Shallon Lester's Blog, page 13

"Young Adult": Fluffy Movie or Chilling Preview of Shallon's Future?

Every year on Christmas day, our family goes to the movies, mostly because at that point in the holiday we've all run out of things to talk about/alcohol.

This year, we saw Young Adult, which was my choice despite my lifelong grudge against the talentless and bratty Diablo Cody. I thought it'd be funny since Charlize's character is a teen fiction author ("Oh so you're a writer?" "No. I'm an author"–how many times have I said that line?!) and a blonde and it could possibly maybe kind of bear a resemblance to my own life.

But instead of LOLing my way through the movie, I became more and more creeped out. "Resemblance" is too slight a word for what I witnessed. Let's break it down:

 

 

1. Obsession with hair extensions.

2. Pathetic use of ratty shopping bag as purse.

3. Hoodie that reminds her of ex that has lonnnnng since moved on.

4. Dog named Dolce (You know I would if I could).

5. Age-inappropriate pink.

 

And this is just one of her signature looks. She veers wildly from scrubby/dumpy to over-the-top glam, no matter what the occaision. In one scene, the audience laughed when she pranced into her hometown dive bar in stilettos and a $700 bag. I didn't see what was so funny.

 

 

Nor did I LOL that she had the Kardashians playing 24/7 as she passed out wasted on the couch. I didn't giggle when she marveled people back home seem so happy with such mundane lives, casting a piteous eye on their unremarkableness.

And I broke into a cold fcking sweat when she prowled through the book store looking for her novel and signed several copies that no one was asking for.

 

 

I'd like to say that the film had some magically redemptive ending, but (SPOILER ALERT), it basically concludes with her telling herself that everything is going to be different, that she's ready to embrace the grown-up part of her life.

But you get the distinct feeling that the joke is really on her. That nothing will ever change.

Christmas Traditions

When I like to feel better about my own life, I like to read blogs written by random friends-of-friends, specifically these three terribly boring Midwestern girls. They make me feel happy and superior since I live a life filled with parties and champagne and hair extensions and their biggest thrill in a week is Grey's Anatomy. Not that there's anything wrong with–hahah I can't even pretend! Of course there is. Life is for the living, especially during the holidays.

Celebrate God by shooting at a creature he made!

 

But even their Christmas traditions are mind-numbingly dull, which is really saying something because traditions are rarely exciting. Still though, these married, domesticated dullards manage to outdo themselves this time every year.

One such blogger, Lauren, detailed her Christmas tradition, which was "eat breakfast with my husband." That's not a tradition. It's an uninteresting daily function, like "Get the mail" or "Urinate when my bladder is full." Jesus.

Forget diamonds; these losers want appliances.

Another, Jessica, cited the generic "Be festive!" as her particular tradition. Again dummy, not a ritual but merely a vaguely hopeful statement that should really go without saying.

"Soda pop, you say? Oo maybe just a sip! I'm so naughty!"

So, only slightly less irrelevant and weird, are the Lester family traditions. Enjoy/I'm sorry.

1. Because my mom can't/won't bake, I make (from scratch) gingerbread, chocolate truffles and sugar cookies

2. No, my mom says, don't make sugar cookies–they're bourgeois. Make butter cookies instead.

3. They're the same thing mom, we go through this every year.

4. I know Shallon and every year we remember that sugar cookies = janky and butter cookies = tasty and un-jank. (mom wins since she's buying the ingredients bc I'm cheap)

5. Mid-baking, I realize we forgot butter and/or vanilla extract. She offers to go back to the store. I insist on going, mostly so I can text some boy and/or google hockey scores in peace.

6. She eats the cookies. I do too. She feels happy and content. I have a hypoglycemic sugar crash and have to be put to bed before I throw up.

7. Christmas Eve the family comes over and we order pizza from Roundtable then lay on the floor and open presents.

8. My mom reads me Polar Express, even though I'm in my 20s. I insist there's a reindeer outside.

9. It is a possum. Mom freaks out about her trumpet flowers being eaten.

10. She heads outside with a broom to shoo it away. I get mad and name it Rufus. Leave Rufus alone, I say, You're always mean to my friends.

11. Christmas morning: we open the presents that "Santa" brought. Christmas dinner (tacos) (and leftover pizza). Pretend not to notice everyone cringing at me and my mom's off-key version of "Baby It's Cold Outside."

 

Do You Hear What I Hear?

"It's not that I have a problem with Christmas the holiday," said my Jewish friend the other night when she came to visit, politely tolerating my poinsettia-infested home, "It's just the over-the-top commercialism and those awful Christmas song remakes!"

I nodded along dutifully but secretly, I had no idea what she was talking about. Over-the-top? Christmas? Nooo. No no no. If it were up to me, Christmas would last three months, and then repeat again around February. And again in August.

And we're not particularly religious. Sure, Grandma Gigi is a devout Southern Baptist, but we've learned to tune that out and focus on other aspects of the holiday season, namely scented candles, gingerbread men, and an insane amount of presents for a relatively small family.

 

And the music is the best part! So cozy and warm and simple. I listen to "Someday at Christmas" by Stevie Wonder all year 'round, and when I do, I close my eyes and picture me and my friend's perfect life. Hilary taking her 4th curtain call on Broadway. Klo surrounded by her babies. Holly running a company. Grier with a Stanley Cup ring.

And me, with you, our views of the water, silvery grey Hotel sheets and NHL Center Ice all winter long.

Dear Santa

Every year, I still like to visit Santa. It's less of a "recapture my childhood" kind of thing and more of a greedy necessity, so ensure that I maximize every possible opportunity to ask the universe for what I want in the coming year.

This Christmas, I thought I'd reverse my usual selfishness and instead give thanks that the good baby Jesus makes people as adorable as the Canadiens' Hal Gill. I mean is this not THE MOST wonderful pic you've ever seen?? Just please don't let his team in the playoffs. Like srsly, Santa.

 

Model Citizens

Society seems to be playin' it a little fast and loose with the term 'model' these days. Example: Rob Kardashian's new girlfriend, Rita:

 

Alright. First of all, no model in the history of planet Earth has been named "Rita."

Rita, mami, I hate to break it to you but this is a model:

 

Sure, she looks like the specter of death itself, a terrifying albino Twizzler woman, but she is in fact an actual professional model. If you have ever described yourself as "curvy" or "sexually attractive to straight men" (especially a Kardashian) then I'm afraid you probably aren't a model, Rita.

I detest people like Rita and Jennifer Love Hewitt who say "I'm happy with my body!" Ok, well if you're happy then why the hell do you need to lie and pretend you're a size 2 or a model? You're not. I know it, you know it, and that poor exhausted shop girl at Bebe certainly knows it.

Instead, Rita should stick to being an obvious Rihanna impersonator. It doesn't say much for this great country of ours, but there's a market.

Shallon's Rules for Dating: How to Meet a Boyfriend Online

Ladies, there is no shame in online dating. Seriously. I had great luck with Match.com and since then I get constant requests from girls who need help finding love online, so here are my tips.

Firstly, the Internet isn't a bad behavior free-for-all. You stil must abide by rules, albeit slightly different ones than you might observe if meeting someone in a bar or at a methadone clinic.

Girls, guys want to see two things from your online dating profile:

1) You're hot

Hotness = posting flattering photos without any other guys in them unless they are very obviously related to you. Make them fun, light, happy photos. You are allowed to post ONE "wacky" pic–not 10–and don't make it your profile picture. Posting good pics are the single most important thing to men–they're visual creatures.

As my eventual boyfriend put it "You were hot so I didn't really care what you wrote. You could've said you ate dog food and I still would've been like "let's see where this goes!'"

Also, steer clear of slutty pics and photos with you and a slew of hotter friends, even if they're married/lesbian.

Who wants to date her? No one.

2) You're not batshit crazy.

Sanity = brevity. Just because Match or Eharmony gives you room to write 4,000 words doesn't mean you should use it. My "about me" section was about 5 sentences explaining what I do, where I'm from and what kind of guy I'm into. Think of your profile as a movie trailer–it shows just a snippet of who you are, and of course, the best parts.

If a guy emails you–never contact him if he only winks–make sure your response is shorter than his message and include a question to keep the conversation flowing. Let him suggest drinks. From a caveman standpoint, online dating is pretty unnatural so ya gotta let him be a man whenever humanly possible.

Also, did you know that for every ! or you put into an email the chances of getting a response drop by 10%? And for every multiple punctuation mark (!!!! and ?!?!) the response rate drops by 25%.  So keep those winkies and frownies and LOLs to yourself. They're gay. Yes, really!!?!?

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Listen to me or end up like Jennifer Love Hewitt. Your choice.

Hope this helps! Boys, next week I'll show you how to score a ladyfriend online…and no, not on craigslist.

 

 

exes and ohs,

S

 

 

Size Matters

At my very thinnest, I'm a size 27. That's like, "Adderall + 2x a day at the gym" thin. Usually I'm a 28 but when I'm quite fat, I'm a 29.

 

I don't mind sharing this info because I think I'm fairly normal and because Eva Mendes says she has the exact same measurements. And I like Eva Mendes, mostly because my very favorite boyfriend, Penguin, said that I reminded him of her. I have no idea why I'd remind him of a big-toothed cuban woman but whatever, she's hot and it was probably just his concussion talking anyway.

My point in revealing my size is that, as you know, I have always believed that celebrities lie wildly about how big they are. Kirstie Alley a 4?! Kim K a 2?! BITCH PLEASE. But I also believed that these kind of insane self-delusions were also confined to the celebrity world.

See, even Forevs knows Kim is a lying butterball!

Not so.

Yesterday morning at the gym, the girl changing next to me pulled out a new pair of Uniqlo jeans with the tag still on them. They were a 26.

This girl was not a 26. If I had to fit her, I'd say a 30/31. She had thick legs and a flat ass (such a sad combo) kind of like Sammi from Jersey Shore. THICK. Jennifer Aniston is a 26.

I dawdled getting ready because I had to see with my own eyes, in real time, this girl try to wriggle into size twentyfuckingsize. And it was not a pretty sight.

Tugging, heaving, sweating–she got the majority of her workout just getting dressed! And when she finally poured her tree-trunk body into those itty bitty pants, she looked just dreadful. Her ass was flattened out even more and muffin top burst forth from her waistband like lava spewing out of a volcano.

I honestly don't know how she sat or even walked around. It looked so uncomfortable and of course, hideously unsexy. I'll wear a car cover before I'll subject myself to that.

She Is Risen!

Hello my little loves, I'm sorry I've been such a bad blogger. I've been going through some stuff, some boy stuff, some bad boy stuff, and have cloistered myself inside my Tempurpedic bed and did some serious emotional eating.

But finally, I dragged myself out from under slabs of congealed pizza cheese and Reese's wrappers and plodded out to get Christmas decorations and spent Friday evening decorating joylessly, alone, with the 6 bottles of wine and $40 worth of candy I'd bought the day before. In spite of my vengeful Grinchy heart and mirthless decking of the halls, the windowsill turned out pretty well:

 

 

I know, there's no tree, but that's kind of how it goes in New York. But I did get a real wreath and real pine boughs.

Wow wasn't this an interesting post? Next time I'll write about…salt. My favorite brands. My preferred sort of shakers–3 hole or 4?! More exciting details when we come back!

 

 

 

A Few Words on Chaz Bono

To say that I do not care for Chaz Bono is an understatement. Let me explain.

Funny AND true

1. I'm not a fan of celebrity spawn being famous for no real reason. What does this 1400 lb creature do for a living? Does ANYONE know?

2. It's not a man. It doesn't have a wiener, do you know that? It's basically just a hairy woman. My high school was 35% Persian. Trust me, I know a hairy woman when I see one. And clearly, Cher doesn't really support this son/daughter thing after all. She has more money than god but yet she won't buy her shemale child a wiener? Why not? If my kid put WIENER at the top of every single Christmas list, goddammit I'd get them a wiener.

 

 

3. This whole "I've always felt like a boy" thing is bullshit. Can you imagine having Cher as your female role model? How in hell could you ever expect to live up to that? Chaz clearly didn't even bother to try. I can't really blame it for that, but still…

4. You can't just switch genders when you get too fat and hairy for the one you were born into.

I know some people find this offensive, but guess what–I find this human bean bag chair offensive too. So there.

Boo

This weekend Boyfriend and I went to Chicago where all of his friends live to party it up Chicago style. He meant this as "Show off my (for once) hot girlfriend and drink the nights away!" I interpreted it as "Get hideously sick and then creep out his friends by dressing as Mr. T."

Have a look, won't you?

Boyfriend booked us at the W Hotel (Lakeshore), we had an awesome view of Navy Pier!

Boyfriend and his buddies went as Wall Street pigs or something. I dont really know but it certainly creeped me out…

And I refused to kiss him until he took it off. Which, given my Mr. T outfit, he probably preferred:

I pitied the boyfriend who tried to git away from his girlfriend!

 

Alas, my fever got the better of me and I was headed home by 10pm, like a damn punk.