up being for nothing but disappointment and tears. Yes, I cried. YOU made me cry.

I didn’t get to see them play any of my favorite songs–like “Stay Together for the Kids” a song about divorce which I relate to tenfold. Or “Dammit” or “Carousel” or “Man Overboard” or ANYTHING. Instead I was stuck listening to “Adam’s Song” alone in my room and any Blink fan knows how depressing that can be.

It’s not about the money. You robbed me of an experience that I will never get back.

People go to concerts for the experience–they want to feel the music they’ve listened to so many times through their headphones and car stereos. They want to see it, hear it, feel it, live it. I wanted all of that too. Yes, I’ve seen Blink 182 live several times but this show was special. It was a charity show, which makes what you did all the more disgraceful. But it wasn’t just me, it was DOZENS of fans. Dozens of people who just wanted to escape for a few hours. The bouncer told me he counted at least 50, and from the description another girl gave me of the guy who sold her fake tickets, it was you. You and a friend or a group of guys setting out to just make some money.

Sure, maybe this was my fault for not examining the tickets closer but I just never thought that this would happen. I have too much faith in humanity sometimes and my excitement for having found someone to sell me their tickets clouded my judgement. I should have known. I should have known…

I should have realized that after I was stood up two times by who I believe to be two different people I arranged to meet to buy tickets from that I wasn’t meant to go to this concert. But I wanted to so badly. Third time’s a charm, right? You were the third, so I guess that saying doesn’t always apply…

But this isn’t my fault. It’s yours. You knew I was excited to see them–otherwise why would I have sought you out? You took advantage of me. Yes, it could have been worse and you could have written the script for The Craigslist Killer Part Two, but you didn’t. So, thank you for that. But I’m still upset with you.

I’m not angry, I’m just upset. I am hurt, and I don’t even know you. You did seem like a nice guy, but I suppose that’s how con artists are, right? And don’t think for a second that’s not what you are because that is what you are.  I found myself wondering last night if your parents know what you do. Do they know when you say you’re “going to work” that it means you’re just in a basement somewhere putzing around with paper and ink, gearing up for your next fake-out? Does your mother know?

Blink 182 will come around to New York again sometime soon I’m sure and you’ll get down to business making your fake tickets again–but I hope you don’t. I hope you stop. You cheated over 50 people this week. FIFTY. Isn’t that enough? I couldn’t sleep last night knowing I had been cheated–could you sleep knowing you were the cheater

I know you’ll never see this letter and I know this letter won’t accomplish anything except for helping me get my feelings out in the open and somewhere other than my mind. I know you’ll keep manufacturing and selling fake tickets. I know you’ll spend the money in a way that makes you happy. I just hope that maybe, just maybe, some of that money you made by ripping off 50+ people will go towards something good. Maybe a charity–maybe a few dollars in a homeless man’s change cup. I must restore the same faith I had in humanity that led me to thinking no one would ever make and sell me, or anyone for that matter, a fake ticket and apply it to this scenario. I must hope that the money isn’t going towards something negative, even though it sort of already has. Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy because in the end, everyone deserves happiness, but just know that in this scenario your happiness comes at the expense of others.

Time will pass and we’ll both forget about this. It’s a new day. I’m still upset but I feel better now. I’m sure you don’t care, but I just want you to know that just because you have my money doesn’t mean you’ve won. You’ll lose at some point and maybe then you’ll finally realize what you’ve done–what you’ve been doing–is wrong.

Thanks to you, I couldn’t be that girl anyone fell in love with at the rock show last night…

What I Thought of Miley Cyrus’ 2013 VMAs Performance–It All Twerked Out!

26 Aug
via Billboard.com

via Billboard.com

For those of you that know me personally, you know that I’m a huge Miley Cyrus fan. More so than any 23 year old should be, and I have absolutely no shame about that. Maybe that’s why I’m about to say what I’m about to say, but screw it–I’m just being Allie.

I had the privilege of being in attendance last night at the Barclays Center where, above all else, Miley twerked on Robin Thicke and NSYNC got back together, for a little over a minute. While all the performances individually can probably inspire lengthy, analytic blog posts, the one truly worth talking about, and on everyone’s mind, is Miley’s. Don’t agree with me? Well, clearly a handful of people do considering her name was mentioned 4.5 MILLION times via social media last night. Four. Point. Five. MILLION. That’s A LOT of teddy bears. And trust me, being there to see the performance in person was just as exhausting, insane and fun as one may imagine. But I didn’t even cringe once–and here’s why…

Miley’s performance was truly a clusterf**k of bears, latex, bears, a foam finger, twerking, butts and sex. Sex sex sex. All the sex. And she brought Robin Thicke out, who sings the sex anthem of the summer, “Blurred Lines,” to sex some more. There was grinding there was twerking there was big-booty-slapping and there were horrified tweens and moms failing to cover eyes in the audience. It was the twerk-wreck of the night and no one could look away. NO ONE. Why? Well, everyone loves to see a star descend which is what tons of people think is happening but is that really what it is? Is Miley truly about to combust and land herself in treatment of some kind? Yes, she’s admitted to smoking marijuana but so have several of my friends and none of them need to seek help of the therapeutic kind. She’s not addicted to marijuana or molly or alcohol. She’s not hurting herself. She’s not going psycho a-la Amanda Bynes. All the girl wants to do is twerk. So if there’s a clinic tucked away in the hills of Malibu that specializes in teddy bears ‘n’ twerks, sign her up, but other than that, she’s just being Miley. She cut her hair, she didn’t shave her head. She’s been in the studio and out there promoting her new single and album. She’s working and hustling, but in her own special way.

She’s coming into her own. Another Disney star gone raw and a bit off the rails but she hasn’t done anything wrong. Shock and offend? Sure, but that’s incredibly easy to do. Heck, I throw on a bathing suit and stroll around the beaches of Southampton and do just that. This is why “Blurred Lines” was the perfect song for Miley to sing along with Mr. Thicke. You see, she was a good girl, she can’t be domesticated (which, mind you, is exactly what she was trying to tell EVERYONE with her single “Can’t Be Tamed” back when she had all of her hair), but she just wants to start that endless journey to find out what exactly rhymes with “hug me.” Honestly, the worst thing about Miley’s performance was Robin’s suit but “hey hey hey,” she most likely had no control over that–or at least as much as she did over her butt-cheeks flopping out of her latex a little bit. That last part was unfortunate, actually. But these things happen! At least it wasn’t a boob.

Her performance was SMART. SMART SMART SMART. Why? Because this was the 30th anniversary of the VMAs, and while not exactly known for its prominence in the musical world–which is fine because it focuses on the music video aspect of the song, not the song itself which is proper considering MTV’s roots grew from music videos–it has been known for some of the most outrageous award show moments. It’s been a while since the VMAs were the canvas for something truly unbelievable, vulgar and borderline Cinemax, and Miley knew this was her time to shine. Her time to step in and say “I’ll raise your Britney Spears skin-toned, bejeweled body suit and give you a skin-toned rubber glove, high-waisted bikini.” She WENT for it. She WANTED to be talked about and get coverage on every major news outlet AND SHE DID. And the fact that she was able to win the night–socially, at least–for a performance at the same awards show where MOTHER EFFIN *NSYNC REUNITED is truly unbelievable and just goes to show that not only can she not stop but she can’t BE stopped. Miley knew what she was about to do and she blew everyone out of the water–and their comfort zone. She took two of the biggest songs of this summer and combined them into one, over-the-top and sexually confused performance. It was brilliant.

via Twitter

via Twitter

So, while you’re sitting there with your judgement face on wearing your judgement panties, Miley Cyrus is laughing all the way to, well, I’m not exactly sure, but probably somewhere that sells both foam fingers and teddy bears. Maybe “take your child to the game” day at a local sports venue. I don’t know. What I DO know is that even if you had to turn your television off or switch over to Breaking Bad for the six-or-so minutes Miley graced the Barclays Center stage, you definitely tuned in today to one of the various news outlets that covered the story for hours upon end. Analyzing each move, talking about her mother and father’s reactions, and the Smith family’s as well. You wanted to avoid it, you wanted to say “that was horrific and disgusting and I refuse to watch it” but right now you’re thinking, what the hell happened? And searching for it on the interwebs. So, let me save you some trouble because you can find the video RIGHT HERE on CNN’s website. Yes, CNN. Who also dedicated an entire section to her performance on their homepage today, the day after the VMAs aired.

via CNN.com

via CNN.com

Overall, her performance WAS ridiculous and insane and outrageous and shocking but it will be talked about for years and because of that, when Miley’s new album drops on October 8th, it’s going to receive all the more attention. As absurd as the performance was, it twerked.

I’m just gonna go ahead and say it–Miley’s 2013 VMA performance is the new “Britney/Madonna Kiss.”

*Please note all of the above is my opinion.*

An Open Letter to Justin Bieber

20 May
via Getty Images

via Getty Images

Dear Justin,

First off let me say that I enjoy your music. It’s fun, catchy and your story, however redundant it gets, is inspiring. I can even deal with your diaper-like pants but what I cannot stand are your fans.

I’m not discounting their devotion, because it’s definitely top-notch, but they’re a little over the top in the sense that they would KILL someone if that person said something negative about you. This simply is not right.

Last night I was watching the Billboard Music Awards. An hour or so before you were booed while on stage, you performed a song I’ve never heard. It wasn’t a bad song, but I noticed that you were lip syncing. Even if it wasn’t a full lip sync and you were using a backtrack to help pick up where you may have lacked in your vocals, it looked like you were lip syncing.  I understand artists do this literally all of the time, which is disappointing, but regardless of that, I tweeted about what I believed I saw.

Firstweet

A harmless observation and request

Literally seconds later I received a tweet in response…

response1

**Please note that I have blued-out the username of the girl who tweeted at me last night because this is regarding your entire fan base, she now, unfortunately, serves as the poster child for all of them.**

Now, I don’t think this is an appropriate response. Maybe I’m wrong or just naive but does tweeting that you lip synced during your performance make me a slut? Last time I checked I didn’t sleep with the founder of Twitter to send out that tweet, nor did I sleep with anyone who gave me inside information about your performance and even if I had slept with ONE person that by no means makes me a slut. Not only is calling someone a slut a form of bullying, but calling someone a slut who you don’t even know is a form of ignorance, and just cruel. Let me be clear–this didn’t anger or upset me, but had she said this to someone else, it could have drastically upset them. Luckily, she got herself into a tiff with someone who happens to have a wild sense of humor–yes, I’m talking about myself.

The conversation didn’t stop there…

33333

Are you alarmed yet? Have you noticed that this young fan is ONLY 11 YEARS OLD? This became an entirely different conversation once I found out she’s 11. Setting aside that she’s a crazy fan, her language is atrocious for someone her age. Are they learning slang for the male genitalia that early? What’s happening? I know you don’t curse in your songs so perhaps this isn’t your fault, but to what level do you brainwash your fans to get them to pull out all the stops when it comes to defending your honor? It’s not like I even said “Justin sucks!” or anything of that nature. I made a claim, I stand behind it 100%, and this is what I get? From someone not even following me? From someone HALF my age? I attempted to change the tone of the conversation:

44444

She actually admitted to taking you more seriously than school. I don’t care if you’re famous, rich, poor, performing on the street or performing in a sold out arena–education is important. Even you should know this. I saw that documentary of yours, I know you have a teacher who teaches you on the road. What’s going on here?

As you probably have heard, bullying is an epidemic. Thousands of kids and even adults are affected daily and several instances have unfortunately resulted in death, often by suicide. You teach your fans to believe, never say never and that if you were their boyfriend, you’d never let them go. Don’t you teach your fans not to bully, too? Well, that’s exactly what they do. And I bet once I tweet the link to this letter some girl who sits and stares at her phone all day, refreshing the Justin Bieber search she has permanently glued to her Twitter account will read the letter, try to define a bunch of the larger and above grade level words in it and then send me a poorly worded attack that calls me something I’m not just because I chose to speak my mind in an incredibly mild manner. Justin, I’m not expecting your fans to stop piercing eardrums with their high-pitched screams, I’m not asking you to stop making music, heck, I’m not even going to ask you to stop wearing leather drop-crotch pants because that’s your choice and doesn’t really affect others too negatively, but I will ask that you please try and control your fans to some degree. The girl who fired back at me over and over via Twitter last night actually said that she takes you more seriously than school! Like, that actually happened! Is that what you want? To have an army if uneducated and delinquent fans? Lets be honest, it’s only a matter of time before you get arrested for God knows what but until then, lead by example. Pull up your pants and teach tolerance, love and acceptance.

I’m not saying the way your fans act is your fault but they idolize you–so maybe you should take that as an opportunity to teach them to be better people, to not bully others and to not spread hate for no apparent reason. Teach them that you can fight your own battles, haters and speeding tickets. I know you’ve never asked them to help you fight a speeding ticket but explain to them that these are your battles. Not theirs. You say it should be about the music, well, encouraging them to buy your records is fine, but you need to encourage them not to be rude or disrespectful just because someone doesn’t share the same taste in music as them.

Whether you were lip syncing or not, I’m not a slut. Even if I was a slut, it would have nothing to do with you having lip synced. Your fans are so ruthless and willing to do literally anything for you that I’m worried they’re going to keep the bullying epidemic going and eventually something terrible could happen.
Please do something about this. Go on Ellen if you have too. It doesn’t matter where, but it matters when–and that time is now. You were booed on stage last night. You won that award because your fans are relentless, but clearly those who were present, people who aren’t necessarily in your fan wheelhouse, didn’t think you deserved it and also thought you were wearing too much leather and acted way too cocky with your leather and aviators. Slow down, Bieber, and control your fans–otherwise you’re going to spiral out of control and find yourself composing jingles for a Canadian restaurant chain.
Sincerely,
Allie

The Elderly

2 Jul

I feel like I really know old people. I mean, senior citizens. The elderly?

I’m really in touch with them. I may even be turning into one. I only shop at department stores, I love a good coupon and Mah Jongg is quickly becoming one of my favorite games. All of this may just make me Jewish, but I’d like to think I’m one with the elderly. Except I can still drive above 35mph and still stay within one lane.

A lot of people dislike the elderly. And after living with my grandmother for a few summers I can definitely understand why, but I think they’re more lovable than anything else. They’ve gone through a lot, most of them at least. Wars, depression, seeing their loved ones pass away and movie tickets used to be about 50cents, so give them a break because life used to be better for most of them.

The elderly are incredibly lovely, intelligent, bitter people. Well, not all of them are bitter but some of the folks I hang out with are. But then again, so are some of the younger people I hang out with. Even I’m bitter about some things in life. Like, a Sonic finally opened on Long Island but it’s still about 40 minutes away from me. That kind of bitter, I guess.

You’d be amazed–the elderly talk shit about each other! It’s awesome. There’s no other way to describe it. And they do it the old fashioned way–in person. They don’t cowardly hide behind a text or email (mostly because they wouldn’t know how to do that) they just say it without hesitation. “That woman is a pain.” “Oh, that Rhonda? She’s no good.” None of it ever goes above and beyond simplistic shit talking, but it’s just so great. And they gossip! I’ll never forget listening to my grandmother and her friend s discuss the Anthony Weiner scandal last year during a weekly game of Mah Jongg. Ironically, I tweeted about it. They don’t get Twitter, either, but they’re all at different levels of technological understanding. There’s the most basic level which I believe is where my mom’s mom is–they can use a cell phone but don’t know how to do anything else. They also can’t text. Then there’s a more advanced level, which is where my dad’s mom is–they can use cell phones, text, surf the web and send/receive emails. Then, of course, there’s what I like to call the super-advanced elderly who can do everything the basic and advanced elderly can do, plus more. This includes, but is not limited to, setting up and understanding the concept of wifi, changing ink cartridges and installing software.

One common misconception about old people is that they really like a good, quality sweater vest. Well, for the past few summers I’ve been living with my grandmother while working in the city and let me tell you I rarely see any sweater vests. My grandmother likes to wear “boxy” shirts, actually. Perhaps the lack of sweater vests correlates directly with the increase in the heat index over the summer but never mind that. Just know that sweater vests are not synonymous with the elderly.

They’re such a unique demographic in the sense that many of them don’t know what demographic they’re a part of. For example, my grandmother likes to see movies, but doesn’t necessarily go to films meant for her demographic, i.e. the time she went to see “Corky Romano,” that lovely Chris Kattan movie that no one, except for my grandmother, saw. Just the other day she decided to go to a Thai Chi class at the Y and hated it. The twist? She said it was too slow for her. Funny, you’d think she’d be too slow for it. But that’s just it. The elderly aren’t all they’re assumed to be. Yes they play Mah Jongg and yes they don’t understand how to turn on a computer but they’ll often surprise you. For instance, my grandmother still has the tolerance to book airline tickets over the phone. NO ONE does that anymore! But she does–and that surprises me. Not that she uses the phone, but her level of tolerance for actually speaking to someone over the phone in a day and age where the Internet is king. What’s the Internet? Just kidding, I’m not feeling that old. Also, she doesn’t have plastic on any of her couches. So, take that, society.

I’m not exactly ready to board a Mah Jongg cruise (which my grandmother goes on annually) but I’d say it’s definitely a possibility in the future. If anything, I’m ahead of the game and will make a killing in the Mah Jongg teaching business when I’m older and looking for something to generate income after retirement. You may laugh now, but I shall laugh later. All the way to the (Zipper coin purse) bank!

My name is Allie, I’m 21 years young and I’m proud to say that I listen to the baseball game on the radio while my grandmother and I eat dinner supper in the dining room.

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