Meatballs, Puking, and Lady Gaga, Oh My!: “My Big Friggin’ Wedding”

We at Snarkaholism apologize for the lack of updates. It’s been a little busy in our corner of the world, what with OMGallthesnow, birthdays, school starting, coffee runs, and figuring out our new Zodiac signs the normal business of everyday life. In addition, Samm and I have been brainstorming like mad concerning what shows/topics we want to snark on in this coming year. The problem is, we have too many. We can’t write ‘em as fast as we discover ‘em. We still don’t know if this is good or bad.

Anyway, for this week, I decided to crank the snark volume up to a respectable level by watching My Big Friggin’ Wedding. Sounds friggin’ awesome, don’t it? Not really. In the past year, I have realized two things: In America, we have two unhealthy obsessions. One is with weddings (and that’s all I’m gonna say about that . . . count up the number of wedding-themed reality shows if you don’t believe me). The other is New Jersey and people from New Jersey, to be more precise.

Now, I’ve never had the, um, privilege of visiting New Jersey. Technically. I’ve been to New York City, seen the signs for New Jersey. I’ve flown over it. I’ve seen maps of it. I think I studied it back in elementary school (fifth grade is hard to remember, especially since I was probably too busy coloring to think about geography). I can’t say if it’s a nice place or not, but I do know their hockey team is doing horrible this season. I just know that every single show nowadays features people from New Jersey and they honestly look like they’re stuck in a time-warp. A 1987 time warp, to be exact. They’re tanned until they’re the color of bacon. They wear gold chains. And, God forbid, the amount of hair gel they literally ladle onto their heads makes the BP Oil Spill look like a drop of vegetable oil in a frying pan.

Why am I blathering on about all this? My Big Friggin’ Wedding takes place in New Jersey. It’s from the little masterminds who created Jersey Shore. It is Bridezilla meets Jersey Shore, without Snooki. And, yes, it keeps feeding the mouth of the stereotypes of people who live in New Jersey. Fist pump.

My Big Friggin’ Wedding focuses on five couples from Jersey who are, obviously, in the midst of planning their wedding. This particular episode centered around Alyssa as she was preparing for her bachelorette party. And what do bachelorette parties need? A stripper, of course!! A hot stripper!! So, Alyssa and her girls call in guys left over from past Jersey Shore auditions who, I guess, are strippers or stripper wanna-bes (their exact occupations were never given) and “audition” them to see which one is the best. After watching these guys rip off their wife-breaters, rub their gelly hair on the girls, and, in general, act like dogs trying to hump a fire hydrant, one is chosen. I can’t tell which one, though, because I can’t tell them apart.

The night of Alyssa’s bachelorette party arrives and about 25 girls load themselves up in the so-called “Party Bus” and head out to meet The Situation hit the bars, drink, and have a good time. Along for the ride is Alyssa’s mom, Marilyn, who keeps sucking down Red Bulls and vodka like it’s her last night on Earth. The girls get tossed from the first club after a “f*cking b*tch” (Alyssa’s words, not mine) throws a drink on Alyssa, soaking her golden curls (there are blond girls in Jersey?) with gin and wilting them. I find this sort of communication rather effective and Jersey-ish. I mean, after all, nothing says love like throwing a drink on someone (Do you know how many times this happens on Jersey Shore? Let’s put it this way: If I watch that show for two minutes, someone throws a drink. No. Joke. Note to self: Must teach my students about how drink-throwing is a form of communication.). So the girls pile back on the “Party Bus” and the stripper arrives, dressed like a construction worker (Jersey style). Everyone basically gets naked and jumps around, then Marilyn runs off the bus, down an alley, pukes out about 40 gallons of Red Bull and vodka, and passes out.

Typing that last sentence was exhausting. The girls call for an ambulance, scared shitless that Marilyn is going to die and Alyssa is faced with a life-altering choice: Should she continue her bachelorette party, or, y’know, accompany her mother to the hospital? It’s a struggle for Alyssa as she talks to her fiancé, Tyler, on the phone. Through her tears and gin-saturated hair, all we can hear is, “Eeeee don go whaasst do, should I ghhhhooo too me f*cking bach . . . garble, garble . . . gewwww wifff me f*ckin' mudder . . . . garble garble.”

Riveting stuff.

Meanwhile, all the girls on the bus start arguing about who has helped Alyssa’s mom, who’s been there for Alyssa, and who has been a better friend. A bus packed full of Jersey girls screaming (while the stripper looks on in horror) . . . the only way I can describe it is this: Put together about 20 female cats in heat, then multiply their caterwauling by 500. That’s exactly what that scene sounded like (so much so I had to turn down the volume on my TV). That part ends with one of Alyssa’s girls, upset the camera crew is filming all of this, saying she wants them to stop filming, that it’s disgusting they’re filming this “sensitive moment.” She (I never did catch this girl’s name – probably because she was so drunk she can’t even stand, let alone form coherent sentences) says she’ll get the crew to stop filming by stripping!! Wow, sweetie, you are such an Einstein!! So she starts taking off her dress. Big deal, honey – the film crew just pixilated out your implants.

Concerning the other four couples, we get glimpses into how their wedding planning is going. Megin and Johnny Meatball are on the breaks and may not make it the four weeks before their wedding. Johnny is in the process of waiting for his meatball business to take off and, much to Megin’s horror, has shaved off all of his facial hair except for a mustache – with the hair gel, he looks like a porn version of Luigi from Super Mario Brothers.

And, yes, he wants to go by Johnny Meatball, which confused me for a moment with last week’s Toronto Maple Leafs vs. Atlanta Thrashers hockey game – but Ben Eager called Colby Armstrong a “Meat HEAD,” not a “Meat BALL,” so my confusion was quickly cleared up. There’s a difference.

Tammie and Danny are boring. He wants a pre-nup, she doesn’t. He buys her a five-carat rock for her ring finger. They argue about the pre-nup and how that big of a rock makes her look trashy. There’s also mention of someone stealing Danny’s snowblower and taking it to Georgia. YAWN. Tammie eventually signs the pre-nup – oh, wait!! She PRINTS her name instead. Meaning, it doesn’t count. It’s not a signature. Tammie gloats for the rest of the episode about how smart she is, a real Einstein.

Matt and Amanda are pretty interesting, though. Matt is in the process of hiring a Lady Gaga impersonator who will just pop out during their wedding, while Amanda is busting her lifted butt on the wedding itself to insure it will be a classy affair. (Does Lady Gaga = classy? WTF.) Matt also hands over several ten thousand dollar checks throughout the course of this episode – one to the reception hall, another to the jeweler, one to the caterer (How many people are invited to this wedding???). I’m almost sorry he’s getting married, because he’s rather attractive. Okay, not Derek Jeter jaw-dropping attractive, but not bad to look at – I think it’s due to lack of hair gel.

I’ve completely blanked on the fifth couple, Sandra and Joey – I don’t think they were around much in this episode due to a tanning marathon special at their local Malibu Tan.

Wow, sounds friggin’ exciting, doesn’t it? Parts of it were a friggin’ yawn-a-thon to be honest. Yes, a brain cell popped during those 49 minutes (I guess I didn’t need it anyway), but you can’t beat this memorable quote from Alyssa: “People always want to judge me. They see me out, I have this daughter who’s three-years-old, but the fact is I’m rockin’ Juicy Couture stroller, I have a Louis Vuitton bag, I drive a Benz, I have a big-ass house. We’re doin’ it grand, we’re gonna have the biggest f*ckin’ wedding you’ve ever seen, and you’re gonna be jealous.”

Keepin’ it friggin’ real, yo.

The Ball is a Bust

We here at Snarkaholism are saddened to report the Snooki Ball Drop will not occur in Times Square this New Year’s Eve.

You’re probably sitting there, either in the gym or your tanning bed, crying your eyes out. Sad, isn’t it?

For those of you not hip to the Jersey Shore scene, MTV was planning to load Snooki up into a glass ball and launch her into space and, uh, drop her in Times Square during the NYE countdown. But the city of New York squashed those plans (those haters!) and claimed the only ball dropping in Times Square was the official one (whatever that means).

But don’t start canceling your tanning appointments just yet! Apparently Snooki is taking her bump, boobs, and ball to Seaside Heights, New Jersey, which is where the The Snooki Ball will be now dropped at the stroke of midnight. So if you’re in the New York area, run over those unplowed, snow-packed streets to the shore of Jersey to see Snooki and all of her little friends (with the exception of The Situation, who will be too busy admiring his abs to participate).

I can still hear my mom yelling, “Who in the hell names their kid The Situation??? Is this a joke??”

If you can’t make to The Snooki Ball drop in Jersey, don’t despair. Rumor has it that in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, people are going to attempt a Guinness World Record by having the most folks fist pump . . . or, bump . . . errr, whatever, at once.

*Hey, at Snarkaholism we want to wish you all a safe New Year's and a happy 2011. We look forward to even MORE snark in 2011!!!*

“Your Wedding Will Still Go On, But Will Not Be Perfect Without that Nose Job:” Bridalplasty

I’ve never been one to get suckered into reality television programming. Seriously. I’m a sports gal. My TV either features a NASCAR race, a hockey game, or the Yankees slaughtering some poor, defenseless team. I watch ESPN. As a mother of an energetic nine-year-old, I spend hot summer days running around after my son and smacking baseballs into the neighbor’s yard four houses down (haven’t hit a window yet in my soon-to-be-33 years). Occasionally, I throw in a movie when there’s nothing to watch. Other times, I bury my nose in a book and transport away to another world.

However, the reality television genre has been eating away at me. I have friends who live by it – they DVR it on nights when they work/are in class and discuss the people on the shows as if they are close relatives. Samm’s always yelling at me to join him in an America’s Next Top Model marathon. Reality television shows are everywhere – in the news (Did you know that Snookie got punched at a bar the other night??? OMG!!), on DVD, being analyzed in graduate-level communication courses. And, admittedly, I’ve come to the point where I watch a few of them. Not on a regular basis, though.

. . .

Okay, fine – there was that time in 2008 when I set my watch by Rock of Love so I could see, each week, when the Tour Ended for a Certain Chick With Fake Boobs. And Say Yes to the Dress took over after the Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup this June and, I must admit, has suckered me in to its world of frilly wedding dresses, fantasy, and dress-up. So much so, I even did a research project for my Persuasion class about how bridal-themed reality television shows perpetuate the notion of how women need to live up to this idealized version of beauty and have all the essential components of a wedding to enhance her femininity, while also making her wedding “perfect” at the same time. These shows are packed full of these types of persuasive messages!!

Yeah, most of my classmates were confused when I presented that befuddled mess.

But, anyway, in keeping with the bridal-theme reality television shows, I had to check out Bridalplasty. Just one little episode. Just to see what it was like. I mean, it dealt with weddings and brides and plastic surgery.

Just a little tidbit: The bulk of my research in graduate school is body image. You can see where I’m going with this.

The premise is simple: Brides-to-be are involved in this type of game show, where they have to compete against each other in challenges. And the winner of those challenges wins a prize. Easy-peasy. If she’s planning her wedding, then the prize has to be something towards said wedding, right? Maybe she wins free catering or a cake or dyed wedding shoes (Do people still do that anymore? That was SO popular when I was a kid back in the 80s!!! Yes? No. Oh. Fake plastic diamonds apparently meant to look like “bling” are now hot-glue-gunned to wedding shoes. Huh.). Anything to help with the budget, right?

NO!!! In keeping in line with America’s obsession with looks and the perfect body, the bride gets to choose from her “Plastic Surgery Wish List”!!! Meaning, she gets to choose any procedure that she wants to make herself move closer in her quest, and ultimate goal of looking like Barbie – er, perfection. The lists are impressive: Nose job, boob enlargement, liposuction, trout lips . . . ummmm, I mean, botox . . . you get the picture.

It makes my Life Wish List of a Master’s degree, a good-paying job, a healthy son, and a 2012 Dodge Challenger in Yankee Blue pale in comparison, y’know?

Anyway, here’s the kicker: The bride who wins the most competitions and has the most plastic surgeries gets to “unveil” her new, perfect look to her groom – TA DA! – the moment she meets him at the end of the aisle in front of invited family and friends. Nope, the groom isn’t there to hold his bride’s hand throughout the surgeries – the brides are sequested in this gigantic mansion in Beverly Hills the entire time. The groom (lucky guy) finally sees his “new, improved, perfect” bride right before he marries her. At the front of the church. In front of family and friends. Sounds PERFECT, doesn’t it?? Everyone SQUEEEE!!!!

I’ll be honest: I talk to my television. The first half-hour of this show, I yelled constantly. Mostly things on the order of, “You people are nuts!! You’re insane, you’re crazy!!!” However, at the same time, I realized I was crazy for actually watching this crap (but it’s for the greater good – I’m here to warn you about this show and provide analysis). This is a train wreck you can’t help but watch. Or stare at, until you realize your jaw has been on the floor for 45 minutes and you have red swirls where your eyes used to be located.

The pivotal point of this episode I viewed, though, was watching the winning bride get her chosen plastic surgery. Cheyenne, a perky blond, elects to have her nose done; after surgery where the doctors take a hammer and smash her old nose to bits (this caused my son to flee the room, gagging, while I held a pillow over my face – okay, I’m a tough chick, but that crap is just gross), the bride returns, nose wrapped in a bandage, face looking as if she got elbowed by Duncan Keith in a life-or-death hockey game, purple bruises marring her cute face, to the gasps and yells of the other brides, proclaiming her to look “BEEEEEEA-U-TIFUL!!!!!”

Well, damn, I’m glad it takes purple eyes, a nose wrapped in a bandage that resembles a white worm, and constantly leaking blood to make a female finally beautiful. Who would have thought?

One of the brides, who came close to winning the competition and having one of her plastic surgery dreams fulfilled, admitted that Cheyenne looked “beautiful,” but she wanted to be the one, the “special” one, who wanted to be in that special Recovery room, recovering from HER surgery.

Yes, the mansion is equipped with a special room marked “Recovery.” It has double doors and a big sign over said doors proclaiming it to be the “Recovery” room. Each bride who is lucky enough to get surgery is allowed the opportunity to recover in the special Recovery room.

That was the end of the episode – watching poor Cheyenne, with her hockey-game bloodied nose hobble into the illustrious Recovery room. The last shot was of Cheyenne, lying in the Recovery Room, her nose resembling a hot dog.

If I recover enough from this sickening show, I’ll watch it again. I mean, after all, isn’t it important to see which bride gets her butt lipo’ed off?

Heeeeeyyyyyyyyyy!

Well, so much for me being able to use the gay excuse if we ever have another draft.

But, seriously.  It's about f#(king time.  The military's long-standing Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy on gays and lesbians serving our country in the military has been overturned.  

Here's the thing - if someone has the courage to devote a portion of his or her life (with the possibility of dying) to our country, who cares who that person finds attractive?  I've heard the arguments; "They'll look at me in *that* way."  Stop kidding yourself.  It's always the people who use that excuse who could only hope that someone was looking at him.  In all honesty, those who use that argument are probably hoping some dude is looking at him in the shower (think Leslie Graham in camo).

People wonder why gay bullying has become such a problem in our country.  Well, first of all, it hasn't just become a problem - it has been happening for decades.  Secondly, with the messages that we hear from Fox News and it's followers (you know, like a cult) and comparable "sources," is it any wonder that many of our youth are confused?  How can we expect our youth to be respectful when a large portion of our population spews hatred and intolerance under the guise of "American Values" and "God?"

I grew up Lutheran (ELCA) and we actually learned in Catechism that a certain percentage of people are born gay, and those people are still God's children and deserve the same respect.  God doesn't hate.  Period.

Finally, all of God's children are free to serve our great country if they so choose (and have the courage - the type of courage I will never know).

Hallmark and Codependence

I love going into a Hallmark store - sometimes it's fun to see what people who actually remember to send cards buy. I came to the conclusion that, because of Hallmark, Americans need to constantly be involved in a romantic relationship to validate their self-worths. Seriously. I was too busy throwing up all over the scrapbook supplies to remember exactly what some of the cards said, but here's a summary of some of the cards I read:

1. My most loving wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, my life was absolute shit before I went to that bar, got drunk, and slept with you. Now that I'm pregnant and you can't afford child support you're stuck, and I've never been more happy!

2. I was on my way to the Amtrak station to get hit by a train when you whistled, yelled "nice tits," then said something about "getting on that." I'm so glad you came into my life. You are my soul.

3. Darling, now that God has shown me the way to you, He will never let you escape. I'm not kidding. Well, until I get bored with you.

4. You make life worth living. Before I met you my self-esteem was way low, I hated every aspect of myself, and my family was starting to tell me they were worried. Now, because you said you love me, I know I'm at least adequate and sometimes fun to be around!

Yeah, you get the idea. Don't get me wrong, I'm a hopeless romantic, but seriously people, there is life before love, and no matter how true it may seem, it is possible to continue to breathe without being a "we." I can't wait to find that person I want to spend the rest of my life with, but in the meantime, I'm having a great time discovering who I am as a "me."

why i buy: the everyday journey of the typical american consumer

I buy Dove beauty products because Dove tells me I’m beautiful just the way I am – but I don’t buy it.
“Beauty is only skin deep.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
What a bunch of crap – at least that’s what the monster tells me.

I feed the monster when I buy Cosmo magazine so I can read all about being my best possible self (and the quizzes are fun, too), but when I see a size 6 next to a size 0 I tell myself at that very moment that I will never, ever let myself get “fat.” I hate it, though, when there’s an article about eating disorders. I know a lot of beautiful people, and none of them are anorexic or bulimic. I don’t buy that it’s a problem.

I feed the monster when I buy a month-to-month membership to the gym, because that’s what beautiful people do – but I don’t buy that I actually need to go to the gym. The key tag should be enough to let people know that I’m at least making an effort. I mean, who wants to see a fat guy working out?

I feed the monster when I buy a pint of Hagen Daz (butter pecan) and eat it all while watching “The Biggest Loser” on DVR because some days I feel so bad about myself for not actually going to the gym that the only thing that makes me feel better is a carton of frozen fat with a made-up name that I’m supposed to think means “Happy Days” – but I don’t buy that I could ever get to point I where I needed to be on a national television show in order to lose weight.

When I'm out of cash, I feed the monster when I buy on credit – but I don’t buy that that could eventually catch up with me and hurt me financially. It’s only 12.9%, and I’m worth it. Especially when I see the perfect jacket that goes with the perfect trouser or the perfect cashmere scarf, hat, and mitten set that costs more than a lot of most people’s entire wardrobe – my “friends” will be so impressed.

So I keep feeding the monster because every dollar I spend brings me one step closer to the cartoon version of myself that the monster promises me I’ll eventually become.

The One Where Sarah and Kate Become BFFs

Sarah Palin works very hard.  Why shouldn't she after quitting her governor's gig to make a reported $1 million for eight episodes of her propaga, er, "reality" show (not to mention appearance fees)?  She's the typical, everyday, American woman.  That's what many of her supporters argue, citing her "American values" and "next-door appeal" as reasons she's so darn likable.  Well, that and the fact that she's making a reported $1 million for eight episodes of her propaga, er, "reality" show.  How typical is that? 

Wake up Palinites.  During a time in our country when typical people are struggling to make ends meet because of lost jobs, cut hours, and an overall economic crisis, Palin is doing just fine - better than fine, and she really doesn't care how you're doing.  As long as you continue to pay your cable bill so you can tune into her cariboucrap every week so her contract is extended.

Then she goes camping with Kate + Eight.  OOOOOHHHHHH!  Ratings gold.  Better tune in to watch Aunt Sarah teach the kiddies about living off the fruit of the land so they can all have food for the winter.  AND PEOPLE WATCH THIS!   Ok, they don't just watch it, they coo and caa over these shenanagins and, in their minds, it just validates the fact that Sarah and Kate are just "normal people."

Sarah, Kate, and the masterminds of both shows at TLC should be ashamed of themselves.  If Sarah and Kate want to go romp in the woods alone for a weekend, that's fine, but leave the kids out of it.  It really comes down to using the kids for ratings and cold, hard cash.  That, my friends, is exploitation.  But apparently it's justified (even celebrated) because they're just typical Americans.