Pop Quiz Kid Endorsed

Please read this book.

Ridin' Diiiirty

Cars are bad. Perhaps I should rephrase so I don’t sound like a typical Madisonian biker (I’ve been guilty of this in the past). Cars and I together are bad. Even more specifically, cars and I, in the last 6 months, together are bad. Here is a brief timeline.

August 2007. Vacationing in Los Angeles, I was terrified to walk across the street for fear of all the traffic. Every time the walk sign signaled for me to go, I would run across, not moving my arms and torso, looking like a complete idiot. My friend thought that it was hilarious and would leisurely follow me, only to mock me once we were safe on the other side. Slowly (and foolishly), I acclimated myself to the busy streets. Approaching a crosswalk, I noted the walk sign signaling me to go, looked both ways to see that there were no cars about to run the red light, and stepped off the curb. Taking a couple more strides, I found myself in front of a Dodge minivan. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the car suddenly lurch forward. At first I thought that the driver was just trying to scare me, but, then, realizing that he wasn’t going to stop in time, I thought that he was trying to kill me. Luckily, he wasn’t going very fast and I was able to bend my knees before impact. The bumper hit me mid-leg and I was knocked onto the van’s hood. That’s when he braked. Standing upright, I looked at the driver. All he did was shrug. Whenever I recount this story, people tell me what they would have done had they been in my shoes, but, in reality, you don’t act how you’d expect. For example, I just started to run. I wanted out of the road. Drivers kept yelling instructions at me, but I just wanted to be as far away as possible. My friend didn’t do anything. The only person who took action was a guy walking behind me. He leaned in the driver’s window and yelled at him. That guy is my hero. By the time I got my wits together to call the police, he was speeding off and I missed a digit in his license plate. Luckily, I only had a scrape on my knee and felt a little bit stiff. A couple of minutes later, I saw William H. Macy. Hollywood? More like Holly-weird! Harhar!

October 2007. It was a beautiful sunny day and I was riding in the bike lane of the street that I live on. From behind me, I heard that obnoxious heavy base omitting from a car, making my skeleton vibrate, and soon the car was level with me. Approaching an intersection, I kept peddling along my merry way, anxious to be home. Suddenly, the car cut in front of me. Unable to turn, lest I get run over by rush hour traffic, I slammed on my breaks, all the while thinking “OHGODOHGODOHGOD!” Unable to stop in time, I hit the car’s trunk. While I fought to control my bike and stay upright, the driver sped off. Amazingly, I didn’t fall over, but again I failed to get the license plate number or the make of the car. All I managed to do was make it home before bursting into tears.

Since these last two events transpired, I’ve been seeing phantom cars left and right. Anytime I walk past a driveway, I imagine a car darting out of it or whenever I start to cross the street, I can picture a car blowing through the stop sign. You’d think that these phantom cars would help make me more aware and so did I until…

…Last Saturday. Not wanting to wait for a cab in the negative degree weather, I asked to borrow my step-dad’s car to go to work. Usually I adjust the seat and go, but, ironically, on Saturday, I took a little extra time to adjust the mirrors and make sure that the radio was set to Saturday at the Seventies. Pulling out of the driveway, I looked left and noticed a man parking, looked right and noticed how sunny it was, then pulled out of the driveway. Turning right, facing the sun, I thought, “Man, that’s quite the glare. I should get out my sunglasse—” BAM! I was hit on the driver's side. Looking behind me, I saw the face of the other driver, mouth open in a scream, as her car ricocheted away from mine. Throwing the car into park, I tried to get out, only to realize that the door was dented in. Instead, I scrambled awkwardly over the passenger seat. Luckily, I found the other woman had not been hurt. My parents called the police. Both cars were pulled off of the road. Pulling me to the side, my mom told me what might happen, how I might need to sit in the police car to give the accident report. After she said that, I started crying on the street in front of all my neighbors’ houses. This wasn’t a sympathy cry. Rather it was one of those cries that, no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop and you only make it worse. The cop arrived and didn’t make anyone sit in his car. My mom invited the woman inside to trade insurance information. I was told that I was getting a ticket for failure to yield. I said I understood and waited outside for the cop to give it to me. I should have waited inside, but I thought that I couldn’t leave the scene of the accident. I waited on the cold sidewalk and cried some more. Now I have a little bit of frostbite on my toe…or maybe it’s just a corn. Finally, I was told that I could wait inside and that the other woman could leave since her car was able to run. After a few more minutes, the police officer knocked on our door, ticket in hand. Through my girlish weeping, I managed to choke out, “What’s the damage, Capt’n?”

So there you have it. Cars and I are like oil and vinegar, black and white, or Kanye and 50 Cent. We just don’t mix. It is with that that I have decided to live in an Amish community a lá Harrison Ford in Witness. Be careful whose face you rub ice cream in.

She Always Wears the Cutest Sweaters

I’ve often felt that my blog was the ultimate form of online masturbation, but apparently I was wrong. Turns out, having someone write a guest blog about me on my own blog is the ultimate virtual jerk-off. Back up before I spurt all over the keyboard and onto your screen names. Hopefully, my graphic introduction won’t scare you away from this extremely thoughtful non-graphic entry by my good friend Rachel:

Approximately two years ago I enrolled in my first college level creative writing class. The large group sat in front of lumbering Dell desktops, half of us crafting stories from prompts like “Describe a man’s walk to execution,” half of us online shopping. We were a group of not-totally-invested tech-college kids.

I sat in the second row, on the end, so everyone could see my raised hand. It was raised a lot. I was kind of a know-it-all. Next to me sat a guy in his mid-twenties, with long hair and even longer fingernails. I thought he was cute and spent the moments before class making sure I looked the CUTEST EVER. Except there was a problem and she sat directly in front of me. Her name was The PQK and she was always way cuter than me.

My first memory of talking to The PQK doesn’t exist. It was probably boring. While I don’t remember what I said, I do remember my thoughts, which were something like, “This girl is so cool. This girl is cooler than me. I want to be this girl. How can I trick her into being my BFF?”

The class wore on, every Wednesday night, and soon the long-nailed boy, myself and The PQK were usually grouped together. We were the cool kids, at least in my mind. We’d write funny stories, and communally roll our eyes at the work of our fellow classmates, who liked to write about vampires and depression. During the class-wide critiques, The PQK would sit next to me (Or I would make sure I sat next to her?) and I’d turn to her with a “gag-me” expression whenever someone just didn’t get my vision.

We’d discuss the upcoming Project Runway episode, and I would compliment her on her sweater or her hair or her top or her shoes or her skirt or her dress. Someone would come around with a towel to wipe up my drool.

Let’s be clear: it wasn’t a girl crush. It was a “I want to be you” fascination. She lived in Italy for a year! She was younger than me! She was born in Madison! She liked cool music! She rode a bike! It seemed that every time I found out something new about her, it was more awesome than the last fact. Despite this, she deigned to continue associating with me for a few hours each week.

That semester we never managed to get together outside of class. Maybe it was because she thought I was an arrogant weirdo. When the class ended, I was most sad that I wouldn’t get to bask in her glory anymore. To my pleasant surprise, however, the following fall I walked into my much-loathed Brit Lit class and GUESS WHO WAS THERE. She smiled and said, “Hey!” I’m not totally convinced there wasn’t a touch of dread in her voice. I sat next to her and we continued our routine of eye-rolls and know-it-all comments and Project Runway recaps.

Maybe that semester I charmed her with my enormous knitwear. Maybe I weaned off The Crazy and tried to be more agreeable. Whatever happened, it apparently worked because we saw each other outside of class!
We further bonded by both transferring to UW the same semester and establishing a weekly meeting time. I freaked her out by having my tarot cards read around the question, “What’s in store for my friendship with The PQK?” but you know, we recovered. We started watching Project Runway together, with fellow blogger and friend GiganticDrumKit. We have brunch and do friend things. She inspires me to shower. You know what I have to say about all this? Victory is mine.

Don't say the A-word in front of my unplanned baby

Sitting over the breakfast table, I recently told my roommate, newly back from vacation, that I had finally seen the movie Juno. Rather than react with the expected “WOW! That’s almost as awesome as you are,” he instead answered me with an eye roll and said, “Isn’t that the exact same movie as Knocked Up?” While I shot down his comment and totally emasculated him as per usual, his comment did make me think about how 2007 did seem to be the year of the unwanted pregnancy. In addition to Knocked Up and Juno, there was the late Adrienne Shelly’s Waitress, not to mention a slew of real life unplanned pregnancies among Hollywood elites (and their siblings).
To clear this out of the way, I loved two of the three aforementioned movies and do not hate (most) babies. Still, after leaving the theater or, in Waitress’ case, my couch, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was abandoning my feminist roots in my enjoyment of them. Only in Juno is the idea of an abortion even touched on, demonstrating how, even in “liberal” Hollywood, an abortion is still viewed as a taboo procedure.
In Knocked Up, written and directed by Judd Apatow, Allison (Katherine Heigl) drunkenly has sex with stoner slacker Ben (Seth Rogen), who happens to bust a nut all up in her and WHOOPS! she gets a little pregnant. Allison is a successful and beautiful woman who is recently offered a job at E! and has her entire future ahead of her, whereas Ben sits around with his friends watching movies for nude scenes and thinking up new and clever ways to get high as his funds shrink rapidly. While Allison has multiple reasons to not have Ben’s baby, the suggestion of an abortion is only brought up once,only to Ben, by his friend Jonah and, even then, it’s only referred to as something that rhymes with “shmashmortion.” The thought doesn’t even once flicker through Allison’s pretty blonde head.

In Waitress, Keri Russell’s Jenna gets knocked up by her abusive husband, played by Jeremy Sisto (Side note: Does Sisto ever tire of playing crazies?). Once again, the word “abortion” is barely uttered and is only recognized when a bumbling Nathan Fillion (sadly not playing a some variation of Captain Mal) says, “We don’t perform… those… here.” In the film’s defense, Russell’s character Jenna is a sheltered Southern woman and probably doesn’t recognize the big A as an option.

In Juno, the girl who lends the film its namesake at least contemplates an abortion. Still, the clinic is represented as a cold lackadaisical place, as Juno’s head is invaded by the thought of her unborn baby’s fingernails. The fact that the precocious Juno’s disposition could so easily be punctured by anti-choice misinformed propaganda seems out of character as she demonstrates or at least creates the façade of a stable resilience throughout the remainder of film. I think that this would have annoyed me more had she decided to raise the baby rather than give it up in the end. Overall, I felt like the film was non-judgmental which gives it a little more room with my principles and me.

Like I said before, I really liked most of these movies. I have watched Knocked Up more than once and laughed uncontrollably at the intra-friend banter and rejoiced at the Freaks and Geeks/Undeclared reunion that the film holds. I love Judd Apatow and YouTube the film's special features when I need a lift. I have refused to dismiss Juno as the indie flick du jour and have recommended it to everyone that I know. I loved the film’s heart and didn’t find the characters contrived, not to mention the movie has a bangin’ soundtrack. Looking closer, these movies aren’t exactly broaching new territory. 2004’s Saved! is one of my favorite movies and is also about a high school girl’s unwanted pregnancy (this movie’s saving grace is its message of love and acceptance and the presence of my celebrity boyfriend Patrick Fugit).
The most important thing about being pro-choice is in the title itself, choice. Women’s choices should be both protected and respected (maybe this can be the chorus of my abortion rap, entitled “My Pussy Is On Lockdown, Bitches”), whether their choice is to maintain or terminate a pregnancy. It seems, however, that Hollywood is extremely biased toward the former and almost dismissive to the latter. Thinking of examples of big screen American abortions, only two come to mind. Claire on Six Feet Under has an almost-rational abortion (in the operating room, she is haunted by images of the fetus’ unknowing father (before we feel too bad, keep in mind that their break-up followed his affair with their art teacher)). Carrie and Samantha on Sex and the City talk openly and thoughtfully about their abortions and, by the episode’s end, Carrie realizes that her abortion was the best decision that she could have made (please ignore that these are both small screen examples). Canada’s Degrassi: The Next Generation deals with a character’s abortion and U.S. channel The N refused to, until recently, air it. Embarrassingly too old to enjoy that show, I had to watch it online.
My main worry is that young girls and women watching these movies will not even realize that they have multiple choices or, if they do recognize abortion as an option, that they’ll view the procedure as unseemly. Even talking with supposed pro-choice friends over a gossipy coffee session, I’ve noticed the disdain in their voices as they mention a friend who found herself pregnant and, making the responsible choice, had an abortion. The recent announcement of Jamie-Lynn Spear’s pregnancy sold for a million dollars and her show Zoey 101 has experience a recent spike in ratings proving that pregnancy is SO hot right now. Two years ago it was dogs, then it was Blackberries, and now it’s babies. You know what, I’ve changed my own mind. How hard do you think it would be for me to get pregnant by that guy from Sum 41 or Zac Efron, cause I really want one of those celebabies that are always dressed in Armani Kids.
While it pains me to admit this, none of those movies could exist if the characters’ gestations hadn’t been completed. Had Juno’s vag been vacuumed, she never would have met Jason Bateman and driven into the sweat-banded arms of Bleeker. Had Nate Fillion offered to baby-be-gone Keri Russell, they’d have never had inappropriate sex in his office. If abortions existed in fictional California, we’d never get to hear Katherine Heigl tell Seth Rogen to fuck his bong. So I give in, 2007 can be thee year of the kept unwanted pregnancy, but only if 2008 can be year of the abortion. I have just e-mailed Apatow with a comedy entitled First Trimester Isn’t a Trimester at All if It’s The Only One (I’m working on a shorter title) and am hoping to see the likes of Carrie Underwood and Sophia Bush gracing the covers of Cosmo and Allure under the headline reading “How I lost My Baby Weight By Having an Abortion” or “My Lifestyle is Too Self-Centered for Motherhood.”
Please feel free to e-mail me virtual pipe bombs.
For your enjoyment

Welcome back, amenities of my modern world

You’d think that, with the end of the semester and all of this free time on my hands, I would be bloggin’ like a fool, but, obviously, that hasn’t been the case. Truth is that I have been away from this modern world, on vacation with my extended family in Kona, Hawaii. I would like to say that my distance from everything from phones to TV to computers was an easy one and, for the most part, I can. Still, there were moments that I really wanted to do some blogging from the beach (can you believe that there isn’t worldwide oceanfront wireless yet?), I had this whole alliteration thing planned, and there was the time when the concierge scoffed at me for asking where the in-room DSL connection was. It’s unfair to bitch about such a minor lack of amenities when you’ve managed to escape the major Wisconsin winter for 75-80 degree days spent swimming with the sea turtles, drinking mojitos, and catching up on your pleasure reading while lying in the sun. One thing that I discovered while there is that shuffleboard is awesome and that I am pretty awesome at it. Hawaii is beautiful, the volcanoes are hulking and smoking, the Pacific Ocean is intimidating, I ate at Allen Wong’s restaurant at the Four Seasons, and my grandparents celebrated their 50th anniversary. The last three days were full of rain and my hair erupted into spiral curls, I spent less than $100 in all 10 days, saw the movie Walk Hard (you can wait until it comes out on video), played with my little cousins, was embarrassed by the tokenism of the resort’s luau, and got to know my grandma a little better. Now I am home and it is cold, but I’m happy to see my friends and family again. There. We’re all caught up.

Festivus for the Rest of Us

Well, it’s that time of the year, folks, when we all gather round the pole for the airing of the grievances and traditional father/son wrestling match. Yes, I’m talking about Festivus. For those of you who don’t know, Festivus is a holiday invented by Frank Costanza. For those of you who don’t know who Frank Costanza is, he is the father of George Costanza on the TV show Seinfeld. For those of you who have never heard of Seinfeld, you have no business here. Anyway, Festivus is a holiday celebrated in lieu on Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza in which, as previously mentioned, you go around the table telling your loved ones what bothered you about them that year. Then George must wrestle his father. And instead of a tree, there’s a pole.
I like the idea of Festivus. You complain and watch some sports. It sort of reminds me of the old days, going to my grandma and grandpa’s house for Christmas.
You see, I’ve had a history of non-traditional holidays. I grew up loving Christmas movies like Miracle on 34th Street, A Muppet’s Christmas Carol, Prancer, and Babes in Toyland. I would beg my mom to take me to watch The Nutcracker ballet (she sweetly obliged). I would dream of full pine trees, decorated with lights, tinsel, and multicolored ornaments, laying out the anticipation for Christmas morning. For the first seven years of my life, this fantasy played out pretty well. There were bumps in the road of course, like how, at five, I asked my mom if Santa was real in front of a Jehovah’s Witness. She told me the truth and I did my best to ignore it. Presents were still signed “from Santa” or “Love, Mrs. Claus” (she brought me Pert Plus shampoo one year) and I would do my best to believe it, but there was still that ugly whisper in my ear, saying, “Santa is a lie.” Sometimes, my knowledge made me spiteful and I would occasionally say things to my stepbrother like, “Isn’t it weird how Santa and your mom have the exact same handwriting?” My attempt at cruelty failed, as he believed in Santa until he was about thirteen.
Soon, however, a bigger monkey wrench was thrown into things. My dad and his girlfriend decided that they were too eclectic for my perfect Christmas. It started small, a few weird toys for ornaments, but then grew into something that I couldn’t control. One year, as I awaited going to find and cut down the perfect Christmas tree, snowsuit and all, my dad returned home with a box containing a small artificial white Christmas tree. “And then we’ll wrap it in these chili pepper lights!” he proclaimed, proudly as my snow boots went flaccid in my mittened hand. Next year, it only got worse. “Let’s spray-paint it black!” he said, as everybody but me wagged their heads in agreement. So, our fake white tree underwent a color transformation. And the next year? “Dismembered Barbie parts as ornaments!” It seemed almost metaphoric, watching my favorite childhood toys being ripped apart, like my favorite holiday. “Hey! Instead of a star on top of the tree, how about this stuffed crow that I found?!” After that year, my dad and his girlfriend split and Christmas was left by the wayside. Flying out to visit my grandparents who live in Vancouver, most of my subsequent Christmases have been spent in airports and on airplanes.
As a child of divorce, you’d assume that I’d have a back up Christmas if one happened to get sinister. Not the case. My mom, realizing that no one in the house called themselves Christians, decided that our holiday energies would be better directed at something that wasn’t Jesus’ birthday. Thus, the annual Solstice celebration was born. Telling someone that I celebrate Solstice, I can generally predict his or her response. “Very… progressive?” Let me take a moment to clear up some misconceptions. There are no fertility figurines in my mom’s house, my stepfather does not have a beard, ponytail, or any sarongs in his closet, and the menstrual blood ritual moon dance is totally optional. Really, all it is is a night where we have all of our good friends over for some good humor and good food. Later, we have a little gift exchange within my immediate family.
Don’t misunderstand me. Solstice is awesome. I mean, Jesus seems like a cool cat and all, but I’ve never had much reason to celebrate his birth. My church experience has been pretty limited. I’ve tagged along to a friend’s Sunday schools a couple of times, I went to a Jewish summer camp, attended a mass (I fainted onto a pew), and even once entertained joining a Unitarian youth group (I think I quit because it was scheduled at the same time as Angel or Will & Grace or something). Basically, what I’m getting at is that my spiritual backbone has always been weak and I have consistently chosen to kneel at the altar of pop culture rather than at a cross or Star of David. Maybe it’s hypocritical for me to celebrate Christmas or howl “Silent Night.” Bumper-stickers and yard signs reading “Put the Christ back in Christmas” taunt me at every intersection, making me ask myself whether it is just the consumerism and presents that attract me to the holidays. Scanning through my most memorable Christmas memories, it would certainly seem that way. I’m six and my mom hung a sheet over the living room door, so I can’t see the crisply wrapped gifts before she wakes up. I’m 12 and want a Razor scooter, but get a suitcase instead. I’m 7, 8, 9, 10, etc., and my brother saves all of his presents until the end, so we have to watch him unwrap each of his presents excruciatingly slow with none of our own Christmas presents to distract us with anticipation anymore. Yes, I won’t be afraid to say it. Getting presents is awesome. In my defense, I generally love any gift that’s thrown my way, whether it’s a drawing from my cousins, their childish lines maybe forming me, along with their dog and a giraffe or two, standing by a Christmas tree, my hair a mass of brown and sharp scribbled lines, or the wool slippers that I’m wearing right now. For example, my wish list this year ranges from an old photo of my grandmother, some long underwear, ladies gloves, and a Flight of the Concords DVD. And I don’t just love getting gifts; I love giving the perfect gift as well. Generally, I can’t even wait for the official gift-giving day to come and make the receiver open it early.
Just the other day, my roommate said, looking at me with distain, “I hate Christmas. It’s such a consumer holiday and I’m not a consumer.” Keep in mind, as she says this, she is wriggling into her Urban Outfitters skinny jeans. So, let’s start a movement folks, where we can honestly say that gift giving and receiving is nice. I’ll also say that people are a lot nicer to each other around this time of year. For example, as I passed a panhandler today, rather than look the other way, I said, “No spare change, but HAPPY HOLIDAYS!” Maybe he didn’t feel better, but I sure did!
I’ve strayed a little off course. I guess, looking, closer, it’s the tradition aspect of Christmas that I miss and envy. My family has never been one to hold onto, maintain, or invent traditions, and, apart from the Solstice dinners, I can’t think of a single family tradition that has become anything more than a romantic notion. Each branch (har har) of the family’s Christmas trees have shifted from real to artificial, if not disappearing entirely, Christmas mornings have shifted into whenever we all have time to meet (a rarity), and we’re no longer too young to be oblivious to the petty grievances that crouch between relatives. We might even be old enough to have developed a few grievances ourselves. How very Festivus of us. I can’t just blame my parents. I’m to blame, too. Last year, I chose backpacking through Europe in lieu of wassail and carols. Two years before that, I was living in Italy with a host family for Christmas. Now, thinking back on that holiday, I can honestly say that I was inundated with holiday tradition. The Gioculano family went all out with a two-day feast. On Christmas Eve, no one can eat meat, so we ate fish. Presents are opened at midnight. Lunch is held with the entire family on Christmas day. Even the crudely painted baby Jesus is placed in the nativity scene with some intentionality. As the guest, I was given the honor of laying him in his hay stuffed crib. Nervous, I whispered to my host mom, “This doesn’t seem right. I’m not a Christian.” Putting a comforting and weathered hand on my back, she replied, “That’s okay, we believe he loves you anyway.” Hearing her words are probably the closest that I’ve ever come to God.
If I ever happen to accidentally have a couple of babies, I want to give them childhoods rich with tradition. I don’t mean that I plan to raise them as Christian fundamentalists (or moderates), but tradition and religion aren’t always connected. I just want them to look back on their childhoods and say, “Sure, Mom was drunk most of the time, but our annual toboggan runs sure were a hoot! And how about those autumn apple pickings, eh?”
Being that my parents make up two thirds of my readership (and that’s if I include myself as a reader), I must clarify that I wouldn’t exchange any tradition in the world for the childhood that they have given me. In fact, rather than giving me the same event to look forward to every year, they have constantly introduced me to new things, anti-traditions so to speak. Because of them, I was considered a worldly traveler by twelve, can list the casts of movies that I’ve never seen before, have a phenomenal personal style (maybe that black Christmas tree gifted me a special chicness, no?), and have constantly been surrounded by the most humorous intelligent people that this world has to offer. For all of this, I can come to grips with the lack of sugarplums, Easter egg dyeing, and apple bobbing. Still, they could have at least found a way to make annual Christmas cookies, have some matrilineal quilt that’s handed down mother to daughter, habitually sacrifice goats, have a secret recipe or two, work at Colonial Williamsburg, etc. Do I sound ungrateful? Give me a break. This is Festivus after all.
You suck for not reading my blog more. Now, let’s wrestle.
Love,
The Pop Quiz Kid

You make me wanna la la

Recently, Seventeen Magazine has launched the Body Peace Treaty. For those of you who are not a fifteen-year-old girl or an internet pedophile, you probably don’t visit http://www.seventeen.com with frequency. I am among you non-pedophiles and stumbled upon this treaty through a far more adult source. Yes, I’m talking about the Internet Movie Database’s daily celebrity news (how often can they spell Ben Affleck wrong?). On further research, here is what I discovered: Seventeen’s Body Peace Treaty is a pledge for young girls where they sign their names and agree to stop harassing their own bodies. The vow goes:
1. Remember that the sun will still rise tomorrow even if I had one too many slices of pizza or an extra scoop of ice cream tonight.
2. Never blame my body for the bad day I'm having.
3. Stop joining in when my friends compare and trash their own bodies.
4. Never allow a dirty look from someone else to influence how I feel about my appearance.
5. Quit judging a person solely by how his or her body looks — even if it seems harmless — because I'd never want anyone to do that to me.
6. Notice all the amazing things my body is doing for me every moment I walk, talk, think, breathe...
7. Quiet that negative little voice in my head when it starts to say mean things about my body that I'd never tolerate anyone else saying about me.
8. Remind myself that what you see isn't always what you get on TV and in ads — it takes a lot of airbrushing, dieting, money, and work to look like that.
9. Remember that even the girl who I'd swap bodies with in a minute has something about her looks that she hates.
10. Respect my body by feeding it well, working up a sweat when it needs it, and knowing when to give it a break.
11. Realize that the mirror can reflect only what's on the surface of me, not who I am inside.
12. Know that I'm already beautiful just the way I am.

Way to go Seventeen! Who could give you a hard time for encouraging teenage girls to feel good about themselves? Oh wait, I can.
1. The sun will not rise tomorrow if you die of a heart attack, induced by one too many extra slices of pizza or scoops of ice cream. Even if you don’t die, you might wish you were dead because you suffer from extreme diabetes and have to roll around in a custom made plus size wheelchair as you are now too fat to walk.
2. Perhaps you fell down and broke your leg and are in excruciating pain all day. Then it is perfectly legitimate to blame your body for a bad day.
3. We’ve all had friends who insult themselves just to have everyone around them compliment them. I find that the best response to a friend’s “I’m so fat!” is to oink like a pig and pelt them with whatever food I’m am eating. The more it splatters, the better. Another example of a time where you should maybe trash your own body is when you need to call attention to a problem that you are having, but are too embarrassed to recognize. You might say, “These track marks make my arms look so ugly” or “My stomach has gotten so swollen since I went all the way with that college guy who works at Chi Chi’s.”
4. I can’t even count the number of friends that I have heard say, “If I look bad in something, I wanna know.” Actually, I can. I have heard 4.6 people say that. Back on point, when someone gives me a dirty look, I either assume that they are jealous of me and my trés chic three-week-no-wash pants and battered loafers or I go up and thank them for making me aware that bubble hems are passé.
5. Generally a good rule of thumb. Make an exception if the person has swastikas tattooed on their skin, looks like a child molester, is Elijah Wood, or is unbearably ugly.
6. Unless you suffer from cerebral palsy. In that case, your body is holding you back a little bit.
7. Some people have emotionally abusive relationships where people say much meaner things to them all of the time! I guess they have a much bigger right to berate themselves and with good reason, too, because they’re just a bunch of stupid idiots that can never do anything right and are ruining my life.
8. This would be great if this weren’t Seventeen telling you this. This is the magazine that brings the frozen face of The Hill’s Lauren Conrad and the bleached out and bared teeth of Avril Levine into the grocery store line every month. This is like John Wayne telling you not to ride a horse or Dick Cheney telling you not to shoot your friend in the face.
9. Boohoo, Sienna Miller. Suck it up.
10. I can’t think of anything funny to say about this one, so I’ll let it go.
11. Obviously, you have never read Harry Potter and heard about the Mirror of Erised. Mirrors can tell you quite a bit more than they used to. That being said, it pays to have a nice surface.
12. Unless you’re an asshole. Then you should probably try and change a few things.

I have one more bone to pick with this treaty. At the end, Seventeen has a list of all of the celebrities that have signed the pledge. You know, real A-listers like human cartoon Brittany Snow, whos-her-face Emmy Rossum, Billy Ray Cyrus’ daughter, and Katherine McPhee (she was anorexic, so she has learned all about loving her body in recovery). But the cherry on top of the petition signing cake? Ashlee Simpson. Now poor Ashlee has faced a lot of ridicule in her time. There was the lip-synching debacle and the videotaped drunken McDonald’s thing. She dated human porcupine Ryan Cabrera and had to grow up with Ol’ Leering Joe Simpson as a father. Through all of this, I watched from a far as she collapsed in on herself. I even sat through the entire first season of The Ashlee Simpson Show, listening her strain to hit the notes of “Pieces of Me” and desperately try to demonstrate what a punk she was (“Look! I have brown hair and a cut up t-shirt! Look!”). I’ll take it a step farther and say that, the first time I saw her, I thought, “that’s a very pretty girl.” My one nice thought about young Ashlee was destroyed when she, in the past two years, emerged looking like the long lost Olsen triplet. Having altered her nose, which, in my opinion, was her best feature, and adhering long and limp dread-like blonde extensions, Ashlee Simpson went from being a unique looking no-talent example of nepotism to another generic blonde no-talent example of nepotism.
Now, what does a person like this, a person so obviously caught up in conforming to the roles given to her by her manager and lover/father, doing endorsing a petition to make teenage girls accept and learn to love their appearances? Maybe Seventeen should make a Body-Peace-if-you-don’t-have-the-money-for-plastic-surgery-that-will-make-you-like-everyone-else-Treaty. Then Ashlee could sign away without a word from me.

Then. Ashlee looking slightly too tan and made up, but none the less pretty.

And now. This might actually be a picture of a contestant on ANTM. There's no way of knowing without a blood test.

That’s all the snark that I can muster up for the day.
P.S.- Here’s an odd coincidence. This is the second letter that I have written in response to a Seventeen article. The first was written when I was a sophomore or a junior in high school and was published in an issue with Ashlee’s sister Jessica on the cover. Something just draws me to that family,