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Written by lindsay in: Opinion | Tags: , ,

“If You’re a Bird, I’m a Bird!”

My friend Dave once proclaimed that his ideal woman would be good at math and smell like burritos.

I’ve always liked this description, and I started thinking about it again this weekend, when, for some reason, I was forced to defend my love of “The Notebook” on three separate occasions. Apparently, no one in Bethesda, MD has a soul.

One such conversation revolved around this anecdote, that a woman dumped her fiancee because he said he wouldn’t build her a house a la Noah and Allie in Nicolas Sparks’ finely crafted masterpiece. I sided with the woman, proclaiming to a handsome gentleman I had just met that I would expect my fiancee to build me a house to prove his love; yes, it’s that kind of crazy that has felled so many, many men over the years.

Of course, I was kidding about the house. It’s romantic to watch Ryan Gosling hammer nails for love, but in reality, all I can imagine is a lifetime of my asking him to take out the garbage and him whining “I built this whole house with my bare hands, and you can’t carry a trash bag five feet to the can?” But it is fun to think about what romantic gestures I’d actually want to see from a significant other. Assuming all the basics — kindness, a sense of humor, similar values, height to make up for my lackthereof, here is what I’ve come up with:

– Willing to watch “The Notebook” with me.  And find my endless stream of tears and choked “Awws” charming. Repeat for basically any other chick flick and most episodes of “Friday Night Lights.”

– Does whatever he has to to make sure that nary a sprig of cilantro ever crosses my path.

– Does not automatically poke me in the spine the second I tell him I hate having my spine touched. For the record, every single guy I’ve dated has failed on this count, and one even got punched in the face for it (it was an involuntary reflex…I swear).

– Automatically picks up my bag and puts it in the overhead bin without asking if I need help.

– After the bag is stowed and the plane starts to taxi, takes my hand before I grab his. DOES NOT look at the wing and say “Oh my God, is that piece supposed to be that loose?” and then laugh maniacally when I panic.

– When we’re riding on public transportation, always moves to the door a few minutes before the actual stop, because he also has a chronic fear of not getting through the crowd of people fast enough to make the timed doors and then having the vehicle pull away with everyone knowing that you were supposed to get off at that stop but couldn’t because you were too slow.

I don’t think I’m asking for a unicorn here, right?

Please, tell me about your metaphorical hand-built houses!

Written by lindsay in: Opinion |

It’s like showing up to your birthday party expecting cake…

…but getting a nut-punch instead.

I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, but Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse have left me no choice. Do I even need to say it?

I think the title of this post sums it all up. 5 years (I started a year late)…countless hours on the message boards…a failed first date (anyone who implies during dessert that I am immature for being so into a TV show is not long in my life…at least get to know all the other ways I am immature before blaming Lost)…FOR WHAT?!


Here is a step-by-step guide for Meccanization:

1) Cast Matthew Fox (I’m 100% a Jack girl, but being the whiniest person on an earlier show that included Lacey Chabert, Jennifer Love Hewitt and Scott Wolf is a feat worthy of this blog).

2) Create a show that hooks me so much initially that I watch all 29 episodes of the first season straight through, pausing only to get tissues to wipe away my tears when Boone bit it.

3) Develop an entire mythology that fascinates me enough to occupy at least 25% of my mindshare every day.  EVERY DAY. I only regret that neither job I occupied during the last 4 years had a billable category for mentally masturbating about Lost.

4) Vomit all over that intricately created mythology, ignore it entirely and instead cap the series with a 2 acheter du viagra au maroc.5 hour string of cheesy one-liners, weird facial ticks and an awesome but entirely misplaced jump-punch by Jack Shephard.

To me, Lost was like that boyfriend you should have dumped years ago but you stuck with him because you had hopes that the glimmer of light (that’s inside every man…see what I did there?) you saw in the first few months would come back. Instead, you came home from a hard day at work and found him fat, unshaven and jobless, eating your food, watching your TV, spending your money and in bed with your best friend.

I’ll take Desmond’s advice and just let go, but before I do:


Written by lindsay in: Opinion | Tags: ,

“It Was Hi-Larious”

Dear Woman On the 3,

You are so griding my gears right now.  Sitting across from me, yelling into your cell phone, repeating the phrase “O.M.G.  It was Hi-Larious, Becky.”

I don’t know who Becky is, but if she thinks your stupid story about how you passed some guy your number at Rickhouse is, indeed, Hi-Larious, I hate her too.

I am the first person to champion loud phone conversations on the street.  In fact, I’d say that more often than not, if I’m walking around, I’m on the phone.  Walking from Point A to Point B provides the perfect dead time to make and return phone calls.   But on the sidewalk, with a zillion people caught up in their own chats, said phone calls are unobtrusive.

On the 3, a small enclosed space that is bad enough without your whiny voice, high-pitched chortle and staggering insecurities being broadcast through it, they are pretty damn obtrusive.

Where is the bus justice in the world?  I sit quietly and always give up my seat for the elderly and am repaid by the universe by getting sat on, drooled on and groped by middle-aged men just “trying to find the ‘stop requested’ button on the bar by the back door” (here’s a hint — it’s not anywhere near my chest).  You’re using Muni as your own personal phone booth and the worst you get is a written slap on the wrist on this blog.

If the guy you met at Rickhouse actually calls, I sure hope I’m not on the bus when you answer.





And Another Thing…

Terminator: Salvation sucked so much that I was rooting for Skynet.

I loathe McG (whose “name” irritates me to my very core) with every fiber of my being at the moment.  At one point, I actually leaned over to my movie buddy and asked if we could leave (and I NEVER leave movies — I sat through “The Unborn” for pete’s sake).  Do you have any idea how much I have to hate a movie (or a director) for me to want to leave it?  Imagine me making that gesture where you hold your arms apart really far.  Then imagine that my arms are as big and endless as McG’s ego.  That’s how much.

I love the Terminator series.  I even defended “Rise of the Machines” as a fun addition to the first two quality films.  And T4 could have been good.  It could have been good, that is, if McG didn’t make the colossal mistake of thinking that he was up for the task of directing it.  It’s like he fell into the classic “we’ll fix it in post” trap…only he forgot the part about fixing it in post.

McG makes me long for the explosions and ridiculous slow-motion sequences of Michael Bay — at least good ‘ol Mikey doesn’t try to do anything other than mindless action.

It goes without saying who is Meccanized in this post.

Written by lindsay in: Opinion | Tags: ,

They Say the First Step is Acceptance

I, Lindsay Mecca, accept that I have a problem…with Robert Pattinson.

Two problems, actually.

1)    I can’t get enough of him.  Those eyebrows.  The charisma.  And, oh, that hair.
2)    I can’t decide if I love him or hate him.

The first problem seems to resolve itself (or make itself worse, depending on your perspective) because HE IS EVERYWHERE.  You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a Rob Pattinson likeness in some form.

The second…well, that’s a tougher issue.  On the one hand, he’s maybe the biggest tool in Hollywood (in and of itself a veritable toolbox) and I feel like I lose brain cells when I listen to him in interviews.  (Though he’s not as bad as Kristen Stewart, who I liken to a gaping whole on the screen where an actress should be.)  On the other…yum.  To elaborate, Twilight was scarily engaging, largely due to him and his Brando-esque charisma.  (Somewhere, Marlon Brando is rolling over in his grave…metaphorically, of course.  He’s too fat to turn over fully in that tiny wooden box.)

Yikes, I am being mean in this post.  For those of you who have never seen me mean, this is what it looks like.

Anyway, I see the faux-brooding and the questionable personal hygiene of the lanky, handsome Brit in question and think he is just asking for Meccanization.  Then my heart flutters a bit and I find myself shelling out $3.95 for a copy of US Weekly (ok, fine, $19.95 for US, People, OK!, Life and Style and Teen Beat) and I am suddenly struck by a strong urge to self-Meccanize.


Written by lindsay in: Opinion | Tags:

It’s My Bus Ride, and I’ll Groove How I Want To

You know what really winds me around the axle?  (Someone who shall remain nameless but who lives with my mom and answers to the name “dad” told me that I needed to find a new phrase for “grind my gears,” because, according to him, “when you read all the posts in a row, it gets a bit repetitive.”)

When people on the bus judge the music I am listening to.
Their eyes linger  on my iPhone screen as I scroll through the seemingly endless possibilities and land on … maybe … Meatloaf.  Or Celine Dion.  Or the original broadway cast recording of Phatom of the Opera (I had a childhood crush on Michael Crawford and I am in no way ashamed of that fact).  Every once in awhile, I get a nod of approval.  More often than not, I get clear disapproval in the form of a sneer or a little scoff.
If I am feeling mellow and/or melancholy and want to listen to “When the Stars go Blue” or Colin Hay on repeat for the entire duration of the bus ride, that is my prerogative.  If I put on my “80’s Wonders” playlist while spanning the 15 blocks to my office and mentally live out my ultimate fantasy of fronting an 80’s cover band, that is no one’s business but my own.
Music snobs on the 1bx, you are Meccanizezd.
Written by lindsay in: Opinion | Tags: , ,

This Should Come as No Surprise …

… but jury duty really grinds my gears. Especially the way this state conducts its juror summons. I’ve ranted a lot about this today, though, so I will simply sum up my experience:

On the plus side:

– The jury assembly room is really nice (though the chairs are horrific. I think I permanently lost an inch or two from having to hunch in them all day, and those are not inches I have to spare.).

– The instructional video went down smoothly with a big heaping spoonful of irony. 2 minutes in when the narrator said “You may not get selected for jury duty. Don’t worry — it’s nothing personal,” I started laughing pretty loudly and didn’t stop for … oh … the rest of the morning.

On the minus side:

– There is very much a social hierarchy in the land of Civic Duty not dissimilar to high school. And, also not dissimilar to high school, I was not one of the cool kids. I was working the whole time, brought my lunch instead of purchasing food, and actually asked questions of the clerks in front of the room (I’m curious about our city’s legal system … so sue me!).

– Anyone you meet while serving jury duty is a fairweather friend. A very nice 40-ish gentleman sat down next to me at the start of the day. We chatted, discussed our work and our hopes and dreams — it was very pleasant. I thought we had a real connection. They called his name and excused him, and it was like I didn’t even exist. I got a hurried and incomplete “nice to meet y…” as he gleefully fled the building. I felt so discarded.

So, all in all, an annoying thing to have to deal with but not a totally terrible experience.

And I forgot the biggest plus: the recommendations for how I could get out of serving, my favorite of which was to swallow a bunch of coins so I couldn’t make it through the metal detector at the entrance to the court house.

Jury duty, you are Meccanized.

Written by lindsay in: Opinion | Tags:

Only One Machine!

You know what really grinds my gears?

When people say ATM Machine.  Automated Teller Machine…Machine.   Same for SCUBA gear, and The La Trattoria, but the ATM one has always annoyed me.

I heard this verbal misstep earlier today, and then had a “Oh, crap, did I just say that aloud” moment when I muttered “one too many machines” and had the man taking out cash in front of me glare in my general direction.

And I wonder why I get hit by strangers on the street.

Written by lindsay in: Opinion | Tags:

Start ‘Em Young

Start ‘Em Young…

Calling someone “hot” can refer to a few things: sexiness (physical attributes and attractiveness), popularity, a fever. I ask you — do any of these possible interpretations of the word hot sound good when applied to a toddler?

Let’s consider this:

Sexy: Toddlers are awesome, but I think most people not Michael Jackson would agree that calling a toddler “hot” and referring to their attractiveness is the best way to get yourself a one way ticket to Prisonville. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life trying to nonchalantly let your neighbors know that you are a sex offender, probably better to avoid referring to a child like that.

Popular: Maybe your kid is the toast of the day care town, but it would be pretty lame to classify a toddler as hot in the “Hansel…so hot right now” sense. For one thing, most things toddlers do are objectively lame anyway (no one would bat an eye if I waddled a few steps and then fell down or managed to eat a meal without spilling food all over myself…well, maybe that second one would inspire some excitement), so it’s not like there is a cool – to – lame scale in play here. Second, while I will agree that there are definitely some pariahs in the young childhood sphere (you know, the weird kids who eat worms on the playground and put their pants on backwards), besides those outcasts, everyone falls in to the same pool of coolness.

Fever: This is just medically bad. Call a doctor.

So given this, how is it ok that Forbes, a supposedly respected publication, published pictures of the “10 Hottest Tots” and no one finds it creepy, offensive, a sad commentary on our society, or all 3?

Forbes, you are Meccanized. And for the sake of the two Pitt-Jolie kids NOT included in the slide show, Shiloh, Zahara, and Pax, you are also Meccanized.

Written by lindsay in: Opinion | Tags: , ,

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