The Issue of Sleepover Attire

 If you have ever organized a night dedicated to girlish giggles and (not-so) scandalous secrets, otherwise known as a sleepover, the pajamas you throw on every night are no longer a matter of comfort. As much as we would like our friends to believe that we wake up with bouncing curls in our hair, perfected eyebrows, and shimmering eyelids, that illusion is about to shatter to pieces when you emerge from the bathroom in a three year old summer camp t-shirt, and a pair of sweats that are appearing more like shrunken bell bottoms everyday. So what realistic options do you have? Are you doomed to a broken social life after a single sleepover? No, no, no. Don’t think like that. Consider your choices.

1. Silk, baby-blue lingerie with fuzzy faux-fur slippers.
Oh, you vixen, you! There are two perks to this choice. One, you’re a real-life dream come true to all the men who still believe that sleepovers consist of pillow fights in nighties, rather than three sobbing girls reciting the lines of the Notebook together. Two, you may be able to convince your friends that the reason you’re nonchalantly wearing lingerie to a sleepover is quite simply because of the endless number of occasions in your life that call for such attire. I mean, look outside, your suitors are lined up around the block.

2. A classic, cow-print onesie.

Any other print will do, really. The beauty of onesies is that they don’t sacrifice comfort at all. In fact, they kind of define comfort. You’re covered head to toe in a blanket and can technically call it a pair of pajamas. Praise the onesie!

 I should warn you though. Onesies do not bode well in the heat. What, it’s still hilarious? No. Resist. Nothing is more painful than facing the sweaty reality that the stench intruding the room is thanks to your piggy onesie. Irony at its finest.

3. Matching sets!

Ah, the matching pajama sets. It’s what your mother forced you to wear until you got your first concert t-shirt, and subsequently rebelled against her fascist wardrobe demands to sleep in the much preferred Avril Lavigne shirt instead. I just hope you didn’t make the mistake of wearing a tie over your t-shirt too (Avril-swag failed miserably for me).

Despite the bad rep matching sets had when you were younger, let’s get over our angst and admit it – that shit was comfortable. It’s usually some ridiculously soft material, while covered in a rather cheerful or humorous print. My personal favourite is covered in cupcakes and as nauseating as I may look to the average sleepover attendee, nothing can penetrate my bubble of happiness.

4. Your birthday suit!

If all else fails, you can go nude. Minimalist, understated, elegant. Also you will really freak out your guests and might get your spot on the couch back.

*m

Our Love Affair With Google

I can safely say that 67 per cent of people have Googled themselves. I can also safely say that 83 per cent of statistics are made up. Tough to believe what we find on the Internet, isn’t it?

Either way, Googling our own names remains an inevitable Internet journey we all travel through at one point or another. And even though it seems to be a fad most of us went through when our Neopets were still our big responsibility, the allure of discovering who you are in the eyes of the collective world hasn’t disappeared. Once we grow a little bit older, when angst is our beloved middle name and voice cracks appear in the most socially convenient of times, our lives become even more centred around the Internet. You know, when we’re finding ourselves. We spend our days looking deep inside our souls and pulling out the unexplored wisdom that accompanies maniacally trolling our newly formed YouTube account.

Googling your own name is almost akin to finding someone else’s diary. It’s you, but from an objective view of the world. You see yourself as simply a name, a profile, and it suddenly clicks how small you are. There is a certain intrigue as to who you will find. Suddenly, you’re no longer John Smith, but John Smith, track team member in Grade 6 and the proud owner of the most thumbed up comment on Rihanna’s “Love the Way You Lie” music video.

Does this imply we are a vain society? All eager to snatch a little pocket of fame, even if that entails a Blogger profile abandoned years ago? No; it’s human curiosity. We want to see ourselves as others do. It’s smart. We want to see ourselves as our potential employers will. It’s hilarious. We want to see how many alleged criminals share our names on the FBI wanted list. It’s natural.

Yet it’s also natural for people other than your procrastinating ego to type your name into the mother of all information known as Google. It’s this very fact we have to be cautious of, and is precisely the reason I just signed up for a Google Alert with my name on it. Every time my name is searched, I will be notified. And that’s either a whole new level of vanity or absurd paranoia, but I suggest you do the same, fellow cyberspace civilians.

Despite the creepers lurking behind the screens around the world (and apparently anyone who has looked through someone else’s photos on Facebook qualifies for the endearing term “creeper”), the Internet is a place of endless discovery, perhaps even nostalgia. A few months ago, I stumbled across my old Neopets account, which reminded/guilt-tripped me about the fact that I had left this virtual little pet without food for 3627 days. No wonder eight-year-old me was so addicted, seeing this creature’s eyes tearing up, begging me to come back and play. This was a game of serious responsibility!

A friend of mine entered his name into Google only to find a website which looked to be dedicated to him, as if he came across a personal shrine created by his oh-so-devout fans commending his piano expertise. It was entitled The Piano Sensation, but not targeted towards my buddy over here. Just another guy who made a website for himself praising his piano skills (if that’s not sad, I don’t know what is).

I, for one, share my name with what seems to be hundreds of middle-aged women in Ohio. A fascinating lurk, I know. Others have such unique names that they are really the only ones who come up – the one and only in a vast world of Internet fame.

It remains a source of intrigue for everyone. Some are left feeling sufficiently creeped out after finding their name inserted into a foreign blog entry, others feel a little ashamed that they only appear once for participating in their school’s annual bake sale, and most feel a little bit smaller than before.

The power of Google has literally overtaken the world. We may think of the internet as being an invincible creature, holding our secrets as its own, laughing with us while we watch the panda sneezing for the thirtieth time, patting our back while we read a surprisingly tear-jerking chain email (grandparents always have a knack for those). But in reality (please stop reading if you’re morbidly afraid of the Internet already) it’s as if Google is glaring at us at all times. Really? It rolls its eyes. You’re checking how to spell “definitely” for the third time today? Do you honestly think the baby with the bellowing laugh is this funny?

I’ve essentially come to view the Internet as a cynical, bitter creature before me, who probably views me as a sporadic, ADD-prone maniac. But hey, at the end of the day, we are their masters. The Internet is our very own tool for success. It doesn’t have a brain.

…at least for now.

*m

iPhone Five Set to Take Over World

Typical apple fanboy, pshaw.

Dear iPhone 5 Hype,

            I’m speaking on behalf of all of those who don’t live under a rock and are held subject to the absurdly frantic hype over what is called the iPhone 5. Apple fanboys have been lighting up cyberspace with mock trailers for months, spurring intensified critique of the current iPhone 4S, and spending 98.7% of their time dreaming around their new life which will be so radically changed with this new phone.

See, the new design has been deemed “revolutionary”, a complete “breakthrough”, and “lighter and skinnier than ever before”. But am I the only one feeling a nagging sense of déjà vu? Despite its attitude of literally taking over the world with its brilliance in the sleek confines of the skeleton of this phone, haven’t they called every redesign thus far revolutionary? Each one poised to simply blow your mind? Sorry to inform you, Apple, but I can confidently say I have never been blown away by a phone. I have not awoken to a newspaper article with the newest design of the iPhone and consequently fallen off my chair in sheer shock as to what they’ve done. And to anyone who has, you may want to go take a bike ride and realize what just happened to you (I’m sorry, you can only go up from there).

Why am I so stone-hearted, you ask? How are my nerves made of such steel in the face of such a ground-breaking design? Well, fellow consumers, it stems from the irrepressible irritation of the incessantly repeated updates to an identical phone each time! In a sense, it seems as though the inner snob in all of us is exposed when we can feel the newest iPhone in our pockets, as if it was the ring from Lord of the Rings, power pulsing through you, seeking envy in the eyes of those you speak to. Conversations ensue, and it becomes a challenge to drop the fact that you have the “game-changing” phone by your side, acting as though the phone from three generations ago is almost the same thing as an infamous Nokia brick. The iPhone 4S will now be met with an “Oh, cool”, escaping from their subtly condescending lips, as if you just told them you prefer mailing letters in a horse drawn carriage. In actual fact, that would be far cooler than any phone on the market. Who wants to bring back carriages? Nokia, this is your chance to shine!

Now I hate to sound so brash. Admittedly, I have tapped into some of the beauty of Apple on my own. I’m the proud owner of an iPhone, a MacBook, and some family member down the line has an iPad, I’m sure. I know others who have virtually every product released by them, and others who stick to simply one. Regardless, it is undeniable that Apple has made a permanent mark on the consumer world, and it has come out of repeated innovations that have literally changed the dynamic of technological products. No longer are these advancements confined to the awe of the nerdier elite of society, but it has stretched over the world to an unfathomable degree. It is something to be feared, though, when people will sacrifice all logic for an obsessive frenzy over the release of a product that really doesn’t seem to be that innovative on its own anyhow. How much is marketing and how much is true innovation? How desperate are we to be a part of this advancing technological world that we will buy the newest products every time, not questioning their value but simply praising their name?

            I know we love to pick on our old fogeys of parents, pointing out the flaw in their story of the trek to school being two hills up, chuckling at their confused faces as they attempt to send emails, feeling all high and mighty when they ask you how to save a document, but what were they waiting in line for, camping out for in the prime of their earlier years? Legendary rock festivals, like Woodstock, which gathered 400,000 people, or tickets to Jimi Hendrix or Led Zeppelin. The phenomenon of being the die-hards for a certain niche of the entertainment world came from genuinely sick things you could go to. Not for some game that you’ll hide in your basement and play, or for a phone that you paid someone to stand in line for (oh, the things that could go wrong there). And it’s not like after we get the iPhone, we rush home and do crazily innovative things with it, like solving world hunger with an app, checking out some x-rays as though we were McDreamy from Grey’s Anatomy, being Picasso for an afternoon whilst using your finger to draw a stick man – let’s be real. We instagram, we tweet, we facebook, we game alone on the bus.

            Essentially, phone companies of the world, you’re making us less cool than our parents, with their hipster records and vintage photos of their afros gleaming in the sun. And as impossible as that sounds, it’s becoming a tragic reality. Stop the hype. Let us be cool again.

Sincerely,

@FedUpWithPhoneHype #whenwillitend #hashtag

Self-Help Books: I Ain't Buyin' It

The very name “self-help” can construe two meanings. One? Empowerment. A vision of you, donning a cape billowing in the glorious winds, triumphantly standing upon a mountain beaming out at this world you’ve so thoroughly conquered. Or two - a rather sorry sight of you cowering underneath a table of books, each one screaming out, “No, I can help you!” “No, me!” “Pick me, I was on Oprah!” Now quite frankly, the second may be a little more accurate, even if you don’t necessarily hide underneath the table because if so, yes, you really do need help. Now some people swear by them, others scoff at the idea alone. So where do you stand? Do self-help books really work? Do they really have the miraculous power to change your life in just a few hours of reading?

As a whole, self-help books are an empire that have sold millions, if not billions, to those who are struggling with insecurities, and it is this very quality that the authors are able to capitalize on. Any person who has wandered into the self-help aisle will inevitably be feeling a little lost, a little insecure, and what better customer should be in this aisle anyway? The more lost and insecure they are, the easier it can be for other problems that they hadn’t even considered to suddenly become a life or death situation that they need immediate help on. Now there isn’t simply one book to dutifully rest on your bedside table, but a pile of five others! All with different problems that you never even realized you had! Silly you!

Self-help books don’t necessarily ensure ultimate privacy either, which they are so often hailed for. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want “Am I Secretly Bipolar?” or “I Don’t Want to Admit I’m a Cat Lady” or “I’m A Narcissist, Love Me for Who I Am!” casually lounging on my coffee table for any stray eyes of the house guests perusing through my house. Suddenly the casual gathering has turned into the, “Watch out, don’t comment on the burnt peas, she’s bipolar, and could FLIP OUT!” event.

And it seems obvious, but anyone who is stressed out enough to pick up a book on self-therapy isn’t the type of person who should be prescribing themselves with disorders anyway. Somehow I doubt brain surgeons and jet setting entrepreneurs are picking up self-help books on their days off. It’s more as if they have walked half way down the path to legitimate help, and stopped to pick up the brochure by the wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man instead, who just looked so damn convincing in his abilities. Cue the author nonchalantly leaning against a wall, perhaps a beret atop his balding head, and that smile that just announces to the world, “Me? Having it all together? Oh you.”

Now even though I have often said that Google knows more about me than anyone else, and I’m sure this sad realization can resonate with anyone who has discovered the sheer capability of Google to answer literally any question that pops into your head, typing a confession into this robotic search engine certainly isn’t the same as allowing your insecurity to escape the confines of your own mind and into the hands of another who can help instead. When it comes down to it, Google doesn’t have a heartbeat, and nor does a book. If you’ve spent hours crying into its pages, I’m sorry to tell you, it simply doesn’t care. Cruel when I put it that way, eh? But a phone call, email, quick note, or a private conversation between you and a therapist or trusted friend will release insurmountable amounts of satisfaction that the words on a page don’t necessarily ensure. Essentially, one must embrace vulnerability and accept that what makes you truly stronger is acting on what’s eating you inside, and allowing another in to help you.

*m