On the Topic of UFOs, Big Foot, and Gluten Allergies

Jennifer Lawrence is an idiot.

And worse than just being an idiot, she’s an idiot with a very large platform from which to spew her idiocy.

And even worse still, people are actually listening to her. Like she actually knows what she’s talking about. Because, you know, healing Peeta with some weird voodoo herbs in The Hunger Games pretty much makes her a medical expert.

JLaw knows best. Just ask her.

But, wait. Let me back up.

Jennifer Lawrence, a woman who’s famous solely for archery and braid-wearing (and, more recently, for nude photos and dating Gwyneth Paltrow’s husband), apparently fancies herself a bit of a health guru as well. In fact, she’s so medically gifted that she can diagnose you as having an eating disorder without having ever met you or even knowing you exist. She demonstrated this skill in a recent Vanity Fair article when she said that the gluten-free lifestyle was just “the new cool eating disorder, the ‘basically I just don’t eat carbs.’”

Impressive, no?

And, seriously, when did avoiding carbs become the same thing as voluntary starvation and/or purging? I’ve been trying to avoid carbs since the 90’s; I wasn’t aware that I had an eating disorder. Maybe I should check myself into a clinic of some sort.

Unlike me, however, and the rest of you gluten-avoiding folks, JLaw just isn’t about the eating disorders, but she IS all about the carbs. She loves carbs almost as much as she loves sexting. And to prove this fact, she dropped a little gluten-filled nugget into the interview about how she had started that very day with spaghetti and meatballs.

So, you see, because Jennifer Lawrence doesn’t suffer from any type of gluten sensitivity, allergy or intolerance, it simply doesn’t exist. Sorry celiac sufferers. It’s all in your head. You need therapy, not diet modification. A few sessions on a shrink’s couch and you’ll be able to ingest all the pasta, bread and beer your little heart desires.

Makes sense, right? Totally medically sound advice.

Listen, I don’t have celiac disease, which I am exceedingly grateful for. (By the way, Dr. Jennifer, in case you were unaware, celiac disease is an autoimmune DISEASE, meaning your body actually attacks itself, making gluten quite dangerous to celiac sufferers, but why get bogged down in facts?) I am, however, fairly sensitive to gluten – which you can read very briefly about here – and therefore try to avoid it. But you know what I get for my incredible display of will power and bravery? (Hey, if Kate Middleton can be brave for having a baby belly the day after giving birth, I can be brave for forgoing gluten.) I get judgment - and lots of it. I can’t tell you how many eye rolls and derogatory comments I get when I’m asked why I’m passing on the company pizza party or friend’s birthday cake. In the past week alone, I’ve had at least three different people tell me that gluten intolerance isn’t a real thing. I’m assuming these people got their information from the same place that the CDC got theirs when they said that we shouldn’t worry about Ebola here in the States. (I’m not saying we should or shouldn’t be concerned about Ebola; I’m just saying that the CDC sure is singing a different tune now.)

Sure, some people choose not to eat gluten because it’s a trendy thing to do, but for a lot of people, it’s not a choice. Like, for instance, when it could literally kill you. I mean, who would choose to encounter such judgment on a daily basis? Not to mention the inconvenience – to both you and anyone who makes the unfortunate decision to host you for dinner. Those glutenous boogers are everywhere, and they’re oftentimes hidden, like in licorice and soy sauce, so just forget about eating out. With very few exceptions, restaurants are just a fond memory once you hop the gluten-free train.  

Sounds pretty fun, doesn’t it? I can see why it’s so trendy. I mean, seriously, would I much prefer to be able to participate in gluten-filled activities? Yes. A hundred times yes. But you know what I prefer even more? Being able to button my pants, which becomes nearly impossible with the Gluten Gut™ – a joyful combination of distention, constipation, and all manner of other thrilling abdominal issues. (You’re welcome for that visual.)

Let me be clear: I haven’t stopped eating gluten because it’s fun, because it’s cool, because it makes me skinnier, or because I enjoy engaging in forms of dietary self-flagellation. No, I do it because it makes me healthier, which should be the goal for all of us, right?, even those among us who are self-important, egocentric, judgmental, ignorant, overpaid actresses masquerading as dieticians.

And you know what we who are trying to make ourselves healthier absolutely don’t need? To be judged and belittled in the public square for our choices – especially when they’re not particularly easy choices to begin with.

But enough about me. The point is, Jennifer Lawrence is an idiot. She needs to just shut up and take her gluten-indulging self back to District 12 where it belongs.

That’s my view, at least. But maybe it’s just my gluten-deprived brain talking.

Boyfriend of the Week

It appears that the New England Patriots only have two criteria on which they judge prospective quarterbacks: 1) their ability to throw a ball and 2) their ability to have a second career as a Calvin Klein model (assuming, of course, that they don’t have too many Marcia Brady, football-to-the-face moments).

And after watching Tom Brady’s performance on Monday night, I’m not so convinced that the football-throwing part is even that important anymore. 

Being Tom Brady is really, really hard.

What also became apparent on Monday night was the fact that Tom Brady may no longer be the World’s Prettiest Patriot. In fact, it was due to Brady’s major league suckage, that this shocking revelation came to light.

Let me set the stage for you. It’s Monday Night Football. A featured game. The Patriots, those Super Bowl darlings, are down 41-7 to the Kansas City Chiefs – who are good, but not that good – and Tom Brady gets benched. Should I repeat that? TOM BRADY GOT BENCHED.

Benched.

As in, no longer invited to play.

For those of you who don’t speak football, this would be like Barbara Streisand being ushered off the stage mid-Tonys performance for being pitchy. Or Eric Ripert cooking a meal fit only for McDonald’s. Or Taylor Swift recording a good song. It just doesn’t happen. Ever.   

The benching in and of itself is a very big deal. But it got better. In comes rookie quarterback Jimmy Garoppola, who not only throws a touchdown on his opening drive, but manages to look like a flipping Abercrombie model as he’s doing it. 

Wow, you're incredibly good-looking; maybe you could do that for a career.
Or...you could just stick to football.

I sense that the Patriots may have just increased their fan base by quite a lot – and they managed to do it even after suffering a humiliating loss, with the final score being 41-14. You don’t even have to speak football to know how awful that score is; although, the OCD in me appreciates the symmetry.

But, back to Jimmy. He’s an Illinois-born lad (love those Midwestern boys) and a graduate of Eastern Illinois University, which, incidentally, is also Tony Romo’s alma mater. Another fun Jimmy fact is that he was born in 1991. 1991. Are people who were born in 1991 even walking yet? Eating solid food? Using the big boy potty? How is that possible? Wasn’t 1991 approximately five minutes ago?

Can you believe all this fuss over little old me?

It didn’t take long for the rumblings of a New England quarterback controversy to start, but I think that talk is a little premature. I certainly don’t expect Brady to lose his spot on the field anytime soon. His position off the field, however, that of the hunkiest hunk in all of football, well, that may be in some jeopardy. And it is for precisely this reason that I predict Tom Brady will have a great game this weekend, in an effort to erase any lingering memories people may have of his backup – not that his backup is a competent football player, no, but instead, about just how dang pretty that Jimmy Garoppola is.  

Will the Real Waste of Space Please Stand Up?

Oh, Kanye.

Kanye, Kanye, Kanye.

I thought that we had seen all that your arrogance and self-righteousness had to offer. I thought that now that you were a married father, your egomaniacal ways might lessen. I even thought that I may have been unfair to judge you so harshly in the past.

I thought wrong.

Way, way wrong.

SO wrong.

Proving yet again that he is, without a doubt, one of the sorriest excuses for a human being to ever breathe air, Kanye West, at a recent concert, refused to continue performing – that is, do his job – until the entire arena was on its feet. That part isn’t so bad, I guess. Performers request crowds to rise all the time. They don’t demand it, mind you; they don’t refuse to proceed with the performance until it happens; but they request it.

Granted, the way Kanye handled it was much more egocentric and narcissistic – as is his way – but if these concert-goers are stupid enough to pay money to attend one of Klassless Kanye’s concerts, I suppose they get what they get.

What I can’t imagine anyone anticipating, however, is what happened next. So, Kanye demands that everyone stand up and, because the world revolves around him, he refuses to continue the show until he sees EVERY SINGLE PERSON standing. So when he notices one person with the audacity to remain seated after being commanded by the great one to rise, he takes aim. He zeroes in and will not let up. In fact, it gets so bad that the arena erupts into a chorus of “Stand up! Stand up!” punctuated by boos. And, yet, this concert-goer continues to be the epitome of disrespect by absolutely refusing to stand.

The audacity. The insolence. The blatant disrespect. What possible reason could someone have for NOT standing when commanded by his majassty, the King of Krap, and an angry mob of Kanye-loving Aussies?

There isn’t one good reason.

Not one.

Okay, well, maybe there’s one good reason. The concert-goer in question? Yeah, he was in a wheelchair.

It’s not that he wouldn’t stand up; it was that he couldn’t stand up.

But even the testimony of those around the wheelchair-bound fella was insufficient evidence to absolve him of his heinous, treasonous crime. In fact, it wasn’t, reportedly, until Kanye’s own bodyguards checked the situation out themselves and confirmed that yes, barring a miracle, this kid wasn’t going to be on his feet anytime soon, that the anointed one finally carried on with the concert.   

What I found most surprising after watching the video, wasn’t that Kanye made a huge ass out of himself; no, that was to be expected. In fact, if Kanye’s talking, he’s probably saying something really stupid. What I found most surprising was how many people were actually at the concert. It looked like a fairly full house. Do you think they actually paid money to be there? Perhaps Australia is not yet hip to the fact that Sir Sucksalot is a giant joke.

As an addendum to this story, immediately after demanding the wheelchair-bound man to rise, Kanye attempted to walk on water.

He drowned.

Of Men and Red Bandanas

13 years.

It’s been 13 years since the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. Can you believe it? In some ways it seems like forever ago and in some, just like yesterday. Crazier still is that most of today’s high school students don’t even remember it. I’m sure they remember stories told and images seen, but all of it retrospectively; nothing from the actual day. How old does that make you feel? Kids who are old enough to drive, get married and vote, don’t remember any of the horrors of September 11, 2001. But I bet if I asked most of you, you could tell me exactly where you were when you heard the awful news – and how you spent the rest of your day.

I was in college. I had an 8am speech class which, because I’ve always been uber studious (right, Mom?), I had decided to grace with my presence on that particular day. I remember sitting in a huge auditorium-type room and watching in horror, on the giant teaching screens at the front, as the planes flew into the Twin Towers on a loop - over and over and over - because none of the news agencies had any new information to share so they just kept running the same things on repeat. I also remember, incidentally, that I had a 3pm class that day that didn’t get canceled. Every other professor on campus decided to cancel class, but not this guy. How un-American is that?

I hadn’t really intended to post anything today, not because it doesn’t bear remembering – obviously it does – but because I prefer to stand in judgment of trivial things, not things as meaningful as this. But then I read the story of Welles Crowther, the Man in the Red Bandana, and I felt compelled to write a little something (which will probably turn into a lot of something because I appear to be incapable of succinctness; I blame my dad).

Crowther was a 24-year-old Boston College graduate working as an equities trader on the 104^th floor of the south tower when the planes hit. He left a message for his mom telling her he was okay and then began the daunting task of exiting the building. Along the way, he met many bruised, bloodied and broken folks, which is when his training as a volunteer firefighter kicked in. He carried one injured woman down on his back while directing others to safety. And after getting the first group down, he ran back up flights and flights of stairs - wearing a red bandana around his nose and mouth to try and minimize the effects of the all-consuming dust and smoke - and assisted a second group down. 

The bandana he was wearing? It had been a prophetic gift from his dad, given to Welles when he was a boy because he admired the bandana that his dad always carried. From that day on, Welles always had the bandana on his person, even wearing it under his lacrosse helmet in college.

All told, Crowther is said to have saved a dozen lives. It was on his third trip up the tower that it collapsed. His family had no idea of his heroism until The New York Times ran a story in which one of the survivors remembered having been rescued by a man in a red bandana. And after reading the article, his family was able to find some solace in the fact that the world finally knew what they had always known: Their boy was a hero.

ESPN apparently ran a story on Welles entitled, for obvious reasons, The Man in the Red Bandana. I haven’t watched it yet because I’ve read that it’s, not surprisingly, quite a tearjerker. But I’ve heard it’s pretty great. Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to sob my way through it.

And speaking of watching things, watch out for the Boston College Eagles who, in honor of Welles, will be wearing shoes, gloves and helmets that sport a red bandana in their game against USC on Saturday.

Twenty-four years old. I don’t even remember being 24, let alone what I was doing, but I’m fairly certain it involved stressing about bad hair days and pontificating ad nauseam about how hard my life was. In fact, I’m pretty sure the most heroic thing I ever did was caution someone against watching the movie Closer. That movie was atrocious; I’m talking, “I can’t even finish watching this” kind of terrible. So, I mean, obviously it was pretty incredible of me to spare that person from having to endure such a painful experience, but still, I don’t think it quite rivals single-handedly rescuing 12 people from a burning building.

I can’t imagine the courage that takes. But as someone who is blessed enough to be surrounded by family and friends who serve in both the military and as first responders, people who go to work every day knowing that this might be the day that they don’t make it home, I am fortunate to see this bravery on a fairly regular basis. I don’t have it. But I see it. And I hope that maybe, someday, some of it might rub off on me. Isn’t that how it works? Doesn’t, by some strange osmosis magic, surrounding yourself with greatness in turn make you great? I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.

I walked away from the story of Welles Crowther with two thoughts. The first is that if I’m ever put in a situation that requires great amounts of courage, I sincerely hope that I’m able to put on my Superman cape and big girl panties, reach way down in my gut, and find the strength to make it happen.

And my second thought was, if for some reason on that particular day my gut is broken, my cape is ripped and my strength is shaken, I sure hope there’s a man in a red bandana standing directly behind me. 

Ribs, Tires and…Babies?

Proving yet again that her uterus is the only part of her that actually does any work, the Deficient Duchess is once again the Vomity Duchess. That is, she’s pregnant.

And vomity.

It was precisely her tossing of the cookies (that she never eats) that prompted the palace to make an announcement that a) yes, Kate is in fact gestating a spare for the heir and 2) she probably isn’t going to be able to keep any of her upcoming engagements – including her “much-anticipated” solo trip to Malta – because she’s, yet again, suffering from debilitating morning sickness. Poor dear.

    When it comes to another royal baby, George and I are obviously of a similar mindset.     

There are several schools of thought on why the pregnancy announcement was made before Kate hit the all-important 12-week mark. One is that Her Pukiness didn’t feel like fulfilling any more work obligations this year, so she got the ultimate doctor’s note to excuse her absence. (I may be the only pupil at this school, but I still think it’s totally valid). A second thought is that, as Scotland prepares to vote on whether or not they’re still interested in being United with the Kingdom, news of a baby is bound to sway them to vote yes. Who doesn’t love a royal baby? They’re magical. Like unicorns.

And yet a third theory is that, as the SGP prepares to celebrate the big 3-0, Kate was thrown into a jealous rage at the thought of not being the center of attention for even one second.  Her rage was made even worse when news broke that, upon his 30^th birthday, Sweet Ginger and his brother would be inheriting their beloved mother’s wedding dress.

With the advent of the Katenia era has come less and less mention of the late princess. Still, Diana remains popular among the masses; she is “the people’s princess,” after all. Positively tying oneself to her memory is never a bad thing, and this is exactly what Kate did when she agreed to wear the sapphire monstrosity that had once adorned the blessed hand of her late mother-in-law. And the ring’s done well for Kate. It certainly garnered her a lot of attention – at least in the beginning. But you know what’s bound to get even more attention? Diana’s wedding dress. It’s bigger. It’s fluffier. And it’s, arguably, more famous. But wedding-dress attention does Middleton no good. She didn’t design it. She didn’t bedazzle it. And she certainly didn’t wear it. So how can she possibly squeeze her admittedly very tiny self into this situation? Unfortunately for her, it seems that she can’t.

And this is a problem.

There is only one thing that could overshadow the sentiment (and gaudyliciousness) of the duchess’s ring - and, therefore, the duchess - and that is the pearl-encrusted fluff that is Diana’s wedding dress. (Does anyone else start craving marshmallows while viewing Charles and Diana’s wedding? No? Just me?) Listen, I get it. It was the 80’s. I’m an 80’s baby. I dressed myself – incredibly badly – in the 80’s. There are photographs that I wish would take a long walk off a short pier. It wasn’t an attractive decade. It was totally rad, but it wasn’t attractive. Point is, I understand the 80’s effect. That said, this wedding dress has a whole lot going on. Diana practically got lost in all the poof and circumstance.

Is anyone else reminded of a Puffalump upon viewing this picture?
Maybe it was the inspiration behind them.

Until recently, the dress has stayed safely out of the duchess’s orbit - never threatening to overshadow her greatness – by being tucked away at the Spencer family home, leaving only to embark on its periodic tours of the world. Incidentally (as my grandma would say), the fact that this dress has been on world tours in an official capacity means that this inanimate object has pretty much worked as hard as the duchess. Maybe harder.  

But I digress…

Diana’s will decreed that when the clock strikes midnight on September 15^th (SGP’s 30^th birthday), ownership of her wedding dress be transferred to her boys. This means that the hibernating memory of the princess will be front and center yet again. Or would have been. Except now all anyone can talk about is another royal baby. Genius, no?

As for the dress, the hope is that the boys will allow it to stay at its home at Althorp, where Diana devotees can continue to feast upon its awesome 80’s-ness. And, based on no factual evidence at all, I would assume that William and Harry will do exactly that. After all, aside from the obvious sentimentality, I can’t imagine why the boys would want to have it in their physical possession at all times. For one, it would be a logistical nightmare. I mean, where are they going to store it? I don’t think the whole of Kensington Palace is large enough to house such a big-boned garment. And it’s not like it can be repurposed and worn again (although I’m sure her bridesmaid’s dresses could be; all bridesmaid’s dresses can be).

On the other hand, maybe they will decide to keep it in their home, and draw up some shared custody-type agreement. Heck, maybe they’ll even decide that it can be worn again. In fact, maybe that’s precisely what the boys have in mind.

I wonder if Harry’s going to request that his bride wear his mom’s wedding dress in much the same way that Will requested that Kate wear the ring.

If that’s the case, then yikes.

You know how much I love me some Harry, but that Norman Bates-type request might be a deal breaker even for me.

Maybe.

On the other hand, I do look good in fluff.

A Major Wahlbummer

There was a Wahlburgers marathon on today. I’ve made no secret of how much I love those Wahlbergs (especially Donnie), so I was super excited and considered it an early birthday present…until I realized why there was a Wahlburgers marathon on today.

I have to assume this marathon was in honor of a soul-crushing event (masquerading as a happy event) that occurred on Sunday:

Donnie Wahlberg got married.

To Jenny McCarthy.

Talk about adding insult to injury.

The duo was wed in St. Charles, Illinois (outside of Chicago) at the Hotel Baker in front of a fairly small group. Spectators included Donnie’s brothers Paul and Jim; his mother, Alma, who was reportedly not going to be there, but, according to reports, decided to brave the flight; his New Kids bandmates; and Jenny’s former The View cohost, Sherri Shepherd. Conspicuously absent were Donnie’s brother, Mark and, to a lesser extent, Jenny’s cousin, Melissa.  

A lot has been made of the fact that Mark missed the nuptials, especially after he both tweeted and posted a video congratulating Donnie and Jenny. It seemed a bit “doth protest too much.” Sure, he was missing his brother’s wedding, but he and his family were just SO happy for the couple. And SO sorry that they couldn’t be there. It just couldn’t be helped though, you see. It was Mark’s daughter’s birthday – on Tuesday – and therefore, they couldn’t make the trip.

The fact that rumors have been swirling almost since the word go that both Mark and his wife, Rhea Durham, are not huge fans of the new Mrs. Wahlberg, well, I’m sure that had absolutely nothing to do with their absence.

Look, Jenny McCarthy isn’t a classy lady. I get it. In fact, she’s quite the opposite. She has no filter and very little decorum. But a man who made a name for himself because he looked good in his panties? Is this a man who has a moral leg to stand on?

On the other hand, “Marky Mark” seems to have been retired many years ago. What we see of Mark Wahlberg now is a more mature, responsible, dedicated family man. Perhaps he expected to see the same personal growth in his new sister-in-law and perhaps he’s disappointed not to have seen any personal growth in his sister-in-law – except in the chestal area, of course.

Sure, it’s not Mark who’s pledged his life (and paycheck) to Jenny, but the Wahlbergs seem like a close-knit family. Now that Donnie and Jenny are legit, I assume she will be a staple around the Wahlberg family table. Holidays, birthdays, baptisms, paroles, she’ll be there to celebrate all of it. And a little Jenny goes a long way (something that the producers at The View learned the hard way). 

I don’t know. How much say do you think your family should get in your coupling choices? It may not affect their everyday life, but who you decide to bring to your niece’s First Communion certainly does have an impact on the group.

Another family that is allegedly going through these very same thought processes, but with perhaps a different conclusion, is Chelsy Davy’s family. Remember Chelsy? She is believed by many to be Prince Harry’s “one that got away.” The two dated on and off for six years before “officially” breaking it off in 2010. I say “officially” because I, for one, believe that Chelsy will always be the Camilla to Harry’s Charles; that is, they can’t quit each other. 

Chelsy and Charlie. I like the alliteration if nothing else.

Anyway, word on the street is that Chelsy’s jeweler boyfriend, Charles Goode proposed last week while the two were on holiday in Africa. To my knowledge, no official announcement has been made yet, but “sources close to the couple” say it could come any minute. Stay tuned.

Someone who I’m sure is quite relieved by the news that Chelsy may soon be officially off the market, is Harry’s latest (rumored) girlfriend, Camilla Thurlow, who he apparently treated to a St. Tropez holiday last week. The fact that Harry took Camilla on this romantic jaunt is causing people to hail her as “The One.” There was a time when hearing that Harry had found “The One” used to be enough to send me into a full-on panic, but I’m much more mature now; besides, how many “The Ones” has Harry reportedly found over the years? So I’m taking a wait and see approach. Sure, rumors continue to swirl that Harry is ready to settle down and the fact that he turns 30 in a couple of weeks has only heightened the frenzy. 

Are you as shocked as I am that he's strayed from his blonde ambitions?

But surely a “serious” Harry would be looking for more in a wife than a 20-something former beauty queen with nice teeth, right? On the other hand, if the Deficient Duchess could con a prince into thinking she was royal material, I guess anyone can.

And just like that, I think I’m starting to feel the beginnings of a panic attack… 

Anything Worth Having

So, Brad Pitt was spotted wearing a wedding ring. This is, allegedly, because he finally decided to make an honest woman out of his philanderer in crime, Angelina Jolie. I don’t know. Is this news? I mean, it must be because I’m writing about it, but really? They’ve been together since 2005 – and engaged since 2012. They have six kids. They’re practically the same person. With the possible exception of the eyes of the law – and God – weren’t they basically seen as already married? I mean, aside from that whole “living in sin” thing, they were pretty much the picture of wedded bliss.

But, apparently they wanted more, so last Saturday, at their estate in the south of France, the duo made it official. 1/3 of their children (Zahara and Vivienne) acted as flower girls; 1/3 of their children (Shiloh and Knox) acted as ring bearers; and 1/3 of their children (Maddox and Pax) walked their mom down the aisle. It was a family “affair” to be sure. (Get it? Because the whole event was the direct result of a torrid love affair.) 

The wedding party

Anyway, congrats to the newly legal Jolie-Pitts. I, for one, appreciate that they didn’t rush into anything (besides baby making). They took their time. Test drove the merchandise. Decided if three failed marriages between them was enough or if they wanted to go for lucky number four. Decided if “Mr.” and “Mrs.” were titles they felt comfortable wearing again – or if they preferred to stick with the time-honored “adulterer” and “mistress.” These are all things that take some serious marination.

I also appreciate that they didn’t turn the event into a media circus (unlike others who shall not be named). These are two of the most famous people in the world and, yet, their nuptials were a complete surprise (unlike others who shall not be named). You know what this says to me? Brad and Angelina are A-listers who are actually famous. For doing stuff. They’re not infamous C-listers who are famous simply for being famous (and sex tapes) and, therefore, don’t appear sad and desperate. They look way classy by comparison. And the fact that nearly everyone looks classy next to Kimpee and her word-vomiting husband, shouldn’t detract from this victory at all.

So, once again, we at ATG would like to wish Brangelina and crew many congratulations. I truly hope that they’re taking some time to just enjoy the moment, as I'm sure it won't be long before those divorce rumors start circulating.

In fact, I give it about a week.