Prince William and The London Garbage Cans

Prince William curled up beside piles of garbage in a frigid London alley to walk a block or two in the shoes of the homeless, according to The Daily Mail (byway of The Daily Beast).

Publications are making immediate mention of the security entourage that accompanied the prince on his transient adventure, almost turning their noses up as if this doesn't count as an act of charity. A great many people with roofs over their heads in this world, no matter how low profile, would never sleep betwixt two wheelie bins among the rats and roaches, even if Zahal was to form a human barricade.

Since matriarchal societies have expired as any form of significant power and now serve to humor culture and tourism, it's great that Prince William is not only paying attention on a global scale (since it's part of his royal profile), but to his own community.

Readers are commenting that this is a mere PR stunt and that he will return to his posh lifestyle, which apparently squashes this act of kindness, like paper covers rock. Put simply, he is expected to abandon his nightly gold leaf Belgian chocolate desserts and live life beneath a high rise's trash chute to wallow in crumpled bags of Walkers crisps and a barrage of used feminine napkins. We should write him a strongly-worded letter (and be sure to include our day time phone numbers), which will go something like this:

Prince William,

How dare you attend your grandmother's (sometimes known as The Queen of England) Christmas lunch, a fine feast of fish and chips and toad-in-the-hole, after sleeping on concrete in below freezing conditions! The nerve of you to revert back to the life you've always known after generously serving meals to the homeless at a dodgy hostel. And to celebrate Centrepoint's 40th anniversary of giving London's young homeless a future? We are outraged. As a prince, and an example to our children, we urge you to continue to live life in poverty since all we can afford is plenty of food on our tables and an occasional trip to the theatre.

Thank You,

The Guileless Bourgeoisie

Now we can all feel better about ourselves.

Happy Holidays!

It's Been a While, Mrs. Doubtfire

We've reached a time when it's safe to acknowledge that movies made in the 1990s have a specific look, which dates those of us who are reluctantly crossing over into the realm of the grown-ups.

Society dictates that we reach adulthood at 18, but let's not confuse adults with grown-ups since they're entirely different. Adults can drink, vote and "make decisions" but grown-ups pay for your food, have the right answers, and drive safely.

It's obvious that the new freshman class of the grown-ups has arrived since life-changing films such as "Mrs. Doubtfire" possess tell-tale 1990s qualities. These include relatively soft images, zany antics and most importantly, montages. If we compare "Mrs. Doubtfire" to "Meet the Browns", for example, the differences are striking and even depressing.

"Mrs. Doubtfire's" winning cast includes Sally Field, Robin Williams, Pierce Brosnan and most notably, Matthew Lawrence (perhaps his most riveting performance to date). With an official tagline proclaiming that "She'll Rock your World", everyone was shaking in their Reeboks anticipating Robin Williams in a role reminiscent of Tootsie with a hip twist of Aerosmith.

Many agree that the concept of a loser father who dresses in drag to spend time with his children while selfishly lying to everyone around him is quite controversial and at the very least, impolite. But throw in Sally's sweetness with Robin's spot-on comedic timing and it's PG through and through.

The point here is that without "Mrs. Doubtfire", I probably could have played outside a few times or followed through with gymnastics. I must have watched that VHS 7,468 times while drinking a box of Yoohoo. The risk this dad took to spend time with his kids was inspiring and joyous. His determination to learn how to cook, and all the kookiness that ensues when he puts it to the test warmed my thriving 9-year-old heart.

Let us not forget that the main source of our adoration for Mrs. Doubtfire is that she is actually a man. This is funny. This is hilarious. We laugh heartily because men are supposed to act one way, and women another.

I am proud to say that "Mrs. Doubtfire" is one of the greatest films of all time (maybe ever). Although it's hard to come to terms with becoming a grown-up, a movie like "Mrs. Doubtfire" kindly affords us fond memories of our childhoods in the 1990s.

"Milk Money" to follow.

toothbrushes are not for sharing.

Last night while brushing my teeth I noticed mid-scrub that it wasn't my toothbrush. Pausing for several seconds, I evaluated the situation taking into account that this toothbrush is a guest toothbrush. Does this count as a normal toothbrush since it's used tri-yearly? Surely the plaque and germs have dissolved since its last use, which makes this situation much less offensive and disgusting than if it were my roommate's toothbrush. On the other hand, it's lived in my bathroom for about a year with ample time to soak up the goings on of an abode shared by three people (four of five if you count significant others and a gay man).

In the end I continued with my nightly brushing and woke up the next morning as if I'd used my own toothbrush. I even had nice dreams.

It got me thinking that there are two types of people in the world. Those who find sharing toothbrushes grotesque, and those who will offer their toothbrush to a friend's cousin's gardener's best friend's babysitter.

The thing about brushing teeth is that we do it to clean our mouths from all the roughage and animal bi-products we put in there each day. There are remnants of In N' Out and those Cheetos you secretly ate on the way home from the gym. Residue of morning coffee and lunchtime Diet Cokes. Boogers if you're 5, and sardine bones if you're 95.

All in all, the mouth is a horrifying place. It is purgatory for foodstuffs that will not make it to digestion for a few hours or at all. They lie lodged between the teeth only to rot and create plaque and tartar. After some time, their sorrow becomes rage and they begin boring holes in the enamel that is holding them hostage. At this point it can be confirmed that that chunk of broccoli did not successfully make it to digestion, bless its poor soul.

The toothbrush is our main defense against situations like these, similar to observing ecclesiastical religions or having money. We take them for granted, but they are the brave ones entering those muggy caves of treachery, fearlessly doing away with any potential hole-boring slivers of eggplant.

That said, the people who share toothbrushes don't take the time to think of all their toothbrush has done for them. It went in shiny, white, and firm-bristled to come out a little duller and slightly yellower with bristles straying in every direction more and more each time. And we all know why, which begs the question, why do people share toothbrushes (purposely, willingly, gladly)?

Anything you've placed in your mouth within the last 12 hours or so will then be transferred to the other person's mouth, who will then transfer their skittles and english muffin remnants to your mouth in a terrifying and nauseating cycle. This is the result of toothbrush sharing. Stop it.

Stop sharing toothbrushes. It's (generally) not ok. There are several instances when it is ok (ugh) but another tangent will be born and I'll become even angrier about something that has no baring on my life, since I personally don't share toothbrushes. I just use them by mistake sometimes.

Dogs Teaching Children to Read

Most of us agree that dogs are the best people in the world. But just when you think these little friends couldn't be more amazing, they can now help children learn to read!

According to today's story on CNN.com/living, therapy dogs are now visiting schools and libraries to help children read. It may not be all that shocking since anything can happen these days, but when you sit down and really think about it, dogs can't even read themselves. How can they teach humans?

Well, CNN seems to know. According to them "The philosophy is simple. Children who are just learning to read often feel judged or intimidated by classmates and adults. But reading to a dog isn't so scary. "

When did reading to humans become scary?

I'm not discounting that rotten feeling deep down in the pit of your stomach when you're 6-years old trying to sound out a sentence from If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. You're the center of attention in a room full of 20 other children, jaws clenched, hoping and praying that they're not chosen next. But even so, these little monsters are listening carefully to each and every syllable. Timing you, taking mental notes of anything and everything for an excuse to hate you for the day. When it's time for handball, you can be sure that Timmy will pull out all the shots (even slicies).

I'm pretty sure children need petrifying situations like these. Not only for literacy, but social development. Education is a combination of academic and social skills that may be learned by letting them scrape their knees and their gentle little children souls every now and then.

In no way am I blaming dogs for our less than stellar educational ranking in the world (18th, I believe). Dogs exist to benefit humans by making them happy, telling them when to cross the street and sniffing out cocaine in airports. They may quite possibly be the core of my own personal happiness. Every time I see one, especially when I'm alone, a noise resounds from the depths of my soul that only a dog can summon. This is an example of scary.

Learning to read is not scary. Being kidnapped is scary. Not knowing what you're going to eat the next day is scary. Being violently raped by rogue soldiers because you believe in democracy is scary. Earthquakes. The inability to receive health care. Big waves that pull you under when you're boogie boarding and you're not sure you'll come up for air in time. Car accidents.

Let's not confuse future generations about what is and what isn't scary. It only thickens this American bubble that I admittedly live in with everyone else I know. I'm upset that my pay has been cut and I can't take shopping trips with the gals every weekend. For this, I deserve to be smacked with a Forever 21 shoe made by someone's pre-pubescent daughter in Indonesia.

Hows that for spinning out of control?

In the end, of course dogs helping children learn to read is an all-around positive development. Let's just try not to raise a nation of scaredy cats.

Disclaimer: This blog is 100% biased and a result of my fingers regurgitating the doo-dah parade marching around in my brain. Nothing in the above should be taken as fact. The CNN story can be found here: http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/10/22/dogs.irpt/index.html

Thanks Starbucks

...That's so kind of you to say

My Name is Rebecca and I am a Nail Biter

I started biting my nails again. After my 25th birthday I quit, but now five months later I'm back to gnawing on these poor little strips of protein because it feels absolutely wonderful. I pick a finger, grab hold of a brittle corner with my teeth and rip off as big a strip as possible. If any white is showing, any white at all, it must be annihilated. Then I look at that undeservedly ravaged finger and fantasize about being a dainty lady with long, strong nail beds and soft in-tact cuticles. I dream about having graceful hands with thin fingers and precisely manicured nails of the "square-round" shape that many sassy gals are sporting these days. If I had beautiful hands like them, I could do anything. It's my hands that are keeping me from following my dreams. My hands. My "Carry Bradshaw" hands. Maybe since we are hand twins I should move to New York and write about men while wearing fun outfits.

My hands have been compared to pickles and old woman hands. Also lizards.

And the thing is, I love rings! I definitely wear them anyway since they're the only type of jewelery I manage not to lose. I can always count on losing one earring and breaking any necklace that comes within two feet of me. But rings hold a special place in my memory and subconscious and they have a specific spot in my jewelery box (next to all the widowed earrings that I'm hopelessly saving should their other halves arise from the dead).

Acrylics are always a temporary solution to this problem, but they torture my natural nails, and it really hurts their feelings that I won't even try to give them a chance and just cover them up with super glue and chemicals. What kind of person just covers up a problem instead of dealing with it? Me. Because I'm such a horrible person, these acrylics have completely ruined my thumb nails, just adding to the unsightly appearance of these hands of mine.

It's as if there are 10 people in my life that I'd like to torture and kill, and my fingers are the voodoo dolls. My thumbs are under no circumstances permitted to have cuticles. They don't deserve them, and when I catch those sneaky thumbs with cuticles, they are gone in seconds flat (and definitely not with care). Who do these thumbs think they are, with their opposable qualities, helping develop my fine motor skills? These arrogant bastards have a bad case of short man syndrome and need to be put in their place, which is why I abuse them the most.

The other eight voodoo dolls don't endure as much abuse, and the pinkies tend to grow the fastest. They're the littlest, though, so I let them get away with it.

Another part of this whole addiction rigmarole, which has left me just absolutely flabbergasted, is that I quit smoking without a hitch. This must support my theory that my fingers represent people in my life that I hate, because you just suck on a cigarette and I certainly wouldn't want to suck on anyone I hate. I guess I just need to figure out who these 10 people are that I hate so deeply and inflict significant pain on them (physical and/or emotional). Then I will be sassy and dainty with enchanting and delicate hands, which will then directly lead to my success.

Birds in the Lights

The greatest joy of driving is noticing birds in traffic lights. While stopped at a red, if you're lucky enough, you'll see the silhouette of a chubby little bird nestled cozily against the lens. Taking notice of such an image in the morning oftentimes ensures a wonderful day ahead.

Good for those birds. Very resourceful. All the trees, telephone lines and 76 balls in the world are at their fingertips, but some birds choose traffic lights. These are the birds who want a little more from life. They want, no, they deserve, private apartments with the warmth of a bulb twice the size of their feathered little bodies. With three possible colors to choose from and a city view that can't be beat, these birds know what they want and make sure they get it.

There are three possible ways of seeing a bird in a traffic light. They can be seen in the red, yellow or green light, but not all at once. Never assume that the bulb illuminated at the time is the only one occupied, as these are multi-level dwellings and during times like these there probably aren't many vacancies. Absolutely no vacancies on rainy days.

Much is told about a bird's personality by which light they choose. It's easiest to notice a bird in the red light since this is when we stop and stare in hopes of it turning just a little bit quicker. Idling for more than a moment is a complete waste of time.

The red light bird has the penthouse suite, which forces all the world to stop for an average of 30 seconds. They ridicule our disdain for these frequent driving interruptions and enjoy the window of time to carefully choose their next defecation target. It can be safely assumed that these birds live flashy lifestyles and may not appreciate all else life has to offer, as say, the yellow light bird.

The yellow light bird is humble, unlike the red light bird, but still strives for the better things in life. This type of bird can be compared with middle class America, maybe living a little beyond their means, but enjoying it all the while. Who lives debt-free these days anyway? (Besides that family of 28 kids with bowl cuts)

The yellow light flashes for the shortest period of time, and from this we can see that these birds relish their privacy. They also get a kick out of witnessing the quick decision making process that goes with choosing whether or not to proceed through a yellow light. They scoff at the sweat upon the young boy's brow as he asks himself "am I gonna make it?". Lastly, they must have sick minds since they are likely to bare witness to accidents resulting in red light runs. Those are the ugliest.

Green light bird. Honest green light bird wants to live in a traffic light, but isn't finicky about the details. Green light bird doesn't mind that no one notices her as traffic rushes by. She's not picky about her defecation targets and doesn't take pleasure in the fact that humans are controlled each day by color-coated lights. Green light bird wants a warm, dry and charming place to live, but her priorities lie in other aspects of birdism. She appreciates the soothing effects of the color green and supports PETA and the Make-a-Wish Foundation.

It's the little things.