Flavor of the Week: Chopped Salad

Ew, who eats bread anymore?

If I wanted to, I could make this post short and sweet: If you haven’t eaten chopped salad, then you haven’t lived. If you haven’t custom-made your own chopped salad, then you are not alive at all. And if you understand why chopped salad is about as trendy as Kim Kardashian’s breast milk is right now, then you are a fricking genius.

But of course, I can’t complain in just these three short sentences. So let me spell it out for you:

I adore chopped salad. It served the role of “Gay Best Friend” to me. But what I cease to comprehend is exactly why chopped salad has become such a “thing.” Salad and it’s ability to be chopped has been around since… like… ever. Yet, girls and women alike act as if suddenly someone discovered that indeed, there is a vegetable called lettuce and, holy shit, we are #blessed enough to be able to chop it into tiny pieces with a pizza slicer?????!!!!

I mean, when you put it like that… am I wrong? Does this not seem absolutely ridiculous?

#YesWeCan #DreamActBroughtToYouByChoppedSaladPlaces

Women always have and always will love to eat salad–this is not a “new” thing. So why does it seem like it? And why is salad seemingly better when it’s chopped? It’s almost as if we keep getting our baby food diet mixed up with our only-eat-things-that-are-96%-water diet. Rookie move. Get a grip, people.

Salad used to only exist as a sad, lifeless, and stationary being. It was left out on “salad bars” in the centre (yes, centre) of restaurants where it was totally exposed to the germy air and any waft of passed gas that sauntered in from the bathroom around the corner. Now, salad is respected. We gave salad back its rights like it’s 1965, baby. It is kept in a refrigerated, enclosed environment behind a counter where only trained professionals have access to its leafy loveliness.

Decades ago, our country was scattered with luncheonettes where hardworking men would get a 99-cent sandwich and fries. Today, luncheonettes have been replaced with “Creative Salad Companies,” feeding the brains of the driven women and weight-conscious homosexual men who are taking the workforce by storm. It is likely that my dissertation will one day hover around the concept of, oh, I don’t know, something along the lines of “The Rise Of Chopped Salad As A Lunch And/Or Dinner Food Is Definitely Like 100% Linked To The Fact That Women Are Better Respected In Society And Are Taking Over The World In A Great Way.” It’s just a working thought, you know?


On Visiting Day

Between hype over “The Running of the Jews,” a concept my parents made sure I understood before I knew how to say “Shabbat shalom,” and the annual event that took place all along the northeast last weekend, I thought it fitting to make this week’s flavor d-day v-day. According to the Christian faith, v-day is an abbrev for Valentine’s Day. According to the Jewish faith, v-day is short for Visiting Day–an annual holiday filled with more love, blood, sweat, tears, and romance than any other.

I spent last weekend visiting my two younger brothers at sleepaway camp in Maine. I decided that I would make it a social experiment. I promised myself that I would, however tedious it may be, take copious notes of the ridiculous things I heard people say while I was up here. I knew that surrounding myself with ironic, lobster-craving Jews for a full four days would provide the perfect opportunity to compose a beautiful quote book.

This is my 15-year-old brother when I made him put on a fashion show for me including all of the equipment he needs to wear on his week-long canoe trip. He’s obviously psyched.

Before I delve deep into the realm of #ShitPeopleSayOnVDay, I thought I could share a story that will perfectly set the tone for the type of weekend I had. During my brother’s intramural basketball game in a field house hot enough to be the burning embers of body odor in an all-boys camp hell, I really really really had to pee. Whenever I visit my brothers at camp, I have a few fears that are ever-lingering as scars from various experiences of my own at summer camp (i.e., the time I was ten and shit my pants during the age group play… yes, that is one of the most underrated and best kept secrets from my time at camp). Unbeknownst to me, this would become one of those deep cuts in the side of my female dignity.

“Where’s the girls’ bathroom?” I asked my mom.

“The bathrooms are unisex here,” my mom replied in a voice much too nonchalant, implying that for one, it should have been obvious that there were no girls’ bathrooms, and two, that she was trying to sound “mad chill.” As in, every girl uses urinals here.

Thus, I entered the so-called unisex bathroom in the field house. It wasn’t a bathroom that locked–it had two urinals and one private stall. Unisex enough. I went into the stall to pee and spent the entire time praying that no one would walk in. Just as I was about to leave the stall, the bathroom door opened. Of course.

I cannot express enough how this easily could have been a scene from Bridesmaids or The Heat or some other woman-powered comedy flick that macho men refuse to admit is one of the funniest movies they have ever seen. The following ensued: I peeked under the stall and saw that the intruder was a male. How did I know this? He was using the urinal. Fabulous.

Then, so he wouldn’t see me, I put my feet on the toilet seat and crouched there, hugging my legs so he wouldn’t know I was there, until I was in the clear and it was safe to go. For more reasons than one, I was holding my breath. I crouched on the toilet for a good five or six minutes. Might I add, I was drenched in sweat in the most ungraceful way possible.

Finally, he left. I came out of the stall. Just as I opened the door to exit the bathroom, nervous about the strange looks I was guaranteed to get from everyone who realized that I was alone… in a bathroom… with this man… ugh… a GRANDPA walked in. That was an awkward encounter for sure. Especially when I waved and said “Hi!” to him, as if I normally used the boys’ bathroom. How progressive of me.

Enjoy the quotes!

After the first day, I was an accessory to my parents at a dinner of six couples, all with sons in the same group of camp friends. Word for word, here are the best quotes of the night (from the mothers):

“You’re only as happy as your most unhappy child.”

“I’m so proud of myself for friending you on Facebook!!!!!”

“I think that the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry has gotten much more respectable.”

“Every kid was asking for candy, and my kid’s asking for the Boston Globe!!!”

“Let’s face it. Jews love to overdo.” (This could be almost be considered a mantra.)

After dinner, I walked around the quaint, colonial town with my parents.

“Everything says ‘Kennebec’ up here,” said my father.

“I think that’s the name of the river,” I told him from my experience as a seven-year Maine camper.

“No,” he shook his head. “I think that’s just a big word up here,” OK, Dad.

The next day:

“These boys look malnourished.” –My mother in response to the “skins” team during basketball

“What’s civilization?” –My11-year-old cousin’s totally serious and non-sarcastic response to my brother’s claim that he misses civilization

“It’s like the Hunger Games.” –My youngest brother in line to get ice cream

“Rate me on a scale of 1 to 10 of how skinny or fat you think I got since I’ve seen you last and especially pay attention to how I look in these jean shorts.” –Someone who may or may not have been me to my 11-year-old brother

I hope your visiting days were lovely and included both lots of fun and a three-pound max weight gain!

I blog about my time as a camper for the Maine Camp Experience. You can read some of my posts by clicking here.

This post is dedicated to 1AB 2011.


Flavor of the Week: Ailsa Anderson

Who is Ailsa Anderson?

If you don’t know this, then you don’t know The Royals. And if you don’t know The Royals, then you don’t know me. So preppy teenaged girls who thought they were bigger groupies to Prince William than any token Belieber is to J. Biebs has got it all wrong. Turn around now, honeys. You may have won the battle by hosting a viewing party of the royal wedding, but you lost the war by not knowing Ailsa. You’ve gotta know Ailsa.

Ailsa Anderson is the babe who placed the obviously-framed royal birth announcement upon its golden easel that, in British terms, probably cost about as much as it did to fix Austin Powers’ teeth. Only a loyal servant to the Queen (not referring to Beyoncé this time) would have this honor–oh, yes, the dutiful honor of placing a frame upon an easel–bestowed upon her.

Ailsa is no ordinary civilian, however. She’s actually part of Her Majesty The Queen Elizabeth II’s mothaf****’ clique. She started from the bottom now she’s here. Ailsa’s title is “press secretary,” and is one of the three woman that the Queen surrounds herself with each and every royal day of her royal life. Because the Queen ain’t no queen without a possé, amirite?

According to PEOPLE.com, “Living in the home counties just northwest of London, [Ailsa] likes to shop for clothes at the designer outlet stores at Bicester Villlage (where Kate has been known to visit) and has a nose for a good deal. ‘She’s great at sussing out the good bargains in sales,’ says a friend.” So, basically, we love her.

Ailsa sported a sick snakeskin pencil skirt with a pearl cropped jacket and three-inch heels to make the birth announcement. We love you Ailsa, because you’re a champ. Keep it up girlfriend.


Flavor of the Week: Stuff Girls Like

As you may or may not know, The Fro-Yo Diaries is a member of the Her Campus Blogger Network, “a curated network of blogs written by women ages 13-30 on fashion, beauty, cooking, fitness, design, lifestyle, and more” (HerCampus.com). So since we’re BFFs with Her Campus, I wanted to spread the word about a trendy gathering known as the National Intercollegiette Conference 2013. This really long title is referring to July 27th and 28th, two days in NYC in which college babes from all across the country are welcome to come and join Her Campus for tons of lectures (with super legit speakers from Cosmo, Huff Post, Glamour,  Lucky, etc.), workshops, and opportunities to network/schmooze.

Her Campus teamed up with a bunch of sponsors that all sell stuff that girls like. To fill you in on the sponsors, I figured I would go through the list and tell you what you like about them. Because I know, obviously.

Chipotle

Girls like Chipotle because it’s fast food that you can get away with muploading without looking gross/fat/sumo/etc. but still having people question “How does she eat that but stay so thin????!!!!”

Brenae is one of these girls.

Luna

Girls like Luna bars because they taste amazing and are perfect for those of us that are not psycho enough to juice cleanse but are still interested in meal replacement with things like protein bars, fro-yo, and fro-yo.

Woodbury Common Premium Outlets

Girls like Woodbury because how can they not?

LeSportsac

Girls like LeSportsac because if you never had a LeSportsac, did you really ever go to middle school?

Veet

Girls like Veet because when they’re eight years old and Jewish, they think the amount of leg hair they have is enough to make a small fur coat for a mouse.

You can sign up for the National Intercollegiette Conference by clicking here. HC love! And remember to bring your Veet!


On Facebook, Your Boyfriend, And You

At any given point in time, I have two boyfriends. The first is a guy that I’m convincing myself is my boyfriend/is actually my boyfriend. The second is Facebook. And, to put it bluntly, Facebook is a slut.

If you think it’s bad that I have two boyfriends, then get a load of this: Facebook has 1.11 billion sexually active partners. They say that it takes two to tango. Exactly–it takes a medium of social media and a real-life guy to turn our lives from a cute sushi date into a swarming dance full of Instragrammed spicy tuna rolls, muploaded selfies, an infinite amount of “are you a thing?” texts post-mupload, a nervously sweating Jewish girl, and a boy who isn’t sure if all of this attention is worth the amount of ass he’ll get later that night.

After hearing one too many witness account of relationships gone awry both on and because of Facebook, I realized that the inevitable would have to take place. We need to lay down some laws before this town ain’t big enough for the both of us–err, all three of us. Facebook, Boyfriend: it’s time we have a little chat.

It all starts with a mupload. That single, blurry picture from some Saturday night not too long ago. Here’s how this works: if a girl is with a guy and she wants people to know about it, she’ll make sure people know about it. Hence, one picture is added and tagged. The unspoken rule: you can never mupload the first photo of you and Boyfriend. Then, everyone knows how hard you’re trying, and even though everyone knows how hard you’re trying no matter who posts that photo, it’s still the sheer principle of it that causes your best friend to be the one to mup. Obviously the best friend will do the first mup, because you told her to. You probably even sent her the photo from your phone to mupload. Right?

Time passes, and things aren’t what you’d call serious, but things are… things. This is where the tension between you and Facebook builds high enough to split the fibers of a Louis Vuitton bag. You have so many questions you want to ask Facebook, but you don’t know how they’ll make Boyfriend feel. When/is it socially acceptable to make your profile picture one of you and Boyfriend? What about your “relationship status?”

When we were younger–like, middle school younger–I thought that “relationship status” meant everything. Whenever a friend would tell me about a guy, the first question was always the same: “Is it Facebook official?” Facebook was like the evil eye of relationships. It saw everything, all the time, yet acted as a source of protection from insecurities about labels. As I’ve grown to accept the hook up culture that I live in, I learned that no, two girls “in a relationship” on Facebook are not lesbians (99% of the time), I don’t need to publicly list to “friends of friends” that I’m “interested in men” in order to feel “normal,” and, generally, labels on relationships no longer exist. I used to think that labeled relationships made things more mature and valid. Ironically for me, I had it all backwards. If your feelings say it all, then you no longer have a need to prove your relationship to yourself or to anyone else. It exists, and suddenly, that becomes enough.

Should you make your relationship Facebook official? If you want to, go ahead. But if you break up, it effing sucks because it’s public as hell (been there, done that).

Next topic: Facebook offers you a single private space to be yourself–alas, the profile picture. Are you willing to share that space with someone else? In this verse of the Love Triangle Bible, I say go right ahead. However, there are guidelines. If you’re more into the relationship than he is: DON’T. If you’re definitely a thing, basically boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever, and people approve of you as a couple, AND you look amaze in the photo: DO. If you’re been together for a really long time and everyone is rooting for you to get married and have minimum five kids: DO, but with caution. Because if you break up… SGA (shit got awk).

I have a friend that is going through a mutual break up in the upcoming month. In addition, her current profile photo is one of her and her boyfriend. At a recent dinner she told me that she needed to take a ton of pictures in hopes of finding a new profile photo–one that she could change now so that when she and Boyfriend broke up, things wouldn’t be as obvious and public.

I appreciate the depth of her social media cues and I respect her break up intelligence. At the same time, this makes me sad that we feel the need to balance Facebook with Boyfriend 24/7. We should be grieving over lost love, not worrying about what Facebook will make of it. When she goes through her split, things will suck. And no matter how much they do, Facebook will still be there. While we’ve done away with the bullshit from Boyfriend, we are not through with Facebook. We will never be. We could never break up with him, no matter how we tried.


On Plus Sized Modeling

The topic of plus sized modeling does not come up as often in conversation amongst my friends nearly as much as I read about it, hear about it, and see it on the news. In fact, the topic never comes up at all. We don’t even talk about modeling much except for those few terrible, terrible weeks before and after the annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, which isn’t a real fashion show (Coco Chanel is turning in her grave) and is more of a telecasted porno. The only difference between that and an X-rated flick is that teenage girls become anorexic rather than nauseas.

Glorified events like the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show bring Regina George-style attention to these models. Some of it’s negative, but more of it’s positive. The negative attention is along the likes of “they’re too skinny,” “they need to eat,” and “someone please give this girl some non non-fat fro-yo.” When stick-thin models are put to shame, the media begins to bow down to plus-sized models like they’re big because they ate a little piece of God while they were still in the womb. I’ve read countless online articles from major and reliable news sources that solely focus on praising size 12 models for being beautiful and doing their thing regardless of their size. Plus sized models are applauded for representing the average woman.

As someone who has been pretty average her whole life–I did away with any shot of having a Victoria’s Secret body by the first grade–I have no right to look down upon plus sized models. While it is important to stay healthy and fit, most runway models look seriously malnourished. I appreciate their dedication to things like kale and hunger strikes but I also think that it makes me feel bad about the way that I look.

SCAN0122

My 6th birthday party. Me = pregnant Kim Kardashian, Athletic Best Friend = Amanda Bynes (after she moved to NYC and decided to become 100 lbs., duh).

I don’t know for sure how I feel about plus sized modeling versus skeleton modeling (seeing as either example will never in a million years indicate how certain clothing will actually look on my body). However, as always, I have a lot to say.

To, primarily, address the elephant in the room (no pun intended, but I’ll go with it), does plus sized modeling encourage an unhealthy lifestyle? Does it give out the message that it is “OK” to look like that? I don’t know the answer. I obviously am just asking rhetorical questions to add depth to the essay. But if I did know the answer, I would say it. I wish I did.

How rude would it be if we totally cut out plus sized modeling from the industry? It’s comparable to stopping the sale of plus sized clothing–everyone has a right to buy clothing their size (assuming there are some people that you just never want to see naked) so then everyone should have the right to see someone their size wearing clothing their size. Under that logic, I am a proponent of the plus.

The most interesting thing about this entire debate to me is this: is it bad that I’m even questioning this topic to begin with? Am I living proof of our warped society for questioning the legitimacy of plus sized models? Our country is at war. Half of the people are complaining about the need to make girls feel empowered about who they are, as they are, and the other half is trying to battle a growing childhood obesity problem one carb-cutting lunch law at a time.

But then again, I could have it all backwards. Is it possible?–could we all be so obsessed with curing modern America from its romance with thigh gaps that the passion for a little chunk here and there is too fervent? It’s like going along with a movement not because you’re so invested in what the movement believes, but because you’re so against whatever the opponent has to say. Some feminists out there decided to get as far away from supporting super-thin models as possible. So, now, they support super-fat ones. Why? Not because they like the larger models, but because they dislike the thinner ones.

Well, after an hour of writing and a whole adolescence of thinking, I’m going to make my own movement. It’s called The I-wish-no-one-cared-about-what-anyone-else-thought Movement. I wish I could say that maybe one day, that will actually exist. I wish that I knew what we were supposed to look like. But for now, it looks like we’re only moving further and further in the opposite direction–the direction in which, ironically, the fight for staying thin and the fight for being anti-thin both lie.


Flavor of the Week: Yeezus

Because Kanye West’s new album, Yeezus, is supposedly a literal work of God, I thought it was worth a good haiku review. Surprisingly, and probably unlike most other females I would typically associate myself with, I actually really like this album and listen to it in its entirety at least once a day… not even kidding. However, that doesn’t mean I’m not about to go all out HAM on these haikus.

Yeezus by Kanye West

1. On Sight
Aliens invade
Mixed with an unfortunate
Song by Depeche Mode
[*note–if you have never heard an unfortunate song by Depeche Mode, listen here. The lyrics start at 0:35, but the music video is funny enough to compensate for the ear bleed. I promise, you’ll laugh.] 
 
2. Black Skinhead
Is it me, or is
This song not from “The
Lion King” soundtrack?
 
 
3. I Am A God (by Kanye West and God)
Thank the heavens* that
Hashem was able to make
This recording sesh! 
[*Lolz, punny]
 
4. New Slaves
Kanye gets deep with
These lyrics. Also Alvin
(The chipmunk) sings some. 
 
5. Hold My Liquor
I really like this.
Do not understand how he
is a lightweight though…?
 
6. I’m In It
Audio track from
Kim’s sex tape plus Kanye’s good
time with “Asian girl.” 
 
7. Blood On The Leaves
Beauty. Kanye got
Zero’s g-ma from “Holes” to
Sing it. Amirite?
 

“You must carry Madame Zeroni up the mountain and sing ‘Blood On The Leaves’ while I drink.”

 
8. Guilt Trip
Wait, what? I just got
Distracted by an Insta
Of Scott Disick’s beard.
 
Screen shot 2013-07-09 at 8.33.56 PM
 
9. Send It Up
What is he sending
Up and please tell me why it
Is not going down??????
 
10. Bound 2
Best on Yeezus. Sing
This to me and we can get 
Married. Pinky swear. 
 

Happy listening!

Love,

Your Most Trusted And Knowledgeable Source For All Music Review Haikus, Especially Those In The Rap Genre (because obviously) (haha jokes).