Achin' for bacon?

via whisker snaps photo on flickr

I love pigs. I mean, I've never really met one per se, but I can tell we'd get along right away, kindred spirits right off the bat, friendship bracelets everywhere. Look at this video of some lucky beach-dwellers and their little squealing pal! How can you help but sprint from your home to the bank to take out a high interest loan for $4500 and purchase a Royal Dandie for your very own? They're charming and pink and plucky, and if movies have taught me anything, they can even sing their way to stardom (although upon Googling "singing pig movie," it doesn't appear that that's a thing that's happened ever [screenwriters, email me!]). They're also as smart and as potty-trainable as a three year old. George Clooney has a pig and he won an Oscar. Think about it. Pigs! Awesome!

But as much as I  would love to give every pig a home -- be they cartoon and dressed in a one piece swimsuit or all flesh and snout -- I understand that there are carnivores out there who would also like to give them a home, but in their digestive tracts. Bacon, guys: maybe you've heard of it. On sandwiches, for brunch, sprinkled on top of perfectly good vegetables, in a milkshake if you happen to be my brother -- it's fucking everywhere.

Bacon's so adored that NPR is even claiming that bacon is a gateway meat for vegetarians. "Because bacon is one- to two-thirds fat and also has lots of protein, it speaks to our evolutionary quest for calories," said some sort of meat scientist, probably while putting together a BLT. "Since 90 percent of what we taste is really odor, bacon's aggressive smell delivers a powerful hit to our sense of how good it will taste . . . There's [also] an intimate connection between odor and emotion, and odor and memory."

Food and eating are complicated, because they're not just about getting enough nutrients to survive. The sensory pleasure, the ritual of family dinner, and the cultural or emotional experience, as the aforementioned professor of Pork Studies at the University of West Hamtown mentioned: it's a loaded activity. And it's especially complicated for those who have voluntary dietary restrictions, because eating suddenly becomes a binary that we are held to and judged by: Vegetarian or Not. People will roll their eyes at your new dietary identity, but if we slip up -- say, can't resist a 3 a.m cheeseburger -- we're underachieving failures and any time spent avoiding meat becomes null and void and forgotten. Carnivores high five and welcome you back to their team with open arms. "Forget about sprouts, baby," they'll coo. "You belong with us. Let me get you a Double Down."

Perfection is hard, and harder when the changes you're trying to make come with all this gastronomical baggage. Going cold turkey from cold turkey is tough, but we're doing our best, you know, and that's better than nothing, so everybody should just stop this arbitrary "pass-fail" grading rubric. Vegetarians shouldn't be made to feel like animal byproducts are a slippery, gravy-ladden slope with no return with terms like "gateway meat" (although I suppose it's better than "meat gateway," which sounds a little pervy).

My boyfriend dabbles in what he calls "weekday vegetarianism"; I'm cutting out 95% off the dairy I eat, but still indulge in a wheel of brie (I'm a growing girl!) on occasion. That doesn't make us hypocrites, that makes us humans -- cheese-loving humans -- who are making an effort. I ate meat for most of my life, and I can't say for sure that I will never, ever eat it again, but I'm doing my best to save as many pigs 'n' pals as possible, and my successes shouldn't be considered negated by any carnivorous hiccups.

And now: some more pictures of pigs I haven't eaten!

Untapped Air Bud franchises

Air Bud: Wimbledog
Air Bud dusts off his whites to take down the snooty world of professional tennis! Will his canine instincts for chasing tennis balls win out and prove his detractors right, or will he prove to viewers that "love" is the greatest score of all?
 
Air Bud: Water Paw-lo
We all remember Buddy's hilarious antics in Air Bud: Regular Paw-lo (The Kind With Horses). Now he's taking his game to the water . . . and America's favourite pool-related pastime will never be the same!

Air Bud: Roller Fur-by
When misfit beauty queen Air Bud The Dog attends a roller derby exhibition in Austin, Texas, his life is suddenly changed forever. Soon, he's lacing up his own ironic skates and leading a double life as saucy rockabilly derby dame "Air Bitch", as he learns how to be a strong woman without compromise. Drew Barrymore is there, too, for some reason.

Air Bud: Speed Walking Canine Friendship Unit [WORKING TITLE: DOG PUN TBD]
Buddy has a heart of gold(en retriever!) -- but who could've guessed he had PAWS of gold too?! Certainly not the fast and furious champs of competitive speed walking. But with a little luck, a lot of love, and twice as many limbs as his competitors, Air Bud will find a way to rise above all the petty villains around him claiming that his animalistic motor skills give him an unfair advantage and learn the true value of friendship and also trophies.

The electric hearth

I have been watching a lot of TV lately. I just graduated from university and have traded in my smattering of charmingly quirky part-time employers (honey farm, hippie newspaper, the usual) for a grown-up flavoured nine-to-five job. Suddenly, I have free time; I have weekends and evenings and leisurely lunch breaks. Unfortunately, it is becoming depressingly clear that what I don't have is hobbies.

I'm not sure when this happened. I used to be interesting! Promise! Yoga classes, painting lessons, band practice, school plays, beekeeping, drawing a thrice-a-week webcomic. Today, I just have a case of the "used-ta"s, which does not make for a person who would be considered a fascinating addition to a dinner party.

On the bright side, I have chosen an excellent time in television history to become boring. As a comedy-fan, TV has never before boasted such a -- dare I say it? -- cornacopia of basic cable laugh-a-minute gold. 30 Rock! Modern Family! Cougar Town! Parks & Recreation! Community! I barely have enough exclamation marks to go around, and it's keeping me pleasantly distracted from the meaningless hole that is my post-grad day-to-day existence. Ha! Ha! But you may have noticed one 'fan fave' has been left off of this list of shout-able proportions, a show that is often recommended with the precursor "It's actually really funny!" which seems too apologetic a statement to be trusted: How I Met Your Mother.

Ohhh, it takes place in New York! Clever angle! Green-lit!

I want to like this show: everyone else seems to, Bob Saget included, and Danny Tanner has never lead me astray before. But How I Met (or HIMYM or whatever the popular abbreviation is) and I just can't connect. My eyes roll automatically at the sight of Arrogant Womanizer Character. I suspect the bar they hang out in might just be a revamped set from the Drew Carrey Show. Every story arc I've seen feels vaguely familiar, like Friends already did it, and it was boring enough the first time. 

The most unforgivable sin The Never-ending Mom Story has committed though, and what will presumably forever keep us apart, is the laugh track. Yes, laugh tracks have been around since the birth of Greek theatre, but it's pandering and insulting to have jokes pointed out to a generation of viewers who are so good at being an audience that they can do it on a meta-level. How can a show be clever when they can't trust their audience to get it without a nudge? I'll be sticking with the programs (am I old enough to call them "my stories" yet?) that are confident enough to crack wise without the recorded cackle of a presumably long-dead studio audience behind them.

Wedding bells!

I think I know a thing or two about marriage. I've been to four weddings, after all, and only 25% of them involved donuts in place of a cake, so I think that qualifies me in some countries as some sort of expert.

There are certain things people expect when they get invited to a wedding, whether they're there to play the pivotal role of Understudy to the Junior Bridesmaid's Understudy, or in attendance as the groom's sister's friend who likes cake. First off, we're going to expect at least two people in attendance to stand up and get married. Then we're going to want you to throw stuff around (bouquets, garter belts, celebratory rice if you're involved with the bridal party; punches if you're a drunk uncle) and book it to the dance floor when "Mambo #5" comes on. And finally, each guest is obligated to take home something wrapped in chiffon as a memento of the occasion, as if we might forget. "I had the strangest dream last night that Betty got married!" we might say, scratching our macarana-adled noggins the next day. "But obviously that's not true since I don't currently own a mug with her and Jerome's faces on it, so I'll just continue to set her up with hot local singles by writing her phone number on bathroom stalls."

Three (and a half?) easy steps to a successful wedding! But is "success" really the best we can do? Shouldn't your wedding be, as they say, "the most wonderful time of the year?"

With my keen observational skills and penchant for free wine, I think I could use my wedding planning skills to make your wedding not just functional, but infamous. For example, just spit-ballin' here, you could take everyone's favourite part of a wedding -- the chicken dance -- and play it several times, or get your DJ to come up with a remixed dub-step edition, or maybe even invite several authentic chickens to the event to show us the true meaning of the beautiful, haunting steps that have amalgamated so thoroughly with the culture of love. It's called "extrapolating". Maybe you've heard of it. Also, the only reason I go to weddings is to have a good cry, so another idea would be to get your Justice of the Peace/Craigslist priest to take that to the next level and just, like, be really, really mean to everybody.

STACEY MCLACHLAN
WEDDING PLANNER FOR HIRE
STACEYMCLACH@GMAIL.COM
LOW RATE$$$!
NO MONEY? NO PROBLEM!
YOU WORK, YOU DRIVE!

Brilliant invention 1: Tumblerbottle

I have a lot of good ideas. It's just something that happens to geniuses such as myself, even when you're thinking really hard and concentrating on the intellectual effort at hand (in my case, answering the phones and/or watching CougarTown) they just sneak up on you, whambamthankyoubam, and you've got a million dollar brainstorm on your hands.

The problem with my good ideas is that I have a boyfriend who does not agree with me in my choice of adjective ("good") in this particular instance. He's always like "I'm going to outline why the laws of physics make your dreams impossible" or "That already exists. It's called a briefcase." WhatEVER.

My current favourite resultant of the Stacey Brain Trust is the coffee tumbler slash water bottle. If you, like me, need to be consuming liquids all the time every day, you no doubt have faced the same challenges I have: trying to fit both a travel mug and a 1L water bottle in your purse, spilling things everywhere, accidentally leaving one behind at the bus stop, experiencing neck and back pain from carting around such a hydrating burden. It is the beginning part of an infomercial waiting to happen.

The tumbler/bottle will solve all your problems (beverage related and otherwise)(see Jay-Z's hit song for a complete list), providing all you need in terms of beverage supply without the hassle or responsibility of caring for two separate vessels. One bottle: two spouts. Think about it.

"They're different temperature," suggested a certain bearded someone scornfully. "The water will get hot and the coffee cold! COULD ANYTHING BE WORSE? BLAH BLAH BLAH boring degress Celcius BLAH BLAH I've never had a paper cut BLAH BLAH." What a Negative Nancy! I'll obviously be hiring scientists to work out the kinks -- I'm a visionary, after all, an ideas (wo)man, not a simpleton with a mechanical engineering degree. But I'm sure it's possible. If we can send a monkey to the moon we can certainly segregate and preserve drink temperatures.

Jordan also felt it his duty to inform me that my invention had already been invented, a tool that could hold two different drinks, something he called "every cup ever." Apparently I'm supposed to drink my coffee and THEN fill the container with water. Like an animal! Like a moon monkey.

I'm confident I can find support for this product. We live in 2011: if I want two drinks available to me when I'm out on the go, I don't see why I can't make that happen. I'm pretty sure that's what Rosie the Riveter was talking about when she rolled up that shirt sleeve to show off the muscles she built carrying around a coffee mug and a water bottle around all day.

Patent pending patent pending patent pending! If you are a rich entrepreneur/philanthropist/sugar daddy, please get in touch with me right away about investment opportunities! I have a prototype but it mostly involves tape and that shit can get expensive.

 

Eye-lid to eye-sore

The pursuit of longer lashes is a thankless, endless task that scientists of the world are struggling with every day. I don't know if you've seen the labs that mascara is designed in on the tee vee but they're very high tech. There are touch screens, and holographic diagrams, and sometimes motorcycles for some reason. In these laboratories, there exists the money and know-how to be doing some Important Science (curing cancer, sterilizing Juggalos, etc.), but ladies are very demanding when it comes to Looking Fine, so these resources have been funneled into eyelash technology instead.

As someone who wears a lot of mascara and then wipes it off onto all my mother's white towels to be preserved forever, I understand this lust for fuller, thicker, tanglier, can't-fit-under-prescription-glasses eyelashes. Boys love eyelashes, right? Models have eyelashes, right? Eyes are the window to the soul and eyelashes are the attractive curtains styled after a Style at Home spread.

But somewhere along the line, between Eugene Rimmel whipping up the first batch of petroleum eyelash froth and Drew "Cover Girl" Barrymore winking uncontrollably at us during every commercial break, Lash Scientists became mad with power. "Why make mascara when we can make WHOLE NEW LASHES?" they presumably cackled, pouring prescription-strength hair growth formula on poor Brooke Shield's eyelids. And lo, Latisse (trademark, copyright, patent pending, black magic forever) was born.

 

"LATISSE^® solution is a prescription treatment for hypotrichosis used to grow eyelashes, making them longer, thicker and darker," says the website. But here is what else it says: Latisse miiiight darken the skin of your eyelid and that colouring mayyyy or may not be reversible. Oops! Latisse also commonly causes eye itchiness or redness, so hopefully your new thick lashes won't attract too much attention to the general upper face region. Although either of these side effects would be preferable to the smallest of the small print: Latisse users could experience "hair growth in other skin areas". Also, it takes 16 days to work. That is unacceptable, eyelash enhancement wise: if your friends are making you go to the Vanilla Room, you need to look sultry and smokey eyed RIGHT NOW.

Here is my rule of thumb: if something has to brag about FDA approved, I don't want to put it on my face.

 

How often has good ol' fashioned mascara turned against you? None, if you aren't counting accidental eye stabs. And if Lash Blast and Blast Lash and Xtreme Mid-nite XXL Lash Lash Big Lash aren't good enough for you, be patient: they are making crazier mascara every day! Some make little tubes around your eyelashes! Others have brushes that look like medieval toilet scrubbers! Even an albino person with alopecia can find something to give them that insomniac goth racoon look that's somehow appropriate for the office and the club. Fake eyelashes! Those exist too! And unless you are drunk when you're applying them (which happens to me almost every Halloween so I am not even judging a little bit here) and just totally miss your eyelid, you won't wind up with long and luscious hairs protruding from your cheek like the world's creepiest Chia Pet.

Thanks anyways, Latisse!