PRO: Provide an objective way to analyze decisions.
CON: Some things seem like they could count as two pros or two cons and I can't decide whether or not that's cheating.
CON: A lot of the pros and cons cancel each other out. For example, if you put, "Lots of sex with hookers" as a pro, but then you put, "Sex with hookers could lead to venereal disease" as a con, that is getting you nowhere.
PRO: Great procrastination tool.
CON: Great procrastination tool.
CON: Part of me thinks it's stupid to base major decisions on pro-con lists.
CON: I usually just pad the less-desirable option with cons on purpose.
CON: Apparently, "I like this choice better" does not count as an acceptable "pro."
CON: I am really bad at making pro-con lists.
PRO: Except I did make this pro-con list, which I think is a pretty good one.
CON: Then again, this is an ironic pro-con list about hating pro-con lists, so it doesn't really count as a legitimate pro-con list.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
The Pixie Cut
When I was five, my mom took me with her to a hair salon, and for the first time, she told me I could choose my very own hair cut. Up until that point, my grandmother, a retired hair stylist, had always cut my hair at her house.
I flipped through one of the waiting room magazines for inspiration, and I knew right away that I wanted a pixie cut.
The pixie cut is a short, boyish hairstyle, thus named because it only looks good on petite girls with wide, orblike eyes and small, dainty chins.
I, on the other hand, was a square-jawed Irish child, but I was convinced a pixie cut would be extremely flattering on me.
I could tell my mom and the hair stylist didn't have as much faith in my choice. I withstood their psychological assault with a grace and courage of conviction that were impressive for a five-year-old.
The hair stylist tried to stall as long as possible, giving me every opportunity to relent. As she fastened the smock around my neck and ran a damp comb through my hair, she kept pausing to show me exactly how short it was going to be.
"Okay!" I invariably chirped.
Finally, with the scissors in her hand, she had me take one last look in the mirror.
She started cutting.
When she whirled the salon chair around to show me the finished product, an unfamiliar five-year-old boy returned my gaze.
I walked out of that salon like a girl who was rocking her pixie cut. Only on the sullen car ride home did I admit to my mom that the pixie cut had not turned out as planned.
And that's why, from age five through seven, I looked like a dude.
Whenever someone sees the group photo from my sixth birthday slumber party, they ask in a tone of surprise, "Who's that little boy at your sleepover?"
Then I have to tell them, "It's me."
But of all the times I got told I looked like a boy, I never once heard it from my mother.
I flipped through one of the waiting room magazines for inspiration, and I knew right away that I wanted a pixie cut.
The pixie cut is a short, boyish hairstyle, thus named because it only looks good on petite girls with wide, orblike eyes and small, dainty chins.
I, on the other hand, was a square-jawed Irish child, but I was convinced a pixie cut would be extremely flattering on me.
I could tell my mom and the hair stylist didn't have as much faith in my choice. I withstood their psychological assault with a grace and courage of conviction that were impressive for a five-year-old.
The hair stylist tried to stall as long as possible, giving me every opportunity to relent. As she fastened the smock around my neck and ran a damp comb through my hair, she kept pausing to show me exactly how short it was going to be.
"Okay!" I invariably chirped.
Finally, with the scissors in her hand, she had me take one last look in the mirror.
She started cutting.
When she whirled the salon chair around to show me the finished product, an unfamiliar five-year-old boy returned my gaze.
I walked out of that salon like a girl who was rocking her pixie cut. Only on the sullen car ride home did I admit to my mom that the pixie cut had not turned out as planned.
And that's why, from age five through seven, I looked like a dude.
Whenever someone sees the group photo from my sixth birthday slumber party, they ask in a tone of surprise, "Who's that little boy at your sleepover?"
Then I have to tell them, "It's me."
But of all the times I got told I looked like a boy, I never once heard it from my mother.
 |
| In my defense, that hair stylist basically gave me a bowl cut. I should march back in that salon and demand that she do it right this time. Also, I went through a phase in third grade when I put clever little thought-bubble stickers on all my cherished childhood photos, unbeknownst to my parents. |
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
SOPA and PIPA Must Be Destroyed
Whenever I hear someone say, "Stop SOPA and PIPA!" I imagine two unruly little girls ransacking the Internet. One of them bears an uncanny resemblance to Pippi Longstocking.
Incidentally, when someone uses the phrase, "Kill SOPA and PIPA," it now takes on a whole new meaning.
Incidentally, when someone uses the phrase, "Kill SOPA and PIPA," it now takes on a whole new meaning.
I've also created a nifty button, which you are welcome to steal and post elsewhere. Just don't sell it because I was planning to do that and I'll be super mad at you.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The Race
2012 is a presidential election year, meaning everyone wants to argue about politics.
Not talk about politics. Argue about politics. Talking about politics would go like this and would be perfectly acceptable:
Arguing about politics brings out the worst in people.
When is the last time you argued with someone about politics and he actually changed his mind?
Witnessing a political argument, whether in person or online, is kind of like watching a plane crash. You know there's nothing you can do, and you kind of want to run away, but you can't tear your eyes from the horrible devastation, so you just stand there until you're dead inside.
That's because in every political argument, without fail, there is one person who is being a total douche for absolutely no reason.
Imagine you're running a race.
You cross the finish line. You win. You have nothing else to gain at this point.
Then, the other guy falls flat on his face and cracks his head open.
I'd like to think most people would go back and try to help the other guy. Unfortunately, in election years I'm reminded that some people would go back, kick the other guy in the face, and lecture him about race safety.
And that's why I hate election years.
Not talk about politics. Argue about politics. Talking about politics would go like this and would be perfectly acceptable:
Arguing about politics brings out the worst in people.
When is the last time you argued with someone about politics and he actually changed his mind?
Witnessing a political argument, whether in person or online, is kind of like watching a plane crash. You know there's nothing you can do, and you kind of want to run away, but you can't tear your eyes from the horrible devastation, so you just stand there until you're dead inside.
That's because in every political argument, without fail, there is one person who is being a total douche for absolutely no reason.
Imagine you're running a race.
You cross the finish line. You win. You have nothing else to gain at this point.
Then, the other guy falls flat on his face and cracks his head open.
I'd like to think most people would go back and try to help the other guy. Unfortunately, in election years I'm reminded that some people would go back, kick the other guy in the face, and lecture him about race safety.
And that's why I hate election years.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Resolutions
People have lots of reasons for not making New Year's resolutions. I don't make them because I make resolutions all the time, which I embrace wholeheartedly for several days before forgetting them completely.
So instead of having one big failure in February or March, I get twelve months dotted with dozens of tiny failures. I'm pretty much immune to failure at this point.
So instead of having one big failure in February or March, I get twelve months dotted with dozens of tiny failures. I'm pretty much immune to failure at this point.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Leap Blog Day
and more...
If you want to participate in Leap Blog Day, contact any blogger you like (including the ones just named above) and ask them to do a guest post for you. If they agree, post their guest piece on February 29, linking back to their site and referencing Leap Blog Day. Likewise, if you are contacted to do a guest post for Leap Blog Day, please consider doing it. (Feel free to do more than one guest post if you want.) It will be fun and help introduce your blog to more readers! Plus, all the cool bloggers will like you. Except the ones who are too cool for Leap Blog Day. But they circle right back around to being uncool again.
Here is a nifty "Leap Blog Day 2012 Participant" button to proudly display wherever you want.
And post Leap Blog Day on Facebook, too... let's take it viral!
**UPDATE: I have a guest blogger lined up for Leap Blog Day! Yay! I have not, however, been booked to write a guest post yet, so ask away.
**UPDATE: I have a guest blogger lined up for Leap Blog Day! Yay! I have not, however, been booked to write a guest post yet, so ask away.
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