You know how you have some guilty pleasures that are “guilty” in a female-targeted marketing sort of way (“TREAT YO SELF to some Dove Dark Chocolate”)? And then you have some other guilty pleasures that are “guilty” in a take-it-to-the-grave Casey Anthony sort of way? Yeahhhh.
1. Miller Lite. I’m supposed to like hip and cool local craft ales, right? And seasonal brews with funky decorative labels? I do, sometimes. But other times I don’t want to spend six dollars on one beer and after I drink that one beer I don’t want to feel like I just ate a loaf of rum-soaked sourdough bread and to then have a stomachache for the next 48 hours. I want a two dollar and fifty cent ice cold bottle of uncomplicated 86-calorie Miller Lite. And I want to drink it in two minutes and order another.
2. The frequency with which I Shazaam a song playing in a TJ Maxx or Marshalls. The music they play in these discount stores is awful. It’s soft-rock sludge: singles that peaked at #46 on the Adult Contemporary Charts with Mad-Lib-able lyrics about walking the streets of [big city] in the [inclement weather] thinkin’ ’bout [ambiguously lost love and/or new beginnings] and titles that are usually someone’s first name (“Mandy” by Barry Manilow, “Adia” by Sarah McLachlan (wow, do I hate that song), “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls (WOW, do I hate the Goo Goo Dolls)). Oh, and Eagles hits. It’s NOW! That’s What I Call Music For Single Women Who Own Multiple Cats Who Are Shopping For A New Duvet For Their Townhouse Guest Bedroom And Maybe A New Pair Of Medium-Height Work-Appropriate Wedges If I See Something Cute. And, well, I kind of like this kind of music. I mean, not the Eagles. Never the Eagles. But, for example: Unpretty, by TLC (which might be the ultimate crossover hit). Or, (There’s Gotta Be) More to Life, by Stacie Orrico. Glitter in the Air, by Pink. Jolene, by Dolly Parton. (Wow, do I love that last song.) N E THING by Kelly Clarkson. And I’ve Shazaam’ed all of these songs in a flourescently lit discount store.
3. Really, reallllly cheesy inspirational shit. Shit like Mary Engelbreit illustrations. Guided journals for women. O magazine. Yes, I buy O magazine. Joel Osteen. Yes, I own a Joel Osteen book. Inspirational black and white letter church signs.
4. The Kardashians. I just love them. I just love the sheer unbridled narcissism of it all. It makes me sick and I love it. Kind of like how vodka makes me sick and I love it. My best friend Laura got me Kardashian Konfidential for my birthday last summer and I sleep with it under my pillow EVERY NITE. It is THE DUMBEST fucking book I have EVER READ. I love how their whole existence revolves around their appearance. I love their giant makeup/dressing room as shown in the second-to-last episode of Kourtney & Kim take New York. I love how if you watch this show you can tell that Kim’s best friend is her makeup artist. It’s just sad. And yet, I want a makeup artist. I love Khloe. I actually want to be friends with her. Really, the Kardashian girls are like a finely reduced sauce. “Morals”, “intellect”, and “physical labor” are the Kardashian mire poix, and Master Chef Kris has cooked away all these original ingredients of human existence until what we’re left with is a ridiculously rich, self-indulgent, useless gravy whose only purpose is to look good in pictures and make life delicious.
1. Sweet white wine. Bring on the moscato, the reisling, the gewurztraminer. And put some St. Germain in it. Or, better yet, some grenadine. Stay classy, diabetes.
2. “Just Another Day” by Jon Secada. I think I’ve heard this song every single time I’ve gone cardigan shopping at Ross.
3. Kourtney Kardashian’s voice. I have always despised when women talk like idiots. There’s this sort of affectedly girly voice I’ve heard many women employ. It sounds like a next generation Valley Girl accent, without all the attitude. It’s honey-sweet, babyish, at once nasal, soft, and kind of scratchy, and almost has an Asian-language accent. My friend Jamie and I used to make fun of this voice; if you’re ever waiting on a woman who talks like this, she unfailing says “THENNNNK YEEWWWWW” through her nose, very politely, every time you drop something off at her table. And this is exactly how the Kardashians speak. Yet I LOVE listening to Kourtney Kardashian. It’s so weird and flat and neutral and then randomly up in the middle of sentences for no reason whatsoever. Check out Kourtney hungover at the zoo. (My girl.) (Note also how she says the phrase “I just feel like” which is something all the Kardashian girls say to justify whatever thing they’re about to do next. EMOTIONS R TRUTH.) My mom would have literally slapped me in the face if she had heard me talking like that at any point during my upbringing, yet here is Kourtney, a fully formed adult millionaire businesswoman, talking like the English voiceovers in anime porn. And I am obsessed with it.
1. Anime porn.
2. Dips. If you’ve ever read TCB, you know I love Helluva Good French Onion dip. But I’m really an equal opportunity employer when it comes to condiments. A condiment whore, if you will. I don’t even like to go out to eat on first dates because I don’t want anyone I haven’t already snared in my web of sexual mastery to know how I can, and will, consume an entire bottle of ketchup via one hamburger. I think I just really like the action of dipping. It’s pretty much the only forearm workout I get. (That is decidedly not what he said.) I love the shrimp sauce they serve at Hibachi grills. I love the honey mustard at TGI Friday’s. I love any iteration of chipotle ranch. I dip my french fries in straight mayo. Really, food is best when you treat it like sex: you gotta have a lot of moisture to make it work.
3. Ridiculously juvenile sexual innuendo, which is simultaneously my favorite and least-favorite part of working in restaurants.
4. Dave Matthews Band. My friend Derek got in my car this summer and “Satellite” came on the mix CD I was playing and his skeptical glare could’ve lasered the firedancer tattoo off a Virginia Beach psuedohippie’s shoulder blade. This music reminds me of my salad days. It reminds me of my 1981 Volvo station wagon. It reminds me of how thrilling marijuana, how thrilling even just the chance of a contact high, used to be in high school. It reminds me of the stank soft nubuck of rip-off Birkenstocks. It reminds me of swimming in aboveground pools late on summer nights. Anyway, I told you I liked cheesy shit.
5. Giving the finger while driving. ALL THE TIME, people.
6. A Walk To Remember. Truly the worst movie I have ever seen, and yes, it is on my Amazon Wishlist.
I really hope anyone reading knows this blog is like 40% tongue-in-cheek. I leave it to you to discern which percent is which.